Chapter 8: Ministry Affairs

  "Prepared, Harry?" Trevor Lapis' baritone cut through the forest, his yellow eyes sharp beneath the brim of his top hat. It was two days after Harry's narrow escape from Little Hangleton, in the Life Sanctum dappled with sunlight. The Unspeakable stood before him in a tailored dueling outfit, a charcoal-gray waistcoat that accentuated his imposing frame. Harry wore his own set of dueling robes.

  Harry exhaled sharply, willing the Cloak's power to hum beneath his skin. The air shimmered faintly as an iridescent bubble coalesced around him - not quite invisible now, but warping light like heat over pavement. He gave a terse nod.

  "Stupefy!"

  Trevor's scarlet spell streaked forward. For a moment, the spell bent, tracing the barrier's curvature in a shower of crimson sparks - then punctured through as Harry lost focus. The bolt of magic slammed into him, sending him to the ground.

  "Rennervate." Leaves crunched as Harry sat upright, fingers digging into the earth. "The curvature is still too spherical," the Unspeakable mused, examining his dragonhide glove. "Instead of imagining a bubble, try shaping the barrier as a very long ellipsoid, with its major axis directed towards the projectile. You must start 're-adjusting' the path of the spell as far away from your body as possible."

  "Or maybe your 'spatial curvature' theory's got more holes than a Fwooper nest," Harry grumbled, brushing dirt from his sleeves. "Brings me back to practicing the Stunner in my Fifth Year. At least we had cushions then."

  "Ah, but cushioning would spoil the lesson." Trevor gave a dry smile. "Consider each bruise… motivation." His finger poked at the invisible barrier above Harry's arm. "The Cloak doesn't merely hide you - it severs you from this plane, down to the molecular level. No air exchange, no scent diffusion, no light." His voice sharpened. "But without control, you waste your magic sustaining the barrier."

  Harry rose, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. "You're right. If I could've maintained the concealment just a little longer… shame that Moody– no, Barty's Eye spotted me in the end."

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. "You were eventually discovered, then? A shame. Did the reborn Dark Lord get a clear look at you?"

  Harry shook his head, walking to the other side of the clearing. "Unlikely. I was careful. At the very edge of the graveyard, far away from Barty. Had a hood on, with my back turned as well. Even that blasted Eye shouldn't have gotten a clear view." Hopefully, he added silently to himself. This latest Gryffindor-esque stunt was teetering on the edge of disaster. Voldemort needed to believe he was merely an Order spy, or his horcrux hunt was about to become more complicated.

  The Unspeakable took position opposite Harry, a knowing smirk on his face like he was Harry's mentor again. "And the fruits of this… reckless expedition?"

  Harry met the man's gaze with a touch of dry humour. "Besides proving my uncanny knack for causing trouble?" He shaped his mist-barrier, trying to match the long curved oval Trevor had suggested. "The Death Eater roster is unchanged. More importantly, Voldemort probably used Alastor Moody's blood for the resurrection ritual. Iris' blood protection should still hold."

  "Should." Trevor's wand twirled idly, sparks dancing from the tip.

  Harry frowned. That was the concerning part. The Dark Lord seemed confident that he could bypass Iris' blood protection, even without her blood. Voldemort's words drifted through Harry's mind again: "The girl survives… for now. But the old magic shielding her will not last. Azkaban's walls will crumble, and soon the girl's fate will come to an end."

  Harry's barrier wavered. Why Azkaban? The prison break - was it tied to the blood protections? To the Department of Mysteries? In his world, Voldemort had fixated on the Prophecy after he'd escaped the graveyard in spite of all odds. Here, Iris kept defying him as well, but…

  Crack.

  Trevor's Stupefy struck like a crimson bullet. Harry's mist-shield dissolved mid-thought, his delayed Protego deflecting nothing. Darkness swallowed him before he hit the floor.

