Chapter 603: The Other Minister
"Still here, then?"
Professor McGonagall hurried down from the High Table. She was wearing her
emerald-green robes today, paired with a sharp Tartan blouse. At the sight of
her, the younger students instinctively shrank back, their heads ducking as if
to avoid a stray hex.
"Professor," Sean said. He was one of the few students who didn't fear her.
"The speech, Mr. Green. Do not forget it," McGonagall said. She spared a brief
glance at Michael Corner and the others before fixing Sean with a serious look.
Since the start of his third year, she had rarely addressed him by his first
name in public. Whenever she used "Mr. Green," it was a signal that something of
vital importance was about to happen.
As she stroded away, a cluster of heads immediately popped up around Sean.
"What speech? Sean, are you actually becoming the Headmaster today?" Michael
asked, winking theatrically.
"Use that wooden skull of yours for once, Michael," Anthony Goldstein noted
calmly. "A wizard has to graduate before he can take a job."
"There is an exception to every rule," Michael countered, undeterred. "And the
wizard standing in front of you is the exception to the exceptions."
"But where's Dumbledore?" Terry Boot asked in a low voice. "If there's a
succession ceremony, shouldn't the Headmaster be here?"
"Maybe he's retired early," Michael shrugged, clearly enjoying the drama. "A bit
rude of him to skip his own retirement party, don't you think?"
Anthony ignored him, but Terry looked genuinely saddened. He was a staunch
Dumbledore supporter.
"I'm simply relaying some information on the Headmaster's behalf," Sean said
softly, cutting off their wilder theories.
"Ha! I knew it!" Michael barked, throwing an arm around Sean's shoulder. "A
'Headmaster's Task'! Who would have thought I'd be best friends with the
youngest Headmaster in history?"
The Leaving Feast began. It was a time for students to celebrate, to joke with
friends, and to reminisce about the year's triumphs and losses.
However, for some, the mood was somber. Several students wore expressions of
deep, hollow grief—victims of the recent riots and "accidents" plaguing the
wizarding world. Fortunately, the warmth of the Hall acted as a temporary
shield, pulling them back from the brink of despair.
Hannah Abbott sat at the Hufflepuff table, lost in a daze, until Professor
McGonagall stood up from the High Table, shattering her train of thought.
The Great Hall, which was already quieter than usual for an end-of-term feast,
went stone silent. Hannah watched with wide eyes as McGonagall ushered Sean
Green up to the High Table, leading him to the center podium.
"Silence," McGonagall commanded. Her gaze lingered on the boy beside her.
"Another year," Sean began. He stood at Dumbledore's regular place, speaking
into the silver, phoenix-shaped microphone. "Is at an end."
Sean scanned the rows of students. He saw the shock etched on every face. Some
had frozen mid-bite, bits of cheese sauce literally dripping from the corners of
their mouths. It was a unique perspective; when every eye in a room is fixed on
you, the weight of responsibility becomes a physical sensation.
On the dais, Snape watched the crowd with a cold, calculating gaze, his eyes
searching for any sign of dissent. Professor Flitwick and McGonagall, however,
watched Sean with looks of quiet pride and relief.
Hagrid was grinning broadly, waving a hand the size of a trash-can lid at Harry
and Justin.
"Today, I have a message from Headmaster Dumbledore," Sean said. He recalled the
note Dumbledore had left him: 'First, you must tell the children that our world
has changed...'
"The wizarding world is currently in a state of unrest," Sean continued. "The
Ministry of Magic would prefer that we remain silent on this matter. Some of
your parents may be shocked that I am telling you this—either because they
cannot accept a terrible truth, or because they believe you are too young to
hear it. However, we believe that the truth is always preferable to a lie. To
suggest that the casualties our community has suffered are mere 'accidents' or
the result of 'carelessness' is an insult to the people we have lost."
The students had closed their mouths now. They completely forgot that a fellow
student was the one addressing them. They hung on every word, even as the
Scottish weather outside turned violent—thunder rumbled overhead, adding a
heavy, ominous weight to the atmosphere.
"But first," Sean's voice dropped, "we must solemnly acknowledge that we have
lost good people. People who deserved long, happy lives."
A series of magical images materialized in the air above the High Table,
displaying the names and faces of those lost in the recent attacks. Among them
were the families of several students.
Sean saw Hannah Abbott's eyes well with tears. He saw Eris Kent, a second-year,
go deathly pale. He finally understood Dumbledore's motive for giving him this
task. By forcing Sean to witness the human cost of Voldemort's return, the
Headmaster was ensuring that Sean would never, ever compromise with the Dark
Arts. It was Dumbledore's final lesson before the training wheels came off.
Sean took a deep breath, forcing himself to continue. He wasn't a natural
orator, and Dumbledore hadn't given him a script. Every word he spoke was his
own.
