They landed beside a battered phone booth. A very deserted street. Small pub door shut tight. Remaining buildings looked like offices—windows filthy, spiders webbing broken frames. The street looked abandoned for ages, left in this corner no detailed London map would mark because some important person hadn't decided what to do with it.
Oscar apologized while helping Anthony unbind with frozen fingers: "Can't use Warming Charms, Professor Anthony. You know, it's a strictly controlled spell..."
"It's controlled?" Anthony asked, surprised. Climbed off the broom. Kitchen elves used that magic a million times daily. Anthony thought it was as common as Scourgify—wait, was Scourgify controlled too?
Oscar said: "Oh, yes. Because it might make the world like a boiled egg or something... Many wizards like casting warming spells on their houses. Keep them toasty in winter." He left the broom by the pub door like a cleaner had left it there accidentally.
Leading Anthony into the booth, he said: "Not that I think there's anything wrong with it. But for some reason, lots of countries' Ministries suddenly issued joint statements. Said it melts icebergs or whatever... Then it became controlled. Can't figure it out. Right, I didn't misremember, did I? Six—two—four—four—two." He muttered, dialing.
The dial barely returned when a cold female voice spoke, instructing them to state names and business.
"Oscar Weaver! Trainee Auror!" Oscar shouted. Voice boomed in the narrow booth. Startled Anthony. "Escorting—Professor Henry Anthony—from Hogwarts—to see the Minister—and Professor Dumbledore!"
A square badge slid from the coin return: Henry Anthony, Courtesy Visit. Anthony pinned the silver badge to his robes, wondering where that voice came from. Oscar hadn't even picked up the receiver.
"Oh, I should have let you make the call," Oscar noticed Anthony looking at the receiver. "Really don't know how Muggles use this thing. Good thing I don't usually use the visitor entrance—hold on, Professor Anthony. This is our modified lift."
They began sinking underground. Anthony gripped the booth's missing glass frame, watched darkness climb the window like the pavement outside was burying them. He thought: Wizards, lifts don't work like this!
...
After registering his wand at security ("Oscar, why aren't you home yet? Another rotten assignment... Wait, Anthony? That Henry Anthony? Uh... Get in quick. Shh, don't ask."), Oscar led Anthony into a gilded corridor.
Near closing time. Ministry full of employees packing up. Even though the golden clock's hand still hovered near "Closing," refusing to move, people kept leaving through fireplaces with briefcases.
Two wizards exited a lift. Anthony heard them discussing recent beef price increases. "All because a dragon egg was stolen in Romania." One complained about only having bacon at home. The other invited her to a nearby restaurant for Spanish seafood paella. Two pops—they Disapparated.
"This way, Professor Anthony." Oscar said, barely hiding exhaustion and envy. "The Minister and Professor Dumbledore should be in the Minister's office..."
He brought Anthony to Fudge's office door. Knocked. Before speaking, the door opened. A pale, sharp-faced man walked out, surveyed Anthony and Oscar with cold gray eyes, and nodded arrogantly and perfunctorily.
"You must be Professor Anthony? Well, pleased to meet you." He drawled, expression like examining overpriced beef.
"Pleased to meet you. You are..." Anthony waited, confused.
Oscar whispered: "This is Mr. Lucius Malfoy."
"Oh, pleased to meet you, Mr. Malfoy." Anthony said, nodded, and stepped aside to clear the path. For some reason, this seemed to irritate Malfoy.
"Fudge has been waiting quite a while... Oh, have a lovely evening." Malfoy said, turned and left.
"Why's he still here?" Oscar muttered. Then loudly: "Minister, Professor Anthony's here!"
"Thank you... er, Weaver? Come in, Mr. Anthony." Fudge's voice from inside. Oscar waved goodbye and left quickly to go home. Anthony thought his steps were much lighter than arriving.
Two people sat in the office. Dumbledore smiled at Anthony entering, sat in an armchair with hot tea before him, lemon slice floating. Across from Dumbledore, behind the desk, sat Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. A stocky man wearing a lime-green suit and bright yellow tie, wedged into a chair with two cushions.
When Anthony entered, Fudge jolted violently: wanted to stand, thought he shouldn't, looked like he'd stepped on a banana peel while sitting, and fell back into his chair.
"Good evening, Mr. Anthony." Fudge said, tone unnatural. "Must be tiring coming so late."
"Have some tea, Henry." Dumbledore said, flicked his wand, and a chair appeared. "I suspect you're not fond of flying?"
Anthony glanced at Fudge—the Minister pretending to be a statue, staring at his teacup—and sat beside Dumbledore: "Not at all. I hope that travel method is emergency only, not daily commute."
"Of course, of course." Fudge said. "I also dislike flying. Especially brooms... Honestly, flying carpets are more comfortable, aren't they?" He chuckled.
After bland comments on travel methods, the topic gradually turned to why Anthony came. Unlike what Oscar told him, this wasn't particularly about the Basilisk but more connected to Voldemort himself.
"I told Cornelius some rather interesting things." Dumbledore said lightly. "But he's not quite convinced."
"No, no, Albus." Fudge said. "I don't mean any distrust. I just think, you see... Well, maybe you could be wrong? Everything fears that one-in-a-million chance, right?"
"Quite right." Dumbledore said. "I can certainly be wrong. Henry, I apologize for interrupting your work. I know professors are busy at term's end... But could you repeat your experience with Quirrell to Cornelius? He seems to prefer hearing it from you directly."