  Trevor holstered his wand, tutting at the unconscious intern. "Deflection requires focus, Mr. Potter. Not brooding." He summoned a quill to document Harry's seventh consecutive failure, humming a jaunty tune.

  —----

  Harry and Trevor trekked back to the cabin, the sweet scent of wood adrift in the evening air. Twilight painted the forest in rich reds and purples. Harry absently massaged the tender spot on the back of his skull - courtesy of Trevor's ruthlessly efficient stunning spells.

  "Speaking of the Dark Lord," Trevor remarked, his eyes glinting like polished citrine in the fading light. "Dumbledore addressed the Wizengamot this morning. Issued warnings about rising Dark forces, though he notably refrained from specifics."

  Harry nodded, kicking an acorn into the underbrush. "So he's gone for subtlety. Suppose that's progress. Although in my world, I rather forced his hand." The memory was still clear like yesterday - Cedric's limp weight in his arms, Ministry officials' bewildered stares as he'd screamed himself hoarse about Dark Lords and rebirth rituals. Looking back now, he could sort of understand why nobody believed him.

  Trevor hummed, a sound like rustling leaves. "Without concrete evidence, claims of the Dark Lord's return would only raise panic and skepticism. Instead, he's pushing for more resources to the Auror Office, just in case."

  "Smart." Harry twisted his wand between his fingers. "Fudge's lot might actually fund preparedness if it's framed as… oh, rounding up rogue Death Eaters." His gaze drifted to the faint amber glow behind the trees - Sirius' stasis prison. "Even agreeing with the Minister's paranoia about Sirius could serve as useful cover."

  Trevor halted. "Though one wonders–" his smile held dry amusement, "–if our esteemed Minister realizes he's being maneuvered like a chess pawn. Dumbledore does enjoy his schemes."

  Harry grimaced. "Still better than open warfare with the Ministry. Last time that happened, I got a year of educational decrees and a Defense professor from Hell." He stopped at the cabin door, hesitating. "By the way, about the Minister - any luck securing the meeting? I know it's a lot to–"

  "Elementary, Mr. Potter." Trevor produced a parchment slip from his waistcoat with a stage magician's flourish. Friday, July 23rd, 10:00 AM was written in standard cursive. "Our Department has quite the influence in the Ministry, even if we are de facto independent." He smirked. "Prophecies and Time Turners make excellent leverage."

  The cabin's firelight warmed the cozy sitting room. Euler hooted a drowsy greeting from his perch. Harry sank into a threadbare armchair, weariness creeping into his voice. "Seriously, Trevor - thanks. For all of it. The training, help with dimensional theory, meetings with the Ministry… I know you're juggling twelve things at once, with your position in the Department."

  Trevor settled opposite him, steepling his fingers. "Gratitude? Unnecessary." His tone softened, though, his thoughts drifting to the drawer where a faded photo lay buried. "Let's just call it… delayed vengeance. Tom Riddle's ilk has already stolen my sister's tomorrows. I won't allow them to pilfer more."

  Harry raised his head, questioning. "But the Department's neutrality policy - the Matron said Unspeakables don't take sides. Not even against Dark Lords."

  "Astute recall, Harry. Five points to whatever House you once belonged." Trevor produced a silver pocket watch, its gears studded with Runic symbols, and set it ticking between them like a metronome. "Neutrality preserves knowledge through political tempests. Without it, we'd be rebuilt every time the Ministry changes hands." His thumbnail tapped the watch face, freezing the hands. "But tell me - for an institution built on secrets… what would be the greatest sin?"

  "Revealing those secrets?" Harry ventured, eyeing the frozen timepiece.

  "Precisely." The watch snapped shut. "You see, my assistance isn't meddling in war… merely settling a departmental matter."

  Harry's chair creaked as he straightened. "Departmental?"

  Trevor paused. He snapped his fingers, and a tray of tea and biscuits appeared on the table before them.

