Ding...

  The phone booth—elevator, or whatever it was meant to be—shuddered to a stop. Its glass door swung open, and Harry stepped out beside Maverick, at last, into the true heart of British magic: the Ministry of Magic.

  The Atrium they stepped into stretched so wide and long that Harry couldn't make out the far end at first. It felt grand and unmistakably magical, with dark wooden floors gleaming under the glow of hundreds of torches mounted high along the walls.

  "Speaker Caesar…"

  He turned toward the voice and saw a witch in uniform hurrying toward them, bowing slightly as she addressed Maverick with obvious respect. Standing beside him, Harry felt out of place amid all the ceremony.

  "The trial is about to begin, Mr. Speaker," she said, motioning for them to follow. "All the seats are filled, and most of the registered guests are already inside as well..."

  Maverick nodded and stepped forward, with Harry following close behind, his head swiveling in every direction. To their left, a row of tall fireplaces roared with green flames, sending witches and wizards vanishing or appearing in bursts of Floo powder. On the right, golden lifts clattered open and shut, ferrying people up and down to who knew where.

  Up ahead, at the center of the hall, a fountain rose proudly, adorned with golden statues: a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. Water poured from their wands, arrows, and outstretched hands, cascading into the wide pool below.

  The whole place was alive with sound and movement. Paper memos fluttered overhead like flocks of birds, shoes tapped across the polished floor, and voices blended into a steady, busy hum.

  Harry slowed without realizing it, taking it all in. For all the magic he had seen before, this felt different. The Ministry was busy, important, and overwhelming, like he had stepped into the very heart of the wizarding world.

  "It's quite the sight, isn't it?"

  Harry glanced up at Maverick and, after a moment, nodded before hurrying his steps to keep pace.

  "Is it always this busy, Professor?"

  Maverick hummed, rubbing his chin. Honestly, the place felt much livelier than the last time he had been here—crowds everywhere, noise bouncing off the walls, and the usual solemn order completely drowned out.

  One detail that caught his eye as he glanced around was the witches and wizards with cameras slung over their necks—undoubtedly journalists. They hurried along, jostling for spots near the elevators. He even spotted some international correspondents, and without a doubt, they were all here for the same reason: to witness the trial of Sirius Black.

  "Not really..." Maverick said after a moment. "It's probably so busy because everyone's here for the same reason we are..."

  "You're right, Mr. Speaker. Most of these people are here for the trial, but we didn't expect it to get this crowded," the witch leading them chimed in as well while guiding them through the bustling atrium toward a row of doors—likely more elevators.

  Indeed. Even though the Ministry had prepared for some commotion, they weren't expecting chaos on this scale. Even if it was a sudden public hearing born of countless conspiracies, it shouldn't have blown up into such a spectacle, yet here it was—drawing attention even from foreign newspapers.

  From every Floo Network entrance, fires flared nonstop as wave after wave of people poured in, and officials darted back and forth doing their best to wrestle the chaos into something resembling order.

  The truth was, someone had quietly set it all in motion—and that someone was none other than Maverick himself. He wanted every wizarding home in Britain to know what was happening today, and he had turned the noise up as high as it could go.

  And just then, a flurry of clicks and scribbles cut through the hum of the crowd, drawing their attention.

  Click.

  Click. Click. Click.

  "Mr. Speaker..."

  "Speaker Caesar..."

  "Are you also here to watch the trial, Mr. Speaker? Is Sirius Black someone you know?"

  Sigh... journalists, magical or Muggle-born, seemed to be the same everywhere, Maverick thought to himself, shaking his head slightly.

  The moment they spotted Maverick walking through the hall, cameras lifted and pens poised, they swarmed, each eager for a word from him.

  Fortunately, the line staff here were well-trained and professional, even if the very top was a moron.

  "Stand back!"

  "Move aside! This is no place for interviews!"

  Order wasn't lost. Three Aurors, sharp in their dark uniforms, appeared out of nowhere, pushed through the growing crowd with wands discreetly at the ready, and quickly formed a barrier between the receptionist witch, Maverick, Harry, and the frantic reporters. The journalists jostled and murmured, but the Aurors' presence made it clear: no one was getting past.

  However, that little episode had now placed them at the center of attention, with every staff member, guest, and reporter turning their heads, whispering and murmuring to one another.

  For Maverick, this kind of attention was nothing new, and Harry—well, he was the Boy Who Lived. Cameras flashed, pens scratched across notepads, and amid all the commotion, they kept walking, led by the receptionist witch and the Aurors, until they stopped before an elevator that was clearly more distinguished, reserved for important figures.

  "This will take you straight to the Wizengamot hall, Mr. Speaker. Apologies for the inconvenience," one of the Aurors said respectfully, while the other two swept their wands in synchronized motions. The enchantments stirred, and a silvery shimmer ran across the door before it slid open.

  "Thank you, gentlemen..." Maverick said with an easy smile.

  "It's our pleasure, Mr. Speaker..."

  More than a year had passed since Maverick first stepped into Amelia Bones's office, and now he found himself once again crossing the monumental entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic in central London.

  This time, though, he was not slipping in quietly to meet one official in private. He was walking openly toward what was perhaps the second most important chamber in the entire building—the Hall of the Wizengamot, the wizarding Britain's equivalent of a Muggle parliamentary hall.

  ---

  Maverick and Harry stepped into the lift with the receptionist, and as the doors slid shut behind them, she pressed a button, sending them into a swift descent. The Wizengamot chambers must be even deeper underground—likely hundreds of feet, Maverick thought, noting the speed.

  "Here we are," the woman said softly.

  From seemingly nowhere, she produced an elaborately embroidered robe of deep blue, its fabric rich and heavy, the stitching gleaming faintly under the light.