"Oh... no problem." Anthony said. "Let me think, where to start with Professor Quirrell? Well, the Ministry required I couldn't go home, so I stayed at the Leaky Cauldron—incidentally, Professor Dumbledore paid my room fees. The Ministry didn't reimburse."
Dumbledore laughed softly like Anthony had told a funny joke. Fudge looked more uncomfortable.
"Albus, Mr. Anthony, my sincere apologies." He said, wiping his chubby face with a checkered handkerchief. "Financial matters aren't my responsibility. You know, being Minister is very busy."
Dumbledore said: "I'll remind myself to check Hogwarts hasn't delayed your salary, Henry." He patted Anthony's arm on the armrest.
So Anthony said: "No matter, Minister. I am actually a Dark wizard. You didn't punish the wrong person. Uh... Come to think of it, I should thank you for not persistently trying to drag me back to Azkaban."
"Ha ha, yes, yes. That matter's past, hmm? All right?" Fudge said, fiddling with his handkerchief.
Anthony repeated his experience to the Minister: from meeting at the Leaky Cauldron, to becoming neighbors after hiring, to solving the Basilisk together, then the dead unicorn—pure as moonlight fallen in a Forbidden Forest clearing—finally that sleepless night, following Quirrell's steps into a pre-set trap, accidentally letting the prey escape.
Then Fudge said nonsense like "I hope you weren't hurt" and St. Mungo's medical insurance.
During his chattering ("We're working hard to advance close cooperation between the Health Department and St. Mungo's, providing affordable comprehensive insurance for various magical illnesses and injuries... From spell-related accidents to magical creature bite treatments, we plan to provide corresponding support when the public needs it..."), Dumbledore said he had to return. He and the Ilvermorny headmaster had a meeting about school exchanges. Due to time differences and scheduling, the meeting was set for tonight.
Anthony also stood to leave, but Fudge said loudly first: "Of course, thank you for coming despite being busy, Albus! Don't worry about your professor. We'll find a way besides broomsticks to send Professor Anthony back to Hogwarts!" He smiled at Anthony. "We had a pleasant chat, didn't we? Please don't leave yet."
"I'm afraid I have some final exam papers to grade." Anthony said. He'd rather return to see students' invented twenty-six Confundus Charm uses than hear how the Ministry would "not only focus on passive healthcare but emphasize preventive measures, invest in research and education, promote health culture, encourage responsible magical behavior to reduce St. Mungo's burden."
"No, no, Mr. Anthony." Fudge said. "Please don't leave. I very much enjoy our conversation."
Dumbledore said: "It's all right, stay, Henry." He joked: "Extra papers always find someone to grade them, like some found Severus."
Anthony couldn't help laughing. "All right." He said, stood to see Dumbledore out, then sat down.
...
Fudge waved and closed the office door. He looked somewhat irritated and troubled but quite amiably told Anthony: "I feel close to you when I see you, Mr. Anthony."
"Oh, really?" Anthony asked, surprised.
Fudge probably remembered their last Ministry meeting. He sipped tea and changed topics: "I'll speak frankly, Mr. Anthony. Minister for Magic isn't an easy job. Slightest mistake, public owls fly in like a blizzard. Oh my, complaint letters like snowflakes... You can't imagine, Mr. Anthony."
"Goodness, I hope everything's fine now." Anthony said calmly.
"Yes, yes, I hope so too." Fudge said. "You see, with Albus here earlier, I didn't want to contradict him... I respect him greatly... But, Mr. Anthony, have you noticed a tiny discrepancy between your story and Albus's account? Not much, but a little..."
Anthony asked: "What?"
"Oh, you know what Albus told me? Do you?" Fudge said, leaning slightly toward Anthony. "He told me about... that matter."
"That matter?" Anthony repeated, confused.
"Albus is very cautious. Very, very cautious." Fudge said, squeezing the handkerchief in his chubby hands. "He's full of suspicion about things... He's been spreading a theory for years. Thinks the magical world hasn't reached 'everything's fine' yet."
"Oh, you mean Voldemort not being dead."
Fudge shook violently and stared horrified: "Don't say that name!"
"What?" Anthony asked, confused.
"Don't say that name." Fudge repeated, voice very low, as if invisible people were eavesdropping. "That—that person's name is too terrifying, Mr. Anthony. Call him 'that person' or 'You-Know-Who.'"
"Uh... all right." Anthony said. "Are you okay, Minister?" He watched the man pull out his handkerchief again to wipe his broad forehead. This time real sweat beaded out, glistened under the lights.
"Just don't say that name!" Fudge said, took a deep breath. "Anyway, Albus holds this persecution complex. Thinks that person still exists..."
Anthony said: "I think he does exist." He recalled that rotting oyster. "Just might not be doing very well."
"You see, that's the problem." Fudge said. "Did you see that person with your own eyes? Did Albus tell you Quirrell was that person, or did you see he was that person? Did Quirrell tell you he was that person? Did Quirrell kill anyone in front of you?"
He gained confidence from Anthony's silence. Voice gradually firmed: "Did Quirrell do anything heinous? Is he a Dark wizard? According to records, he's a shy, quiet, excellent young man. Neither age nor experience has any connection to You-Know-Who."
"Minister." Anthony said warningly.
"Oh my, I'm not saying Albus did this deliberately. I also believe you have no reason to lie deliberately, right?" Fudge smiled. "Have tea, Mr. Anthony. I heard Albus also has a Tuna Club?"
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