Fudge's narration carried deliberate embellishment, as if emphasizing Black's brutality while also trying to divert Sagres Greengrass's relentless attention from that newspaper.
Sagres' eyes lingered on Fudge's sweat-soaked face for several seconds, his gaze seeming to pierce through flesh and look straight into his trembling soul.
Fudge's clumsy attempts at concealment and deflection were laid bare in an instant.
A suffocating silence filled the room, broken only by Fudge's heavy, panicked breathing.
"A truly regrettable outcome," Sagres Greengrass said slowly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Minister, your 'additional explanation' was… impressive."
Fudge's plump face flushed a sickly, purplish hue. His lips trembled, yet not a single word came out. He felt like a clown stripped naked before the spotlight.
"Now, leave," Sagres Greengrass said, waving his hand. The wooden door of the room silently swung open. "I'm sure the Ministry of Magic has many important matters awaiting your attention."
His gaze never fully settled on Fudge. That complete disregard was more humiliating than any scolding.
Fudge felt as though he had been granted a reprieve, yet also utterly disgraced. His bulky body twisted awkwardly as he nearly stumbled toward the door.
He didn't dare look at Sagres Greengrass again, much less at the raven Noctis on the windowsill, which seemed to be silently mocking him. His heavy figure slipped out through the doorway in a panic, without offering so much as a farewell.
The door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang, so forceful that the wall itself seemed to tremble.
Only Harry, Sagres, and the silent Noctis on the windowsill remained in the room.
Harry let out a long breath, feeling the tension in his nerves finally ease a little.
He looked at Sagres and was about to speak, but noticed that the Professor's gaze was still fixed on the closed door. Deep in those ice-gray eyes, a faint flash of unmistakable disgust seemed to pass.
"Professor, that newspaper…" Harry couldn't help asking.
"Most likely a foolish mistake, with a very small chance that it was a deliberate sceme."
Sagres stood and walked to the window, looking out into the dim back alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. "But it doesn't matter anymore. Black is already on the run, and what concerns me now is his true purpose in escaping."
"Isn't it… to take revenge on me?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"That possibility cannot be ruled out," Sagres replied calmly. "However, Black only escaped Azkaban after seeing this newspaper, and it contains neither your photograph nor your name."
"Then… what does that mean?"
"It means he may have another objective," Sagres said matter-of-factly. "Of course, as I said before, the possibility of him seeking revenge on you still exists, so the original plan remains unchanged for now."
No sooner had he finished speaking than a rapid tapping sounded at the window.
A snow-white owl was pecking anxiously at the glass—it was Hedwig.
Her beautiful feathers were somewhat disheveled, and a thick envelope was tied to her leg.
Harry hurried over and opened the window, and Hedwig immediately flew in, affectionately nuzzling his cheek and letting out plaintive coos, as if complaining about how hard it had been to find him.
He gently stroked her and quickly untied the letter.
The envelope bore Hermione's elegant yet slightly messy handwriting, clearly written in a rush.
Harry unfolded the letter, and Hermione's worried words seemed to leap from the page.
She had clearly learned about Black's escape and the danger Harry was in through The Daily Prophet or other channels.
The letter was filled with anxious reminders: never leave a safe place, never act alone, wait for instructions from the adults, and that she and Ron would come to Diagon Alley a week before term to buy books, hoping to see him safe and well by then.
No sooner had Hedwig settled on Harry's shoulder to catch her breath than another beating of wings came from outside the window.
Ron's slightly clumsy barn owl, Errol, flew in unsteadily and tangled himself onto Harry's bed, flapping dizzily a few times before finally regaining his balance.
A crumpled, well-handled ball of parchment was tied to his leg.
Harry unfolded Ron's letter. The handwriting was wild and unrestrained, with a suspicious orange-yellow stain smeared across it:
Harry!
Merlin's stinking socks! Black, that lunatic, escaped?! And he's after you?! Don't believe any of that rubbish in the papers! Fudge just wants to calm everyone down—this is entirely their screw-up! Mum and Dad are going mad!
Listen, Hermione and I have decided we're coming to London soon! We'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron! Don't run off! Wait for us! Seriously!
P.S. Percy got Head Boy, so he's twice as annoying!