  "I've been instructed to provide you with the official robes," she explained. "All members of the Wizengamot presiding over a trial are required to wear them. Of course"—her tone carried a note of deference—"yours is special, Mr. Speaker. This shade is reserved only for the Minister, Speaker Dumbledore, and yourself."

  With that, she gestured for him to let her drape it over his shoulders.

  Sighing inwardly, Maverick turned, and the lady—surprisingly professional, without so much as a blush—carefully draped the robe over him, smoothing out the wrinkles with a gentle pat.

  "Thank you… uh…" Maverick said, darting his eyes to see if she had a name badge or something on her... chest.

  And that, for obvious reasons, earned a reaction—she flushed slightly this time, and Maverick's brows couldn't help but twitch.

  Great. Hopefully I don't get labeled a pervert, he thought.

  "Apologies, I was just looking for a name badge, ma'am."

  "Oh… my name is Thalia, Mr. Speaker. It's really an honor..." she said, regaining her composure.

  Meanwhile, Harry: What's happening? And don't I get a cool robe as well?

  Ding...

  Fortunately, the elevator saved the atmosphere from growing more awkward as it smoothly glided to a halt with a soft chime, and a ceremonious voice crisply announced in clipped tones, 'The Hall of the Wizengamot.'

  "Please…" Thalia said, gesturing for them to follow once again.

  Although the deep blue hue of the robes leaned toward an atrociously garish shade, they still carried a majestic and imposing air once properly worn. Whoever had made them clearly possessed remarkable skill, for they fit him perfectly without the aid of enchantments—a true mark of the tailor's craft.

  Adjusting the robes with a quick tug and nudging Harry to keep up, Maverick followed close at the woman's heels as she led them swiftly down the corridor they had just entered.

  This hallway was strikingly different from the upper levels above, with bare, cold stone walls stretching on with no doors or windows in sight, carrying a hollow, unsettling stillness.

  "This passage is reserved for special guests," Thalia explained, her voice echoing softly as she guided them through the maze-like turns. "That's why you don't see anyone else around."

  True to her word, they did not pass a single soul—until a sharp bend opened onto a decently lit service staircase that spiraled farther below.

  And there, the silence broke. The secluded stairwell was suddenly crowded with what looked like a small army of security personnel, stationed along the steps and landings, eyes sharp and alert, scanning every approach.

  Among them, Maverick immediately recognized a few familiar figures—Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and broad-shouldered as ever, and two Aurors he had last seen fighting desperately in the forest, moments away from being overrun by Greyback's werewolves.

  "Good morning, Mr. Speaker—" Kingsley greeted him, his voice steady but respectful before Maverick could speak.

  "Director Scrimgeour informed me that you would be coming and arranged for your escort inside." He paused, then glanced at the only woman there. "Thank you, Thalia. I'll take it from here."

  She nodded, understanding it was her cue to leave. Maverick offered his thanks, and she gave one last respectful bow before slipping away without another word.

  The Aurors guarding the door finally stepped aside, and it swung open, allowing them to enter.

  "Mr. Harry Potter," Kingsley said, turning to him with a gentle glance. "Please follow my colleagues. They will see you to the guest area."

  Harry shot a quick look at Maverick first, silently asking if it was okay, and Maverick gave the kid a faint smile and nodded. "I made sure your seat is right next to Mrs. Weasley."

  Harry stepped back reluctantly as the Aurors moved to guide him, while Kingsley gestured toward Maverick. "Mr. Speaker… after you."

  —————————

  The Hall of the Wizengamot, or the official chamber where the laws of wizarding Britain were shaped, was a vast, circular room that sank in steep tiers like a giant bowl. There, rows of luxurious seats climbed sharply around the room, each angled so every member could see the floor below, making anyone standing in the center feel small and completely exposed.

  There was also a continuous balcony directly above, wrapping around the chamber, reserved for guests who could watch the proceedings below with an unobstructed view.

  Normally, the curtains here stayed drawn during regular assemblies, and the seats were only filled when a public audience was absolutely necessary—like when a major law was being passed or, in even rarer cases, during a public hearing.

  On any other day, the Wizengamot councilors' seats would be arranged in strict concentric rows following the curve of the chamber, with the most senior members—the patriarchs of the oldest and noblest houses—occupying the inner rings nearest the central floor, while the outer tiers were filled by everyone else. And at the same time, the very center would hold an open space, kept clear for debate and discussion, where any member could stand and be seen and heard by all.

  Yet today, the chamber was not arranged for a typical assembly but for a formal hearing. The seats no longer formed a wide circle around the center of the room; even the middle of the hall was now filled with rows, all angled toward the head of the hall.

  At the very front, an elevated platform had been set for the judges overseeing the case, with designated areas to their left and right for the defendants and witnesses. Coincidentally—or perhaps not—the hall of the Wizengamot today bore a striking resemblance to the general layout of a Muggle courtroom.

  That is, if not for the second dais set even higher up, reserved for the most distinguished members of the gathering—figures whose rank and standing demanded they look down on the proceedings and the entire chamber below.

  In the wizarding world, hierarchy carried great weight, especially when it came to a witch or wizard's magical rank and achievements, and even in a judicial assembly, that unspoken order was built right into the very design of the chamber.

  Today, nearly every Wizengamot seat was filled, and even the gallery for approved guests was packed, leaving barely an inch of space for anyone else to squeeze in.

  Minister Cornelius Fudge had been among the first to arrive, taking a seat on the raised platform—not as a judge, of course, but as Minister of Magic, his importance clear from the seat set above the judges. Seeing the chamber filled with members and guests, he looked quite pleased with how things had turned out, getting exactly what he had asked for—though whether the day would end as he expected remained to be seen.

  ---

  Clang…

  When the creaking iron-bound door swung shut behind Maverick with a resounding thud, an abrupt blanket of icy silence fell over the chamber that had been buzzing with noise. The murmurs and shuffling of the gathered council members and guests instantly ceased, silence pressing in as all eyes fixed on the lone figure entering the chamber.