  He took his cup and settled back into the chair, his eyes solemn. "During the First War, a Conservator betrayed the Velatum Concilium." At Harry's blank look, he sighed. "Must you dimensional travelers arrive knowing only the bare minimum?" He took a sip of tea, wetting his lips. "The Velatum Concilium, now known as the Department of Mysteries, has Twelve Sanctums. Each Sanctum has a Conservator - a guardian-scholar sworn to preserve their realm's mysteries. Augustus Rookwood was one such Conservator."

  "Rookwood? The Death Eater?" Harry recognized the name, although he wasn't sure if the Rookwood in his world held a similar position. "He's in Azkaban here too, isn't he?"

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  "Thirteen years, seven months, and" - Trevor once again consulted his pocket watch - "three days. Not that I tally." His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on his tea cup until he caught himself. "The man could unravel curse scars like knitting yarn. Revolutionized blood-replenshing potions. St Mungo's once hung his portrait to greet visitors - smug bastard grinned down at orphans while his portrait lectured on 'ethical practice'."

  A bitter laugh escaped him. "We shared midnight brandy in the Astral Sanctum, debating whether his research ought to prioritize saving lives or running experiments. Turned out he'd chosen a third path - selling both."

  Harry's teacup hovered halfway to his lips. "You didn't know?"

  "Know?" Trevor's voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "Rookwood healed my sister's Dragon Pox scars three weeks before handing her family's movements to the Lestranges." The cup quivered in his grip, tea surface rippling. "So you'll forgive me if I've taken… professional objections to Lord Voldemort's continued respiration."

  There was an awkward quiet, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional ruffling of Euler's feathers. Trevor gently set his cup back down. Harry took a sip from his own cup, but the bergamot now tasted like ash. He abandoned it.

  "Why would he join Voldemort, then?" Harry blurted, curiosity overriding tact. In his world, Rookwood had been little more than another faceless servant of the Dark Lord. Harry'd just assumed the man was the typical self-serving villain. But a Healer, joining the Death Eaters?

  Trevor was grim. "Well, Rookwood was the Conservator of Blood. Research in his domain, Blood Magic, required… live subjects."

  Harry felt a wave of unease. That didn't sound ominous at all.

  Trevor's thumb ran circles around the rim of his pocket watch. "Initially, St Mungo's provided willing participants for benign studies. But true mastery of the art?" His eyes flicked to Harry's own. "Imagine a Rune crafter confined to only the Phoenician alphabet. Frustrating." A mirthless smile tugged at Trevor's lips. "The Department has strict regulations regarding experiment design. Lord Voldemort, however, would provide carte blanche… and a surplus of Muggles."

  Euler hooted mournfully in his cage. Harry stood up to scatter some treats in the cage, but the owl just ignored them, staring into the fire with almost human-like ponderance.

  "So…" Harry questioned, turning back to Trevor, "is your goal to directly confront Rookwood if he gets freed? Drag him back to Azkaban yourself?"

  The Unspeakable touched his wand holster absentmindedly. "With the Dark Lord's return, Azkaban will become a revolving door. No," he said with conviction, "I'll ensure he remains… indisposed. Permanently." His yellow eyes narrow, glimmering in the firelight. "A man who uses the Velatum Concilium's secrets for personal power and human suffering? Mercy would be wasted on him."

  Harry started pacing, Voldemort's words drifting into his head again. Azkaban's walls will crumble… Iris Potter… Conservator of Blood… He felt a jolt, eyes jumping to Trevor. "Voldemort mentioned Azkaban in his plans to break Iris' blood protection. Is Rookwood his goal?"

  "Quite possibly." The dark-skinned man nodded after considering Harry's words. "Rookwood has knowledge of both Blood Magic and the Department's defenses. Two major objectives of the Dark Lord." His steely eyes locked on to Harry. "So, you've deduced where Lord Voldemort is likely to strike: Azkaban and the Hall of Prophecy. What's your plan?"