P.P.S. Fred and George wanted to send you some "self-defense items," but Mum confiscated them…
Reading the letters filled with concern from his friends, a warm feeling surged through Harry's chest, dispersing some of the gloom brought on by Black.
He was no longer alone.
When he came back to himself, he realized that Professor Greengrass had disappeared.
Only he, the two owls, and the raven on the windowsill remained in the room.
Harry picked up his quill and began to write a reply. He wanted to tell them that he was with Professor Greengrass, that he was safe, and that they didn't need to worry.
…
…
Downstairs at the Leaky Cauldron, Fudge all but stumbled into the back alley, then vanished through the fireplace.
The cold night wind cut across his sweat-soaked face, but instead of clearing his head, it stirred the resentment he had suppressed for so long, gnawing at his heart like a venomous snake.
He leaned against the rough, icy stones of the fireplace, panting heavily—not from exertion, but from the fear and humiliation that had nearly crushed him.
He tremblingly raised his cold alchemical arm, the metal knuckles gleaming with a chilling sheen in the dim light.
He stared at it fixedly, twisted fury and bitter hatred burning in his murky eyes.
"Sagres Greengrass…" Fudge forced the name out through clenched teeth, his voice thick with venom. "Who do you think you are? A high-and-mighty judge?"
The humiliation gnawed at Fudge's heart like a festering wound.
Sagres Greengrass's condescending gaze, looking down on him as if he were an ant, his casual dismissal, and that damned raven—every last detail ignited the hatred he had accumulated for so long.
Once the fear receded, only a violently blazing desire for revenge remained.
"You ruined one of my arms… I'll have your life!"
Fudge roared at the empty space, his voice hoarse and unhinged.
He no longer feared Sagres Greengrass's power—or rather, his extreme hatred had completely drowned out his fear.
A vicious plan rapidly took shape in his chaotic, venom-filled mind.
Dementors.
Those cold, greedy monsters of Azkaban.
They were under the Ministry of Magic's control—at least, in name.
And as Minister, he had the authority to deploy them—or rather, he had a way to make them "lose control" for a time.
A twisted, sinister smile spread across Fudge's plump face.
Black had escaped, and Dementors were conducting extensive searches across the country, weren't they?
As long as it was within Britain, wouldn't it be perfectly "reasonable" for Dementors to appear while hunting a fugitive?
All it would take was a subtle hint, a deliberately vague instruction, telling the Dementors assigned to a certain area to include "a particular target" within their range of "suspicious fugitives"…
Those creatures that knew only how to devour happiness wouldn't distinguish who the target actually was.
They would instinctively be drawn to powerful, delicious souls, and then… swarm them.
More importantly, that damned Greengrass had indeed spent time in Azkaban, which made manipulation even easier. The Dementors would recognize him.
No matter how strong Sagres Greengrass was, how many Dementors' "kisses" could he endure?
Fudge thought viciously.
By then, the report would read only this: Hogwarts Professor tragically encountered a large number of uncontrollable Dementors and heroically sacrificed himself to protect students…
What a perfect ending!
His greatest thorn would be removed, and there would be no one left to hold accountable.
Let those foolish Dementors take the blame!
"That's what I'll do…"
Fudge panted, his eyes gleaming with a mad light.
He clumsily adjusted his crooked tie with his cold alchemical arm, forcing a "composed" expression befitting a Minister onto his face.
He needed to find an intermediary who was sufficiently discreet, sufficiently obedient, and who either hated Sagres Greengrass enough or feared Fudge enough to "convey" this subtle "instruction."
The order to deploy Dementors could not come directly from his own hand; there had to be a scapegoat, a buffer.
He rapidly sifted through possible candidates in his mind, and one name surfaced—Dolores Umbridge, that ambitious, ruthless woman who also harbored deep-seated hatred for Sagres Greengrass.
He had heard that Sagres Greengrass had cut off one of her fingers?
That made it even better. She was the perfect executor.
Fudge leaned back into the cold leather chair and closed his eyes, yet the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably upward, as if he could already see Sagres Greengrass falling amid a swarm of Dementors.
Fear was replaced by the intoxicating exhilaration of revenge, and in the darkness, that alchemical arm seemed to glow with an even colder, more sinister sheen.
________
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