  Before coming inside, Kingsley had told Maverick where his seat would be, so without slowing his steps or sparing the weight of the hall's attention a glance, he walked past the front row and made his way toward the single stairway in the center that led up to the elevated platform.

  Honestly, the stage could have used a few more stairways, considering the width of the hall… though maybe that was the point, a way to puff up the nobles' sense of grandeur.

  The walk gave him enough time to take in the chamber. Its walls looked like rough-hewn stone, ancient, almost excessively so if he had to be honest.

  As for the lighting, Maverick had half-expected torches to line the walls—but, surprisingly, a vast alchemical array cast a steady, bright glow. Uncommon, certainly, and it would take a master alchemist to design such a structure. Not a single lamp, torch, or gadget in sight—and yet the room shone perfectly, every corner illuminated, giving the entire space an almost impossible sense of grandeur. It was impressive, to say the least.

  Around fifty seats filled the chamber, meant to hold the country's representatives. Traditionally, this body was made up entirely of pure-blood wizarding families, but over time its composition had changed to include ministry officials and recognized experts as well.

  ---

  Meanwhile, the brief hush that followed Maverick's entrance was suddenly broken by a soft, almost reluctant creak of a chair that echoed through the chamber. When Maverick was halfway to the central stairway, completely unfazed by the weight of every eye upon him, Lord Greengrass, seated at the front, rose and bowed his head slightly in his direction.

  Then, as if sparked by an unspoken signal, one by one, more seats lifted, their occupants standing in deference. In moments, nearly half the chamber was on its feet, the shuffle of robes and murmurs swelling into a low roar that filled the vast space

  Whispers rippled through the hall, rising from both the seats below and the balcony above, while cameras flashed and invited guests whispered among themselves, speculating on the meaning of the display.

  This was clearly no simple gesture of respect, but a clear message.

  One must know, even Dumbledore did not command such a reaction when he entered the chamber—though it was no secret that many councilors regarded the old wizard as their unofficial leader.

  Yet here it was: a bold, unmistakable declaration. A clear message to everyone present that this young man, who had been making headlines without pause, had now stepped squarely into the political arena as well.

  This was major news for the entire British magical political circle, and there was no doubt that countless headlines would follow this brief, unspoken declaration. Even the few who were already aware of Maverick's unofficial actions and his connection to Jameson Greengrass were surprised, for even they hadn't anticipated such numbers or the significant change in the council majority.

  It was worth noting that Lord Greengrass had previously held only a small number of councilors under his faction. Now, however, it seemed that much had been happening behind the scenes.

  Maverick showed no reaction of the stir around him, continuing his steps with casual ease, though a small smirk tugged at his lips. Of course, this was all part of the script, and Lord Greengrass, along with those under him, was merely playing his part.

  As he reached the first set of stairs, his eyes landed on a face he didn't know well—at least in person: Bartemius Crouch Sr., the former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

  It was this very man who had sentenced Sirius Black to Azkaban years ago, and whether he did it because of the circumstances at the time mattered little. He was known then for his ruthless severity in pursuing Death Eaters—even authorizing the use of the Unforgivable Curses by Aurors.

  To his credit, though, the wizarding world had been in a state of panic at the time, and immense public and Ministry pressure demanded swift justice against Voldemort's followers.

  And Sirius Black, a scion of one of the oldest and noblest houses, had just so happened to be caught in the chaos at the wrong moment, and Crouch Senior's swift, harsh sentence was, for lack of a better word, deemed necessary—hailed as a morale-boosting victory.

  In the immediate aftermath of Voldemort's first downfall, Crouch was promoted to Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation—a major step up and a position that put him in line to eventually become Minister for Magic.

  Unfortunately, he never had the chance to relish that success. His rise came to an abrupt halt when his own son, Bartemius Crouch Jr., was exposed among a band of Death Eaters and tried for torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity.

  To demonstrate his lack of favoritism and maintain a hard line against dark magic, Crouch Sr. then personally presided over the trial and sent his own son to Azkaban. Although the act upheld his public principles, it unfortunately, completely destroyed his political career.

  So why was he presiding as a judge today, after so many years out of the public eye? The answer lay with the two figures who stood to gain the most from this hearing: Cornelius Fudge himself, and Lord Jameson Greengrass, who had personally requested Crouch to chair it.

  While Fudge could have taken the role, his already tarnished reputation made him cautious—he was betting everything on restoring it after all, and he wanted the proceedings to appear completely above reproach.

  Because it was Fudge who had instigated the trial in the first place, and presiding over it himself would only have fueled suspicion that the whole affair was for his own benefit.

  He needed someone else to lead the hearing—someone with a reputation for unimpeachable integrity. And who better than Bartemius Crouch Senior, the man who had once sentenced his own son to Azkaban without hesitation?

  But the veteran had refused the Minister's request at first.

  Fudge even tried to sway him on moral grounds, insisting the trial was about correcting a past wrong. Yet Crouch was no longer a man who could be moved by such appeals. His wife had withered away into despair, and his son—well, that goes without saying.

  Righting an old wrong was not enough to drag him back into the public eye it seems. That was, at least, until Jameson Greengrass, having learned of Fudge's approach, then decided to pay Crouch a "visit" of his own.

  But what Lord Greengrass laid before him went far beyond righting a wrong that had lingered for over a decade. His request was far bolder. At first, Crouch had called Jameson a madman outright. Yet as Greengrass laid out, one by one, the catalogue of Fudge's blunders—backed by proof, and then more proof still—and pointed out that the outcome of the hearing was already all but certain, Barty finally relented.

  It was a simple task as chair, entirely within the rules. More importantly, it was enough to persuade the man to step back into the spotlight—if only for one last time—and perhaps even earn a place in the history books.