"I believe—and I hope with all my heart that I am wrong—that we are entering a
dark and difficult time. Many in this room have already felt the touch of that
darkness. Families have been torn apart. The forces we all know are rising
again. Hogwarts is safe, yes—I will ensure it remains so. But once you leave
these gates, you must remain vigilant."
The Hall was a sea of shock and fear.
"But do not lose hope," Sean added firmly. "Because Albus Dumbledore remains on
the field."
He heard Hagrid whispering to McGonagall at the table behind him. "I knew he'd
be back," Hagrid grumbled happily. "We always knew he was out there, waitin' for
his moment. Dumbledore is a great man. As long as he's in the fight, I won't
worry much."
Sean waited for the murmurs to die down before addressing the second part of
Dumbledore's note: 'Secondly, tell them we have new professors...'
"To help you navigate these coming trials, our faculty has grown. Two new
professors will be joining us when we return in September," Sean announced.
"Furthermore, Hogwarts is expanding its curriculum. We will be adding classes
for Applied Defense and the Dark Arts."
The Hall exploded into a riot of noise.
"How can the Ministry allow it? That's what they teach at Durmstrang!" Hermione
gasped, her mouth hanging open.
"It means the situation is far worse than we thought," Justin said grimly.
"Dark Arts classes!" Fred Weasley cheered.
"Wicked!" George added.
"If we can't study it," Fred shouted, "how can we hope to fight it?"
"SILENCE!" McGonagall's voice thundered through the Hall.
Once the noise settled, Sean finished: "Hogwarts will maintain the Dueling Club
and establish a formal Dark Arts Club. Those wishing to join may submit their
applications upon the start of the new term."
Sean stepped down. The two major announcements were, in truth, a single warning:
The world was changing. The students had to be faster, stronger, and more
capable than the generations before them. It was the only way to minimize the
casualties to come.
Once the unknown became known, the fear lost some of its power.
As Sean walked back toward the Ravenclaw table, the Hall erupted into a standing
ovation. Everyone was clapping—some with tears in their eyes, some with a
newfound, terrifying resolve.
"GREEN! GREEN! GREEN!"
The chant was led by the Weasley twins, who were currently conducting the
Gryffindor table in a rhythmic roar.
"I have to admit," Hermione whispered to Justin, "when he was up there... he
really did look like a Headmaster."
The next morning, as the Hogwarts Express pulled out of Hogsmeade station, the
train was a hive of debate. Students huddled over their Magic Hand Mirrors,
relaying the shocking news to their families. The controversy over the Dark Arts
classes was almost secondary to the confirmation that the war had begun.
Sean sat in his compartment, staring out the window. He was heading to the
McGonagall estate; while the Warp Gate was faster, Minerva had insisted he take
the train to spend time with his friends. She was worried about his isolation.
Across from him, Justin was buying out the snack trolley, and Hermione was
already buried in a new book. It looked exactly like their first journey three
years ago.
But things were different now. Sean pulled out a small, silver mirror and
activated a remote link.
The Ministry of Magic.
In a dim, windowless room, Sirius Black stood before a man who looked like an
old lion.
The man had tawny hair and thick eyebrows flecked with grey. Behind his
wire-rimmed spectacles were a pair of sharp, predatory yellow eyes. Despite a
slight limp, he moved with a frantic, commanding energy. He was a man of
action—hard, shrewd, and dangerous.
"The Brockdale Bridge didn't just 'collapse' due to age, Rufus," Sirius said,
leaning against the wall. "That wind wasn't a hurricane. And those murders
weren't 'Muggle accidents.' The Werewolves and Giants are just the beginning."
"What are you trying to say, Black?"
"We are at war," Sirius said. "And if you value your neck, Scrimgeour, you'll
start taking measures."
"At war?" Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, repeated the words. "And
who exactly are you to tell me my business?"
"We are..." Sirius smiled, a dark, dangerous thing. "...the people who are going
to fight until the end."
Scrimgeour stared into Sirius's eyes, seeing the fire burning within them. He
thought of the instructions Mr. Green had given him: 'Fudge is in our corner,
but he is a creature of PR. He won't act until the bodies are on his doorstep.
We need someone else. Someone who can track the snake while the Minister hides
in his office.'
"His followers are returning to him," Sirius continued, his voice dropping.
"He's back? You're telling me he's alive? My intelligence says—"
"Alive enough to walk, talk, and kill," Sirius interrupted. "Last time, he used
the Giants to create chaos. Now? Your Misinformation Office is working overtime,
isn't it? I hear the Obliviators are drowning in work. Someset is crawling with
Department of Magical Creatures staff who can't find a single giant. It's a
shambles, Rufus."
Sirius leaned in. "Do you truly think anyone else could coordinate this level of
disaster?"
scrimgeour went silent. A year ago, he would have called it madness. But now, he
knew better.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"You have to take measures. It's your duty as Head of the Aurors. But beyond
that... I suspect you're willing to take on a bit more 'unofficial'
responsibility as well."
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