"The students of Slytherin House practically worshipped the Dark Lord," Professor Sinistra said softly. "I was only a student back then, but I'll never forget their fervor. Even the first-year Slytherins, fresh off the Hogwarts Express, acted as if they couldn't wait to graduate and pledge themselves to their dark master's service."
"In that environment, Slytherin students were essentially Death Eater recruits in training—and they were proud of it," Professor Trelawney said, staring blankly at the goblet in front of her. "The war outside seeped into the school. Most of those who opposed the Dark Lord came from Gryffindor, though plenty from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff also despised his ways."
"So, the situation at Hogwarts was essentially Slytherin against the other three houses, with mutual hostility," Professor Flitwick added after taking a sip of Butterbeer. "I don't like putting it so bluntly, Harry, but in those days, targeting Slytherin students was, in the eyes of most students and adults, the same as targeting future Death Eaters. It was seen as just, righteous, even heroic."
"Especially for those students who'd lost family to the Dark Lord's hand," he continued.
"We're not making excuses for your father and his friends, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, her expression troubled. "But Professor Snape… he took pride in being a Slytherin, and he did, indeed, admire the Dark Lord…"
"And the Dark Arts," Harry finished for her, acknowledging what she hesitated to say. "I understand—he wasn't innocent."
Even now, Snape still referred to Voldemort as the Dark Lord, a title laced with reverence, unlike the fearful moniker "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"No one liked the Dark Lord," Professor Sprout said, shaking her head. "We just couldn't defeat him—not until you came along, Harry."
"Thank Merlin Dumbledore rejected the Dark Lord's application to teach here," Professor Sinistra said with a shudder. "I can't even imagine what Hogwarts would've become under that man's influence. A Death Eater training ground?"
"Ha! The Dark Lord was only ever scared of Dumbledore, we all know that," Hagrid boomed. "Lucky we had Dumbledore!"
"Indeed, lucky we had Dumbledore."
"To Dumbledore."
The professors echoed in unison, raising their glasses for another toast.
Drinking and chatting, Harry sipped his mead while listening to the professors recount those dark days. Even though twelve years had passed, the wizarding world still hadn't fully emerged from Voldemort's shadow.
Harry's tolerance for alcohol surprised the professors. Though mead wasn't particularly strong, his ability to down glass after glass was something they couldn't match. Naturally, Hagrid took the blame for supposedly sneaking Harry off for drinking practice, earning a sharp reprimand from McGonagall.
Hagrid protested loudly, insisting Harry was a natural-born drinker, which only got him scolded further.
Time passed with laughter and stories until the sky darkened completely, and Hogsmeade's streetlamps flickered to life. Even Harry, with his impressive tolerance, felt a slight buzz from the professors' relentless toasting.
Professor Kettleburn, in particular, was relentless. Despite his white beard and age rivaling Dumbledore's, the old Care of Magical Creatures professor had a youthful spirit. He clinked glasses with Harry the most, and after a few too many, he eagerly shared tales of his youthful adventures—bizarre magical creatures, dragons, and all. With only one arm and half a leg left, courtesy of the dangerous beasts he adored, Kettleburn harbored no regrets or resentment. If anything, he loved them more.
Harry, engrossed in Kettleburn's tips on dragon care, suddenly turned his head. Three figures stood nearby, the leader unmistakable: Cornelius Fudge, the current Minister for Magic, flanked by two Aurors as bodyguards.
"Sorry to interrupt your gathering, professors," Fudge said with a beaming smile. "May I have a word, Harry? Just the two of us."
The professors' smiles faded, their eyes turning to Harry.
"Of course, Minister," Harry replied calmly.
Fudge's grin widened. He called out to Rosmerta, "Are there any rooms upstairs, madam? We need a private space."
"Of course, Minister, just head on up," Rosmerta replied, her tone polite but lacking the warmth she'd shown Harry. It was clear she wasn't fond of Fudge.
"Thank you."
The second floor of the Three Broomsticks had curtained booths, lit by enchanted lamps and charmed to prevent sound from escaping. The two Aurors stood guard at the door, leaving Harry and Fudge alone inside.
"Well, Harry, this isn't our first meeting," Fudge began, his earlier warmth replaced by a sharp edge. "If that mad reporter is to be believed, you've already guessed why I'm here—great, clever, powerful Professor Potter."
Fudge's tone dripped with resentment. He might have agreed to reopen Sirius Black's case to undermine Crouch, thanks to Rita Skeeter's prodding, but that didn't mean he liked the upheaval Harry had brought to the Ministry—or his own plummeting approval ratings.
Truth be told, if circumstances allowed, Fudge would've loved to throw the unnervingly calm boy before him into Azkaban. What normal child could do the things Harry had done?
"Do you have a problem with me, Minister?" Harry asked, picking up on Fudge's hostility and refusing to indulge it. He tilted his head slightly. "Speaking of which, I haven't met Mr. Crouch yet. I wonder what he'd think of me if he were sitting here."
Fudge's eyes widened visibly.