  And so, with both Lord Greengrass and Fudge's insistence, Barty agreed to preside over the trial—not as a favor to them or for personal gain, but simply to right a wrong from his past and to bring about some measure of change to their decadent magical government.

  Barty Crouch, though he had made some questionable decisions before, was by no means a bad wizard. After all, not every father could send their own son to Azkaban, yet Barty Sr. did exactly that, remaining true to his principles.

  Maverick gave the old wizard a nod of acknowledgment, then stepped forward, circling the high table set for the judge. He climbed another flight of stairs to his seat beside Albus Percival Brian Dumbledore, who held the center, with Cornelius Fudge on the other side.

  From his new vantage, he cast a quick glance at the councilors below. Many returned friendly smiles, though a handful remained cold and indifferent. He didn't dwell on it—just pulled out his chair and settled in.

  "Take your seat, Maverick… and welcome to the Hall of the Wizengamot," Dumbledore said softly, nodding toward the chair.

  "This must be your first judicial hearing at a magical court, isn't it, Master Caesar?" Fudge chimed in from the other side.

  Maverick gave a small smile and replied, "Actually, this is my first time in any court, Minister. Though calling this an actual courtroom might be stretching it a bit."

  No matter how much Maverick disliked the pompous fool, this was a high-profile gathering, and cameras were everywhere—so he played nice.

  "Indeed… it's quite different from a Muggle courtroom, though the layout may seem somewhat familiar. Our governing and judicial systems are very different, so you can't really compare the two directly," Dumbledore, ever the wise, added.

  After the brief exchange, Maverick's gaze drifted upward to the gallery, sweeping the rows until it settled on a certain blonde. She stood with her crew, poised to capture every twist and turn of the trial for broadcast to homes, offices, and public stations across the country. He offered a faint, knowing smile.

  The whispers in the hall had grown louder now—councilors pointing and murmuring among themselves, while the reporters above went into a frenzy, cameras flashing in rapid succession.

  Maverick then turned back to Dumbledore, asking a few quiet questions about the hall, the councilors, and clearing up some lingering doubts.

  Minutes passed in this quiet tension, and by then the last empty seats were also taken.

  Finally, Fudge cleared his throat and called down to Barty below, "Barty, let us proceed…"

  —————————

  "Let us begin," Bartemius Crouch announced, his voice cold and clipped, magnified by the chamber's enchantments until it rolled across the hall and pressed the gathering into silence.

  "The public hearing of the twenty-eighth of December is hereby called to order." The file cracked open in his hands, and he fixed his eyes on the parchment in rigid concentration.

  "Presiding Adjudicator: Bartemius Crouch, formerly Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and formerly Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

  "Chief Interrogators: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Archmage of the Wizengamot and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; Maverick Caesar, Archmage of the Wizengamot, Master Alchemist, and Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; and myself, Bartemius Crouch, serving as Chief Adjudicator for this hearing."

  "Interrogators: all acting Councilors of the British Wizengamot, in full assembly."

  He let the formalities settle before continuing, his voice hardening.

  "This hearing has been convened under the authority of the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, pursuant to Section XII, Clause Seven of the Wizengamot Charter of Justice, and under Article Four of the Magical Due Process Act of 1923, which grants the Minister power to petition for extraordinary review of prior convictions where—" he paused, lifted his eyes, and let them sweep the chamber before finishing, "—grave irregularities are alleged."

  "By this authority, the case of Sirius Orion Black is hereby reopened for hearing before this assembly. If there are any present who wish to raise objections as to the legality of this convocation, the jurisdiction of this chamber, or any procedural defect arising under statute, you are entitled under Article Nine, Clause Four of the Charter to voice such objection now—" he paused again, and added in a heavy tone, "even to raise a point of order, or motion of urgency, for it shall be accepted and ruled upon in due course."

  By Wizengamot tradition, any Councilor could raise a point of order before a hearing began, though in practice, no one had done so for decades. The custom had long since withered into little more than a line in the rulebook.

  With Crouch's declaration, the hush in the chamber gave way to quiet whispers drifting down from the balconies.

  "Bartemius…" Fudge muttered with a crooked smile. "Always fussing over rules no one bothers with." He looked sidelong at the two wizards beside him, as though inviting them to share in the jest, but neither Maverick nor Dumbledore so much as twitched, leaving Fudge to stew in silence, uncomfortably aware that he had been left out.

  The hall buzzed softly for a full minute, yet no one spoke, and every eye was fixed on the Chief Adjudicator. The pause stretched on, and just when everyone thought he would strike the desk to move the hearing forward, they instead saw him raise his hand and turn to face the three seated behind him.

  He lifted his gaze toward the dais, specifically to the center where Dumbledore sat, and in a clear, deliberate voice, he declared—

  "I, Bartemius Crouch, Chief Adjudicator and acting member of this Council, raise an objection before this hearing proceeds. In accordance with Council Law, when the Chief Adjudicator himself brings an objection, the matter must be referred to the High Precedent—the presiding authority of the Council. By rank, that authority belongs to you, Speaker Dumbledore. I ask that my argument be heard."

  Sitting beside the man in question, Fudge's brow furrowed—slowly at first, as confusion flickered across his face, then deeper, hardening into disbelief. This was not how the script was supposed to go. He parted his lips, ready to cut in, yet no words came, hanging uselessly in his throat.

  "What… Bartemius, what is the meaning of this?" he finally barked, his voice echoing through the chamber. Fury and confusion laced every syllable as he leaned forward, glaring at Crouch—because he had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling that the tide of the chamber was about to change, and it would be directly against him.

  But Crouch didn't so much as glance at him; his eyes stayed locked on Dumbledore, treating the Minister's outburst as nothing more than background noise.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  A ripple of murmurs coursed through the hall. Councilors shifted in their seats, whispering rapidly to one another, while the reporters above scrambled to catch every second. The hearing hadn't even started, yet already it was unfolding like a play too dramatic to miss.

