Chapter 103 — A Minister Without Sleep
As usual, Cornelius Fudge could not sleep.
He sat up abruptly in the wide wooden bed, staring blankly at the empty space beside him. Once awake, there was no chance of falling back asleep. These past few days had drained him completely—body and mind alike.
After a long moment, he decided there was no point lying there any longer.
He might as well work.
In truth, Fudge liked to believe that, as Minister of Magic, he was far more diligent than his predecessor. He devoted more time to official business, spent fewer hours indulging in leisure. Of course, there was another explanation—one he refused to acknowledge.
He wasn't confident enough.
That insecurity was precisely why his "free time" had been consumed by paperwork and meetings.
He stood and reached for his slippers. First, he needed to shave. Recently, he had been running around like a Muggle firefighter, putting out one blaze after another. His appearance had become a secondary concern.
Not long ago, Albus Dumbledore, speaking not as a private individual but as Headmaster of Hogwarts, had lodged yet another formal protest—this time regarding the Dementors stationed at the school.
Worse still, the Dementors themselves had complained.
They claimed Hogwarts had "tortured" them. If they weren't given a satisfactory explanation, they would refuse to cooperate.
Fudge sighed.
He did not wake his wife. Moving carefully, he crossed the corridor and entered the bathroom.
The mirror reflected a man who looked older than he remembered.
Grey hair streaked heavily through what had once been neatly groomed. His eye sockets were sunken, bloodshot from chronic exhaustion. His waist had thickened slightly. He used to exercise regularly—but ever since Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban, his schedule had collapsed entirely.
Everything had gone wrong.
Azkaban's security was being questioned. The Dementors were causing trouble everywhere. And now—of all people—they had provoked Dumbledore.
Fudge's authority—such as it was—had begun to erode.
Headaches waited for him at every turn.
The real dilemma was deciding who to be firm with, and who to placate: Dumbledore, or the Dementors.
Deep down, Fudge did not want to yield to Dumbledore.
When he had first taken office, his confidence had been fragile. He had sought Dumbledore's counsel constantly. But time in power had slowly inflated his sense of competence. He still asked for advice—just less often. He wanted to believe that he was capable of being Minister.
More than that, he had grown attached to the position itself.
The authority.
The prestige.
The sense of control.
Every time he turned to Dumbledore now, it felt like regression—like being a schoolboy again, with Dumbledore towering over him as a teacher.
That contrast made his skin crawl.
In comparison, the Dementors were easier to manage.
Only in front of those mindless monsters did Fudge truly feel intellectually superior.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sharp tapping against the bathroom window shattered his thoughts.
Annoyed, he turned—and saw an owl.
How long had it been since anyone sent him an owl directly?
Ever since becoming Minister, he'd grown fond of Muggle conveniences. Electric lights. Telephones. Faster. Cleaner. Practical.
Who was it who had encouraged him to adopt those things?
…That brat from the Malfoy family.
Fudge still remembered the boy vividly—the one who had made him bleed money last time.
His thoughts raced as he opened the window.
If this was a flattering letter from an admirer, he decided he might forgive the intrusion.
But after reading just a few lines, his knees gave out.
He collapsed onto the bathroom floor.
His vision darkened—but he did not faint.
Instinct screamed at him: If you faint now, your political career is finished.
It nearly was already.
The letter, written by one of his subordinates, began with an explanation. Telephone lines were unavailable due to unpaid debts. To demonstrate urgency, both an owl and a messenger had been dispatched simultaneously.
As if on cue, heavy knocking echoed from the front door.
But Fudge couldn't stand.
The message itself could be reduced to a single sentence:
The Dementors have disappeared. Azkaban is in chaos.
The words struck him like a bludgeon.
"How dare they!" Fudge roared, face flushing crimson, veins bulging at his temples. Any trace of the polished statesman he presented to the public vanished instantly. "How dare they!"
Then—suddenly—his expression changed.
"There's still a chance… still a chance…"
He clutched at the thought like a lifeline.
"As long as he arrives in time…"
Strength returned to his legs. He forced himself upright and staggered toward the door.
Step by step.
Dumbledore was his only hope.
If he knew that the man he was counting on was also one of the instigators behind this disaster—
What would he feel then?
---
A few hours earlier.
After driving the Dementors from Hogwarts and destroying those that dared remain, Dumbledore returned directly to his office.
He drew a quill at random and began to write.
His brow furrowed as he worked. Occasionally, he adjusted his half-moon spectacles. For an old man, sitting still and writing for so long was no small effort.
At last, he set the quill down and studied the thin, looping script on the parchment.
A long sigh escaped him.
Dumbledore had never been fond of power—for now, at least. Nor did he enjoy meaningless formalities.
He preferred honest conversation.
But Fudge increasingly loathed that kind of exchange.
So Dumbledore had chosen formality instead.
Everyone in their world played by certain rules.
He was the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Fudge was the Minister of Magic.
Titles brought glory—but also chains.
Even this communication had to be wrapped in official language.
In truth, Dumbledore wished to eliminate the Dementors entirely. To him, they were dangerous, useless creatures. But doing so outright would ignite a full confrontation with Fudge.
"Head hurting again?"
A dry, hoarse voice spoke from the wall.
The portrait's lips moved slowly. It depicted Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather and a former Headmaster himself.
"Every time you're troubled, you tease your bird."
"Correction," Dumbledore replied mildly as he rose and approached the perch. "That is a phoenix."
His brows finally relaxed. He stretched his long arms, lifted his wand—
And summoned a brilliant flame at its tip.