  Harry continued to pace around the cabin room. "We make his moves predictable. Every minute he wastes on failures buys me time to dismantle his… insurance policy." Trevor raised an eyebrow at Harry's vagueness, but didn't question further.

  "For Azkaban, we are limited in options. I'll try to convince Fudge during our meeting to bolster the number of Aurors guarding the prison." Harry turned to Trevor. "You mentioned your team could set up supplemental wards?"

  "Nothing extravagant, given the time frame, but perhaps enough to delay for time." Trevor tapped the armrest. "Once the Dementors defect, not much can prevent the inevitable."

  Harry nodded. "That is all we can ask for. As for the Hall of Prophecy…" He looked out the cabin window into the dark woods. "He'll start subtle - Imperiused pawns. Ministry workers first. In my world it was Sturgis Podmore … and Broderick Bode."

  "Bode?" Trevor sat up. "He's a Chamber-level employee working under me. Specialist in enchanted artifacts."

  "Yes. They ordered him to grab the prophecy, left him catatonic at St Mungo's." Harry shook his head, thinking of the sallow-faced man lying in bed. "The Death Eaters later finished him off using a smuggled Devil's Snare."

  "Hmm." Lapis knitted his brows. "That's not good. I'd rather not lose my subordinates, even if Bode is a middling talent at best. What do you propose?"

  "Regular workers like Podmore can be left alone," Harry replied. "They can't get through the door. For Chamber-level Unspeakables… are you sure we can't test them for the Imperius?" He looked at Trevor.

  The man shook his head. "The Thief's Downfall imitation requires alchemical brine that we can't mass-produce. Screening every Unspeakable would consume all our reserves in a month."

  Harry thought back to the high shelves of the Hall of Prophecy, and the never-ending stretch of glass orbs. "Then we bait the trap. Anyone entering row 97 should be immediately immobilized." He halted in front of the fireplace, his silhouette swallowing the light. "Let Voldemort exhaust his options. Let him grow desperate enough to send the snake - that is when we strike."

  Trevor and Harry stepped from the lift. "Level 1, Minister for Magic and Support Staff," droned the disembodied voice. The corridor's plush purple carpets muffled their footsteps as they approached the Minister's office. Harry's robed silhouette loomed beside Trevor, the dark void under his hood giving him a silent, imposing presence. Percy Weasley, sat rigidly at his desk outside the office, shot to his feet.

  "Unspeakables! The Minister is - er - expecting you." Percy stammered, adjusting his glasses. His gaze lingered on Harry's obscured face, fingers twitching towards a memo pad as if torn between protocol and curiosity.

  Trevor nodded curtly. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley. We'll announce ourselves." He strode past without waiting for a reply, Harry gliding beside him like a Lethifold. Percy leaned forward, craning his neck to study the hooded figure until the office door sealed shut.

  The Minister's office exuded an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Gilded plaques of Daily Prophet articles commemorated the man's "triumphs", a bust of Fudge's likeness stood with a small bowler hat on its head, and right behind the Minister's desk hung framed a gold medal with a giant, embossed "M" - the Order of Merlin, First Class.

  As the two walked into the room, Fudge stood up flustered. "Unspeakable Lapis! Always a pleasure! And, ah… your colleague?"

  "Cloak." Harry's raspy voice, distorted by the hood's enchantments, sounded perfectly intimidating. Fudge nervously gestured opposite his desk.

  "Right, yes! Sit, sit! Tea? Biscuits? Terribly busy day, you know…" Fudge trailed off, beads of sweat glistening at his temples as Trevor and Harry settled into the chairs.

  The Runemaster methodically peeled off his gloves, revealing his scarred knuckles. "Azkaban's security requires immediate attention, Minister. Double the Auror patrols."

  Fudge's smile slipped a little. "Azkaban? But isn't that under the purview of Head Auror Scrimgeour? Since when does the Department of Mysteries meddle in prison affairs?"