  Just as Fudge was about to bark another command, Dumbledore, seated to Maverick's right, gave a subtle nod. With a graceful wave of his hand, a small hammer and tapping instrument materialized before him.

  "Very well," Dumbledore said softly. Though scarcely above a murmur, his voice carried with it a quiet authority that filled the hall.

  The chamber fell into a tense hush once again. The temporary change of adjudication was now clear to everyone, and all eyes—curious, eager, or suspicious—fixed on Crouch. Then, amid the expectant faces of councilors and guests alike, he finally began to speak.

  "Your Excellency... I, Bartemius Crouch, under Article Nine, Clause Four of the Charter, hereby raise a Point of Order in Urgency against Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic... accusing him of abusing his authority on multiple occasions during his tenure. I therefore call upon this council to consider a vote of no confidence—"

  The words struck the hall like lightning, before a louder, more frantic shout thundered across the chamber.

  "THIS... IS PREPOSTEROUS!"

  Fudge shot to his feet, his face crimson, jowls quivering.

  "How dare you, Bartemius! I dragged you out of disgrace, gave you the chance to crawl back into public life, and this—this—is how you repay me?"

  He jabbed his finger wildly at Crouch, then swung it across the hall, pointing at everyone and no one at once, his voice breaking with rage. "I will not stand for this mockery!"

  Spittle flew as he whirled toward his right. "Dumbledore!" he roared. "I demand—under my full authority as Minister of Magic and High Councillor of this assembly—that this farce be ended at once! And that Bartemius Crouch be thrown from this hall immediately!"

  Gasps rippled through the chamber like a crashing wave. Murmurs rose in every direction, spreading like wildfire until the whole hall seemed to tremble with voices. From the press gallery above, reporters nearly leapt from their seats, quills scratching across parchment with feverish speed, eyes glittering with the thrill of scandal.

  The trial of Sirius Black—the very reason this assembly had been called—seemed, in that instant, all but forgotten.

  "You are but one, Cornelius," Crouch shot back coldly, turning toward the dais. "Unless both Speakers agree with you, you cannot halt this proceeding. Furthermore, my point of order in urgency does not fall within the Minister's prerogative to quash. You have no legal right to stop it."

  "ENOUGH!" Fudge roared again, his fists shaking as he spun to Dumbledore. "Dumbledore, I demand this nonsense be struck down now!"

  "The point of order in urgency does indeed stand, Cornelius. It does not fall within ministerial discretion to dismiss it." Dumbledore did not flinch at the Minister's tantrum; he inclined his head ever so slightly, letting his calm, steady voice carry over the rising clamor. "You would be wise to sit down."

  "You—"

  If looks could harm, both Crouch and Dumbledore would have been in serious trouble by now because Fudge's face had turned a deep, furious red at this point.

  He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of rage, but before he could, the only one at their table who had remained silent until this point—sitting like an amused observer—finally spoke.

  "Minister…" Maverick glanced at the fat man and gave a slight gesture to sit. "For a vote of no confidence, doesn't it require half the assembly plus one to pass? Why make such a fuss… or are you afraid half the assembly might not have confidence in you?"

  "Caesar… you as well?" Fudge murmured, the words tasting bitter on his tongue, before Maverick's remark finally sank in. That's right, he thought. To remove him from office would require half the assembly plus one—an outcome so unprecedented in Wizengamot history that, probably, he was fussing over nothing.

  He cleared his throat, as if rebooting his composure. His whole demeanor changed in an instant. The probability of half the councilors wanting him out was, in his view, almost impossible.

  He glanced at Crouch again, and for a brief moment, rage flickered—but this time he swallowed it, seething the words internally.

  "Crouch… you will regret this. Who gave you the confidence that such a ridiculous motion as impeaching me would succeed? You are a relic of the past, while I am the Minister of Magic, supported by countless factions within this assembly. You… someone long forgotten, would be a fool to think anyone would back you."

  Satisfied, he finally sank back into his chair and gave a nod to Dumbledore, certain this absurd stunt would be crushed in an overwhelming victory.

  On the other side, Maverick's lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk. Dumbledore mirrored him with a subtle, almost imperceptible smile as well.

  "Very well," Dumbledore said, his calm voice amplified across the chamber.

  "Following Councilor Bartemius Crouch's point of order in urgency, and pursuant to Article Nine, Clause Four of the Charter, I hereby call upon the assembly to vote, on whether Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic, shall be impeached from his position. Those who wish to present arguments may do so now..."

  The hall buzzed with murmurs once again. Everyone speculated where this could lead. Those in the know remained silent, while the unprepared and shocked observers whispered frantically among themselves, trying to make sense of the unfolding scene.

  Like Fudge, most believed the motion absurd, never imagining that a vote could actually pass against the Minister of Magic. Within the assembly, three factions vied for influence, and for the motion to succeed, it required the support of at least two factions—half the assembly present plus one. The odds of that happening were slim to none.

  And perhaps it was that very belief that kept every councilor silent. Even those taken aback by the unfolding drama dismissed it as little more than a fleeting farce.

  Not a single councilor challenged the motion or even questioned the evidence of Fudge's misuse of authority—after all, in their minds, it was a foregone conclusion that the vote would end in Fudge's favor.

  Minutes stretched on, each feeling like an eternity, until Dumbledore finally spoke again.

  "It appears no one has any arguments to present," Dumbledore's voice rang clearly across the chamber, slicing through the murmurs. "I shall now call upon you, esteemed councilors, to state your standing. Those in favor of impeaching the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, raise your hands. Those who oppose, keep your hands down."

  —————————

  "Uh… Mrs Weasley, isn't this supposed to be about Sirius Black?"