"Are you threatening me?!" His face flushed red, and he glanced nervously at the booth's entrance to ensure no one could overhear. "Do you know who I am? I'm the Minister for Magic! I don't take kindly to threats!"
"Let's be clear," Harry said, unfazed by Fudge's outburst, covering his glass to shield it from the Minister's spittle. "You're a Minister who's accomplished nothing since taking office two years ago. You can't even control your own people—some still defy your orders. Your approval ratings are in freefall. It might not be long before public opinion forces you out. You've probably heard the whispers already."
Fudge looked as if he'd been struck by lightning. He'd never imagined such venomous words could come from a child's mouth—no, this wasn't a child, but a demon!
"It's not my fault!" Fudge slammed his hand on the table, furious. "I didn't withhold the keys to the Potter estate! I didn't send you those warning letters! I didn't throw Sirius Black into Azkaban! I didn't even know about any of it when it happened! I'm innocent!"
The more he spoke, the angrier he grew.
"I'm just a scapegoat, dragged out to take the blame! They come to me after everything's gone wrong, saying, 'Fix it, Minister!' What am I supposed to do?!"
Fudge shouldn't have said such things to anyone, let alone Harry, but that calm, unflappable face drove him to the edge of reason. His lungs felt ready to explode.
Why had he ever thought this boy had potential? Why had he promised to look out for him?
If he could turn back time, Fudge would slap his past self for ever smiling at Harry.
To hell with the Boy Who Lived, to hell with the Golden Boy!
Everything had gone wrong since he took office, all because of this boy. The brainless masses questioned the Ministry, questioned him, practically baying for his blood to send him to Azkaban. Lunatics! Mobs!
Did they want his head on a pike?
"Excuse me, your mead, Minister," Rosmerta said, pulling back the curtain. She placed a glass from her tray before Fudge and refilled Harry's. "This one's on me, Professor Harry."
"Thank you," Harry said with a smile, unaffected by Fudge's rage.
"You're welcome."
Rosmerta's arrival and departure acted like a calming draught, restoring a sliver of Fudge's composure. Harry studied the Minister, certain of one thing: this was an incompetent leader.
Fudge lacked talent, courage, decisiveness, judgment, and willpower. He couldn't even control his emotions—a fatal flaw for any ruler.
Extreme emotions clouded reason, hindering sound decisions.
"You're not innocent, Minister," Harry said, breaking the silence in the booth. "As a leader, failing to control your subordinates and the situation is the height of incompetence. 'I didn't know' isn't an excuse. You should know. You should be in control."
"Ha, I'd like to see you try," Fudge scoffed, downing two gulps of mead and exhaling heavily. "So, Squibs can really use magic now?"
"Only some of them. They're living near the Forbidden Forest," Harry replied.
"And Muggle-borns? Can they use magic too?"
"If the elements favor them," Harry explained. "Shamanic magic is entirely different from wizarding magic. The talents required aren't the same. But I can assure you, very few have this gift—not every Squib or Muggle can wield magic."
"So, they're just new wizards, then. Muggle-borns are still Muggle-borns, Squibs are still Squibs," Fudge said with a grunt. "Not bad. At least they can vote now."
"If you improve their living conditions and advocate for them, I'm sure those former Squibs would gladly vote for you," Harry said evenly.
"I just hope they don't come blaming me when they can't find work," Fudge sneered. "Diagon Alley shops won't hire someone who can't cast a simple Cleaning Charm."
"But they can work in new industries," Harry countered. "New departments, new jobs, doing what they're good at."
"…That's true," Fudge mused, stroking his chin. "New job opportunities could boost my approval ratings… a Department of Shamanic Priests?"
From the recesses of his memory, Fudge recalled a term once dismissed as a joke.
By now, Harry's ideals and the resurgence of elemental magic were no secret. Many wizards were excited about the future he envisioned—more wizards, more magic. But Fudge saw only the differences between shamanic and wizarding magic, which meant the Ministry needed new protocols, a new department—one free of other factions' influence, built from the ground up, loyal only to him.
The Wizengamot had already recognized the offensive potential of elemental magic, meaning this new department could rival the Aurors in strength.
This was promising.
"…I'll consider it," Fudge said stiffly. "The Ministry is planning a training program for Squibs, open to all those in the wizarding world. You know the Squibs who came to Hogwarts recently are only a fraction of them, right?"
This was an idea from Fudge's advisors. Once Squibs could wield magic, they were no longer Squibs but wizards—and the Ministry needed to control them.
"Hogwarts can't handle more strangers," Harry said, shaking his head. "It's irresponsible to the young witches and wizards' safety. You wouldn't want to hear about an accident involving a student, would you?"
This was clearly a deflection. With Harry and Dumbledore watching over Hogwarts, a few novice shamanic apprentices could hardly cause trouble. Harry simply didn't want random people becoming shamanic priests.
The elements chose whom they wished, and Harry couldn't control that, but he could ensure his shamanic priests passed a test of character.
"No need to rush, Minister," Harry said, softening his tone. "Once this group of Squib shamanic priests masters their powers, the Ministry can use them as a foundation to start its training program."