  "Our Arithmancy models indicate a ninety-two percent probability of a coordinated breakout within six months." Trevor pressed his fingers together. "Minister, I'm sure you've heard Dumbledore's Wizengamot speech–"

  "Dumbledore!" Fudge interrupted, red-faced. "No proof, no specifics - just rumors to undermine my authority! Why, he can't even take care of his own school and now–"

  "Regardless, our judgement is independent of the Chief Warlock." Harry cut in roughly, knuckles whitening around his chair arm. "The evidence is clear - Dark wizards are mobilizing, and their target is your prison."

  The Minister paled, his bowler hat slipping askew as he shot a glance toward the office door - as if Lucius Malfoy's shadow might suddenly materialize. "Now see here gentlemen… I can't just change the budget willy-nilly," Fudge lowered his voice, readjusting his bowler hat. "The donors - ahem - concerned citizens expect fiscal prudence! Just yesterday, Lucius–"

  "Will applaud your foresight once the Prophet headlines circulate," Trevor interjected smoothly. He tapped his runic pocket watch, displaying a holographic map of Azkaban on the desk. "My team can reinforce Azkaban's wards. At no cost to your budget."

  "No cost?" Fudge perked up, though some anxiety still remained in his eyes. "But Lucius' proposal to privatize the guard rotations–"

  "–would pale beside public adulation," Trevor said dryly. "Picture the evening edition: 'Fudge Fortifies the Nation'… particularly after Dumbledore's Triwizard debacle."

  The Minister's resistance crumbled like a stale biscuit. "I'll–yes, fine, but the Daily Prophet gets a photo op! Front-page spread!" He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, already composing his victory speech in mutters under his breath.

  Harry exchanged a grim look with Trevor as Fudge daydreamed. Thankfully they had nipped Lucius' plan in the bud; his "privatized" Azkaban guards would likely just be disguised Death Eaters.

  Harry slapped a file on the Minister's desk, drawing Fudge's attention. "Minister, we have one more issue to deal with. Hogwart's security remains a glaring vulnerability. Dangerous beasts, werewolves, escaped convicts - hardly a nurturing environment for children, wouldn't you agree?"

  Fudge puffed his cheeks, fingers drumming on the desk. "Now see here - I've tried! Dumbledore spat my dementors back in my face! Ungrateful, paranoid old–" He caught himself, blinking at their impassive stares. "Er… the Unspeakables wish to assist? You'd need to go to the Headmaster about that, not me."

  "A smaller request," Harry said, leaning back. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts post lies vacant. I can fill it. Help strengthen the wards. Observe… irregularities."

  "Out of the question!" Fudge spluttered, jowls quivering. "Dolores Umbridge - my undersecretary - is a tested candidate. Lucius Malfoy himself endorsed–"

  Trevor clicked his pocket watch open, gears whirring. He studied it with feigned disinterest. "Ah, Dolores Umbridge. Competent, but… limited. Hogwarts requires a scalpel, Minister, not a cudgel. Unspeakable Cloak here specializes in more… furtive methods."

  Fudge frowned. "But Albus would never allow–"

  "Dumbledore needn't know I answer to you," Harry replied, his voice gravelly. "Umbridge's… enthusiasm for Ministry decorum will only antagonize the man. She's too obvious. I, however, can ensure the Headmaster's compliance."

  The Minister stilled, lowering his voice. "You'd… keep me informed?" Fudge seemed to come around to the idea.

  Trevor adjusted his top hat with a smirk. "Naturally. The Unspeakables value your oversight."

  Fudge nodded, tense shoulders relaxing. "Well then, thank you gentlemen for a productive conversation." He signed the document with a dramatic flourish, then blustered, "See it's done quietly! And Cloak - I want weekly updates!"

  Harry's hood hid his smirk. "Of course, Minister."