  Above the grand hall of the Wizengamot, inside one of the guest auditoriums, Harry sat with his head tilted, watching the inexplicable turn of events unfold. Questions buzzed in his head faster than he could sort them, and even his Gryffindor brain could tell this had nothing to do with Sirius Black, or the trial they had all come to witness.

  "I'm as confused as you are, dear," Molly admitted, her brow furrowing. It wasn't that she disliked what was happening—no, it was just… everything was happening so suddenly, out of nowhere.

  "How many hands can you count, dear?" she asked, leaning forward.

  It wasn't just them. The same bewildered current ran through the entire gallery. This was supposed to be the trial of a notorious fugitive—yet before anyone realized what was happening, it had swerved into a vote of no confidence against the very head of their government.

  Most magical communities across the globe had some form of democracy, more or less. Even so, coups were hardly a familiar concept in the wizarding world.

  Then again, as the saying went, it was only a coup if it failed. And the architects behind everything that was happening had no plans on failing.

  Reporters' quills scratched furiously, never pausing, while the enchanted broadcast carried every word and gesture into homes, restaurants, and pubs across the country. Families, workers, even drunks leaning on counters were glued to the floating screens, holding their breath as hands began to rise in the chamber.

  "Six… no, nine…" Harry muttered, eyes tracking each motion from below.

  "That's not even close," Molly's lips pressed tight.

  "Then what in Merlin's name gave Barty the confidence this would work?" another witch muttered from the row beside them—only to break off mid-sentence when yet another hand shot up, followed by a wave of others.

  Down on the floor, when Dumbledore first called the tally, only a small cluster of councilors had lifted their hands—mostly the ones long at odds with Cornelius Fudge.

  The Minister allowed himself a smug little smile at the sight. Opposition was expected, after all—and it appeared in such pitiful numbers. He could already picture himself rubbing it in Crouch's face.

  And then he froze.

  His eyes widened as the next hand shot up—for it was none other than Lord Jameson Greengrass, leader of a whole large faction within the Assembly.

  His blood ran cold as a storm of doubts crashed through his head. It was Jameson who urged me to hold a public hearing… wasn't it? So why?

  No…

  He realized, as a thought struck him. It was me—I was the one who went out of my way to arrange this public hearing, all because Lord Greengrass dangled the so-called chance to clear my muddy image.

  Cold sweat trickled down his temples as hand after hand followed Greengrass's lead. Ten… fourteen… twenty… The so-called neutral faction—the councilors who usually kept to the sidelines—were now in motion, and each hand that rose struck him like a hammer blow to the chest, driving home the terrifying realization that this ridiculous farce might actually succeed.

  Had he been played from the very start?

  He was already on his feet, hands braced against the table, eyes bulging as he counted the hands raised in the air. There were Fifty-nine seats in total, including his own and the two High Councilors, and the count had already reached twenty-seven.

  Just three more votes… His mouth went dry at how close he was to losing everything. Mechanically, he turned to Crouch and saw him furrowing his brow, seemingly not satisfied.

  Yes… he thought, the number had to reach thirty. Not twenty-seven, not twenty-eight, not even twenty-nine. From the looks of it, no more hands were going up. Even Dumbledore and Caesar seemed content to sit this one out. Thank Merlin.

  Just as a smug smile began to curl at the corner of his lips again, a fresh ripple of gasps from the gallery above made him snap his head upward, then back down—but no one else had raised their hands.

  Which meant…

  From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Dumbledore and Caesar—who, just moments ago, he had thought would sit this one out—had now raised their hands.

  No… no… no… no… no.

  "What… what is the meaning of this?" he spat, the words practically strangling their way out of him.

  More gasps erupted from the gallery, and he instinctively whipped his head around once again. His eyes nearly bulged from their sockets as the full scope of what was happening slammed into him.

  His legs went numb, and he slumped down, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, desperate to speak but utterly unable to find words.

  In front of him was a sea of hands, easily over two-thirds of the entire assembly. Even some of his own sponsors—pureblood fanatics who had maintained a good relationship with him—had raised their hands, declaring their stance that they no longer supported him.

  "How… how could this be happening?"

  "This is a conspiracy. It has to be!" Fudge bellowed, his voice cracking. "I will not accept this! I have been tricked!"

  He jabbed a finger toward Bartemius Crouch, who now wore a faint, almost smug smile, then frantically swung his hand to the sea of raised councilors, and finally toward Dumbledore and Maverick beside him.

  "You're all in on this! I—this is a conspiracy, I tell you! I will not accept this!"

  His frantic wailing echoed off the chamber walls, mingling with the relentless clicks of cameras from the gallery above.

  "Cornelius… accept the facts—" Dumbledore sought to make the maddening minister see reason, to pour some sense into him, but he was cut off.

  "NO! I WILL NOT!" Fudge roared, spinning to face the hall. "I WILL NOT... ACCEPT... THIS!"

  Maverick shook his head, watching the idiot lose control. The fat man's shouting carried no weight now—the outcome was already sealed, and besides, he was far too close, and his sheer volume was grating.

  Seconds crawled by, and Fudge's frantic wailing filled the chamber, but time spared no one. At last, the period allotted for the vote came to an end. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, now sat slumped, eyes wide and hollow, like a desperate child who had just lost his most treasured toy. At least—for now—he had finally shut up.

  Meanwhile, Dumbledore was on his feet, and the buzz in the hall fell into a tense, expectant silence. Before the hundreds gathered in the chamber—and the countless others watching live across the country—the old wizard lifted the ceremonial hammer with deliberate care and brought it down three times. Each resounding strike echoed through the hall, commanding attention and reverence.

  "Esteemed councilors," Dumbledore's voice rang out, measured and solemn, "having tallied the votes in accordance with Article Nine, Clause Four of the Charter, the assembly has rendered its decision. By the super majority of the council, Cornelius Oswald Fudge is hereby removed from his position as Minister for Magic."

  He turned slightly, signaling to the security Aurors to come forward. "Kindly escort the former Minister of Magic to a Healer," he said calmly, "It seems the burdens of office have taken too great a toll."

  Although Cornelius Fudge had been escorted from the Wizengamot chamber, it did not mean he was barred from returning. He still held his seat as a councilor; only now, he would no longer gaze down from the highest chair upon the assembly.

  Once Fudge had been escorted away, Dumbledore stood, letting his presence fill the chamber. Raising a hand, his eyes traveled slowly over the councilors and the spectators above until silence settled like a soft cloak over the room.

  "Today marks a turning point in the history of this council," he said, his voice carrying clearly without force. "We have borne witness to an important moment, my esteemed councilors—yet more than that, we have affirmed a great truth... and that is no seat, no office, stands higher than the law itself. So let this serve as a reminder: power is not a prize to hoard, nor a shield to hide behind. It is a responsibility entrusted to us for the good of all, and none stand above it—not even a minister."

  He inclined his head slightly, then turned his gaze back to Bartemius on the elevated seat just below him.

  "With that, I yield the remainder of today's proceedings to Councilor Bartemius Crouch, Chief Adjudicator for this assembly, who will guide us forward in proper order."

  What followed had still nothing to do with Sirius Black. When the post of Minister of Magic became vacant—whether by resignation, death, or a vote of no confidence—wizarding law in Britain required that the position be filled as soon as possible.

  And yes, it was an appointment, not a direct election by the public in the same way a Muggle prime minister or president might be chosen.

  Potential candidates were selected by the councilors themselves and presented to the Wizengamot, provided at least eighty percent of councilors were in attendance. Most often, candidates came either from within the ranks of the Wizengamot or from senior positions in the Ministry. And once the names were presented, the assembly would vote for their preferred choice.

  There was no required percentage to win; simply, the candidate with the highest number of votes secures the position. And if a tie ever occurred, then the two highest-voted candidates would face a revote, with the winner finally appointed as Minister of Magic.

  While the public did not vote directly, their opinion remained crucial—acting as a de facto check on the Wizengamot's power. A Minister needs public support to be effective, and without it, they risked being removed. In the original timeline also, Cornelius Fudge had eventually been forced out for precisely that reason: he lost the public's confidence with his handling of the Voldemort crisis.

  Finally, there was no fixed term for an acting Minister. One could remain in office indefinitely, so long as they retained the confidence of both the Wizengamot and the public.

  For Bartemius Crouch, the process of appointing a minister seemed entirely familiar. Without any delay, he opened the floor for councilors to present their candidates, and in under an hour, with no objections from any party, the names were laid out on the table.

  One name, of course, was Lord Jameson Greengrass. Another came from the pure-blood fanatic faction. And the final name—much to Maverick's quiet amusement—was Dolores Umbridge, the Undersecretary to the former Minister of Magic.

  From the start of the assembly—impeaching Fudge and selecting candidates for the next Minister—it had already been two hours. Yet, no one complained. From the guest auditoriums, the atmosphere remained lively, reporters busy capturing every detail, and attendees enthusiastically debating the potential outcome.

  Next came the highlight of the day: Bartemius announcing the candidates for the next Minister of Magic. The hall buzzed when Lord Greengrass's name was called, with plenty of applause from the auditorium signaling obvious approval. The second candidate drew far less attention, and as for Umbridge… well, it seemed no one even bothered to care.

  Finally, when the vote was tallied, Lord Greengrass emerged with the most votes in an overwhelming turnout, a clear supermajority—and, coincidentally or not, his total matched exactly the number of votes that had impeached Cornelius Fudge.

  And thus, on that day—28th of December, 1993—a new Minister of Magic was appointed, taking the helm of the British magical government.

  —————————

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Jameson Greengrass, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass, climbed the short flight of stairs with measured poise, the thunder of applause swelling through the hall as he moved toward what was now rightfully his: a seat of power in the Assembly of the Wizengamot.

  No longer was he simply the head of a noble house, or just another councilor among Britain's magical representatives. Today, he stood at the pinnacle of power—the most coveted seat in all of wizarding politics, the head of government itself: the Minister of Magic.

  Yet it wasn't the wealth, nor the power to command armies and galleons with a single word, that made his pulse race. No—it was the realization that, after years of a life he had once thought unremarkable, he had finally accomplished something truly extraordinary.

  With the final step, he drew in a steadying breath and set his features into calm composure. A faint smile tugged at his lips as his gaze lifted and found two familiar figures watching him.

  Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard's eyes shone with quiet encouragement, his gaze warmly inviting him to the seat beside him. Yes—it was his now. And if only in the game of politics in this country, he stood shoulder to shoulder with this legendary old monster now, whom everyone either feared or worshiped.

  With a measured nod, he inclined his head in respect, then turned to the younger man seated at Dumbledore's side—the one to whom he owed everything that had unfolded for him on this very day.

  Their eyes met. How long had it been? he wondered, studying the man he had chosen—by will or by fate, it no longer mattered—to follow in leadership. A year? Perhaps. Even so, the weight of this moment still felt unreal. He had long known this would be the outcome, but knowing it and standing here to live it were two entirely different things.

  He saw the young man's lips curl into a knowing smirk, and with a subtle gesture, he too extended an invitation for him to take his place—no less warm than Dumbledore's. Cameras flashed relentlessly from above, capturing every breath, every glance, so in this moment, both of them had to keep up appearances.

  So after brushing aside the thrill rising in his chest and taking another long, steadying breath, he looked down for the first time at the witches and wizards governing the country from that position—each of them meeting his gaze with expectant expressions.

  The hall fell silent. As the new Minister of Magic, he would, of course, have to give a speech before taking his seat. Then, clearing his throat, he addressed not only the councilors before him but also the hundreds of thousands who he knew were watching live across the country.

  He had long anticipated this moment, and his speech was already written and memorized. Yet the nerves were undeniable, flickering across his face for anyone keen enough to notice. Still, he delivered it with poise, each word carrying the weight of his new authority.

  Finally, with the last syllable leaving his lips, he lowered himself into the seat beside the two Archmages, allowing the Adjudicator below him to carry on with the rest of the proceedings.

  The Assembly was complete once more—except now, there was no Cornelius Fudge, and in his place, a new Minister of Magic looked over the Wizengamot.

  ---

  "Let's begin," Bartemius Crouch announced for the second time today, his voice cutting through the hall and forcing the murmurs into silence.

  He moved briskly through the formalities of the matter at hand, and to the relief of many, it was finally the issue for which the assembly had truly gathered. Only the journalists slumped in their seats, shoulders sagging as they realized there would be no further scandals to feast on today.

  With Barty's command, the iron gates on either side of the chamber rattled open, their grinding echo bouncing off the high stone walls.

  Chains scraped harshly across the floor as Aurors pulled the prisoners forward. Moments later, two figures emerged—Sirius Black, dressed surprisingly well for a so-called fugitive on the run, and Peter Pettigrew, by contrast, in ragged clothes that made him look more like a homeless beggar dragged in off the streets. Both were hauled into the open and shoved toward the defendants' dock at the center of the chamber.

  Sirius looked calm, almost as if he already knew the verdict would fall in his favor, while Pettigrew seemed utterly drained of hope—especially when his eyes lifted to the high platform and found Bartemius Crouch seated there, stern and unyielding, with the front row of power gathered at his side.

  Terror flickered in the rat's gaze—after all, this was the man who had once sentenced his own son to life in Azkaban. If Crouch could do that to blood, what chance did he have?

  The noise around the chamber swelled, whispers and murmurs rising like a tide crashing against the stone walls. From the auditorium, countless glares bore down on the two suspects, raw anger written across every face. After all, the Potters were one of the most respected noble families in Britain, with ties that reached into nearly every house present.

  Just then, the chains binding the dock groaned and rattled. Peter flinched at the sound, and his head snapped toward Sirius Black—only to meet eyes blazing with unfiltered murderous intent.

  "Wretched traitor… scum!" Sirius roared, spitting toward the dock where Pettigrew sat trembling. His voice boomed like thunder, but immediately, the Aurors stationed near his dock raised their wands—a silent warning that one more outburst would earn him a spellfire.

  Grudgingly, Sirius forced himself to stay still, recalling all the advice Maverick and Ali had drilled into him, and only then did he manage to calm down.

  "If you disrupt the proceedings again, Black," Bartemius Crouch snapped, meeting Sirius's glare with an icy stare, "then guilty or not, I'll throw you straight back into Azkaban without hesitation."

  With that warning, Crouch drew a file from the stack before him, letting his voice cut through the chamber.

  "Trial of the twenty-eighth of December… the defendants: Sirius Orion Black, and Peter Pettigrew."

  His eyes left the parchment and fixed upon the two men shackled in the chains.

  "You stand accused of betraying the Fidelius secret of James and Lily Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in October 1981, directly causing their deaths. Do either of you have anything to say in your defense?"

  Peter stared blankly ahead, lost in a stupor, his mind fleeing from a truth he could no longer escape. Sirius, on the other hand, was unnervingly calm, collecting his thoughts to give his testimony.

  But before he could speak, a councilor in the front row rose. He gave a courteous nod to the Adjudicator and the high council above, then addressed the chamber in a steady, measured voice.

  "Speaker Dumbledore, if memory serves, over ten years ago you declared Sirius Black to be the Potters' Secret Keeper. Yet the Ministry now prosecutes Pettigrew for the same betrayal. We require clarity."

  "All true," Dumbledore replied gravely, inclining his head. "But only recently did I learn that the secret had been changed a second time, without my knowledge. I would therefore ask the defendant himself to explain and offer what proof he can."

  All eyes turned to Sirius, but he didn't falter. He knew he had to explain, and besides, he wasn't going to fabricate anything—he would simply tell the truth. So, he nodded once to the assembly, stepped forward, and began to speak.

  "Back then," he began, voice low but clear, "we had word that You-Know-Who was hunting James and Lily. Dumbledore advised the Fidelius Charm, and James chose me as Secret Keeper. But just before the charm was sealed, I… I told him to use this rat instead. Everyone knew me as their closest friend. Voldemort would've suspected me first. I thought… I thought it would be clever."

  His voice still cracked as he recounted everything, even though he had told the same story countless times since his escape to Maverick and Ali.

  Meanwhile, the chamber stirred with unease. Even before his testimony, the news of Pettigrew being alive—and now seeing him there in front of them—had forced the public to reconsider the truth. But the law demanded more than speculation—the Wizengamot required proof.

  "This is an official trial," Crouch cut in, his tone hard as iron. "And words are not enough. Over a decade has passed since the crime, and it is only natural that tangible evidence is limited. Therefore, under authority of the Wizengamot and with due process, I offer this choice: will you, Sirius Black, submit to interrogation under Veritaserum, and repeat your testimony beneath its influence?"

  The chamber stirred once again. It was common knowledge that Veritaserum—one of the most tightly restricted magics in the wizarding world—was a heavily restricted potion for any purpose. Only in extraordinary hearings such as this, and only with the defendant's consent, could its use be sanctioned.

  "I will," Sirius said without pause.

  Across the dock, Pettigrew went pale as ash. He knew exactly what that meant. In the wizarding world, truth under Veritaserum wasn't just evidence—it was as close to being caught red-handed as one could get. He felt utterly hopeless, not even bothering to protest, silently praying to Merlin—or anyone—that he wouldn't be handed the death sentence on the spot.

  —————————

  Author's Note:

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