Ragnok glared, his eyes wide with fury as he fixed his gaze on Crouch.
Another load of nonsense!
The newspaper had printed it clearly—Potter and Dumbledore stormed the hideout, razed Malfoy Manor to the ground, burning it to cinders.
And yet this was still "part of the plan"?
"We've been preparing for a year!" Ragnok growled through clenched teeth. "A year!"
"If Potter finds out what we're planning…"
"Human wizard, I—"
Crouch cut him off. "How is the preparation going? Tell me in detail."
"I've done everything according to your conditions!" Ragnok fumed. "Not just in Britain, but across Europe—even parts of Egypt and Greece—I've contacted goblins everywhere. We now have over five hundred like-minded allies!"
"But!"
"But the supplies you promised haven't come through!"
"At present, we can arm every goblin, but only a hundred of them can be outfitted in armor."
In war, weapons were relatively less crucial.
A sharp sword, a farmer's pitchfork, or a rock picked up off the ground—any of them could kill. Slice off a head, stab a gut, smash a skull—the outcome was the same.
Armor was what mattered most.
Only those who survived could keep fighting—only they could win.
Ragnok knew this from bitter experience.
Many of his past failures stemmed from rebel goblins having no armor.
Crouch remained calm. "I know. I'm still working on it. The werewolves have been less cooperative. Transporting supplies has been difficult."
"But don't worry. Before this winter, everything you need will be delivered."
Ragnok clenched his fists. "I'll believe you one last time. Until winter."
The mirror shimmered, Crouch's image vanished.
Ragnok exhaled, turned toward the fiery forge, grabbed his hammer, and got back to work. Unlike humans, goblin leaders were expected to shoulder more responsibility and possess superior skills.
In this hidden corner of the world, goblin hammers clanged in secret.
Britain seemed at peace again.
A new day.
In the Auror Office, Scrimgeour nursed a headache. Last night, he had written to Dumbledore and Potter about his concerns.
Dumbledore, ever gentle, had replied with a long, sincere letter offering comfort—but no real help. He made it clear he wouldn't interfere in Ministry affairs.
As for Mr. Potter?
He didn't reply at all.
His letter came back sealed with fresh wax, returned by Hedwig in under two hours. And Hedwig—now an experienced owl—was furious about the unnecessary trip. She stomped on Scrimgeour's head, pecking him furiously. Could she ever get some rest? Must he always make trouble?
She bullied him thoroughly.
Now, with both of those men unwilling to intervene, Scrimgeour was left to fend for himself.
Just as he poured himself a cup of coffee—
The door burst open.
Tonks rushed in. "Mr. Scrimgeour, something terrible's happened!"
"What is it?" Scrimgeour set the cup down.
"Baird Nott is dead," Tonks said plainly.
Scrimgeour froze. "Where?"
"The old Nott estate," Tonks answered. "We need to go—"
"Let's move!" Scrimgeour cut her off and stormed out.
Ten minutes later, they stood at the manor gates.
A house-elf led them in.
Like most pure-blood families, the Notts were dwindling in number.
Baird Nott had been the head of the family. His brother, a fanatical Death Eater, had recently died at Malfoy Manor.
He had no children.
Only a nephew—his brother's son, Theodore Nott, a Slytherin who had entered Hogwarts the same year as Harry Potter.
Young Nott sat on the sofa in a daze.
Scrimgeour ignored him and headed upstairs.
Baird Nott's corpse was already stiff, sprawled over his desk, face darkened, skin stained in blotches of color—a clear sign of poisoning.
Beneath his hand lay a neatly placed letter.
Scrimgeour waved his wand. The letter floated into the air and unfolded slowly.
It was a suicide note.
"Anyone here familiar with Mr. Nott's handwriting?" Scrimgeour asked, reading.
The Aurors shook their heads.
Pure-blood families rarely chose Auror careers—even ones like the Weasleys, who weren't particularly well-liked among the pure-bloods. The job paid poorly, was dangerous, and had heavy responsibilities—far from ideal for non-Gryffindors.
Even Gryffindors, once out of school and slapped by reality, usually switched jobs—why chase danger when they could comfortably slack off as Ministry clerks?
Only a few, like Scrimgeour or Moody, had both the skill and the naive idealism to stay in the role.
Most either died trying or left before they did.
So most current Aurors were either half-bloods or non-magical-borns—people with little connection to the pure-blood elite. They'd only interacted during school.
Scrimgeour kept reading.
The contents matched some of what he'd expected on the way here—but not the rest.
According to the note, Baird Nott had indeed been shaken by Scrimgeour's harsh words the day before. But that was only the trigger.
The real reason was spelled out clearly: with the great Dark Lord dead, Nott could no longer serve him—so he chose to die in loyalty.
Fake!
Scrimgeour didn't believe for a second that Baird Nott wrote this.
He'd just come by yesterday, seemingly ready to turn himself in.
And now, suddenly, suicide? With a fanatical ode to Voldemort?
As if the Death Eaters were that loyal.
Scrimgeour returned to the Ministry with the letter, comparing it to documents from Nott's desk. The handwriting matched perfectly—it was definitely written by Nott himself.
A realization struck him. He rushed to the Minister's office.
No knock.
He slammed the door open.
"Rufus?" Thicknesse sat at the desk, reviewing papers. "My dear man, what brings you here?"
"Can't wait to sit in this chair?"
"No need to rush. In two days—"
BANG! Scrimgeour slammed the letter on the desk, the impact cutting him off. "Thicknesse!"
"What is it?" Thicknesse smiled.
"You killed Nott, didn't you?" Scrimgeour growled.
"Rufus, are you accusing me?" Thicknesse didn't flinch. He stood, gesturing calmly. "And what's your evidence?"
"This letter?"
He paused, meaningfully. "If I recall, that's Mr. Nott's suicide note."
"Let's see… ah, yes. It says he remained loyal to the Dark Lord to the end."
Scrimgeour's eyes widened.
He hadn't even opened the letter yet. Thicknesse knew its contents.
"You needn't look at me like that," Thicknesse said with a smile. "My dear, future, great Minister—backed by Potter and Dumbledore."
"Accusations require evidence."
Scrimgeour grabbed the letter. "I'll find it."
"No, you won't," Thicknesse replied.
"Yes, I will," Scrimgeour insisted.
"No. You won't," Thicknesse said firmly. "Because the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will need half a day to approve the investigation. And tomorrow night, I will sign off on it."
He paused, chuckling.
"And the following morning, the Ministerial Election Council will convene."
"You, Rufus Scrimgeour, will become the new Minister for Magic."
"And I, Pius Thicknesse, will succeed you as Head of the Auror Office."
Scrimgeour gritted his teeth. "You won't be Auror Director. I won't let that happen."
"You?" Thicknesse laughed and waved. "Sure, the Minister has that power. But the Ministry won't approve."
He stepped closer, tapping his temple. "Scrimgeour, I know the Order of the Phoenix has a little beetle who's stolen lots of information—knows how many Death Eaters are here."
"But I know better than you do."
"If I don't become Auror Director, if I don't lead the Law Enforcement Division—they'll panic."
"They need someone who knows them—and whom they trust—to keep them safe."
"And that someone… is me."
Scrimgeour clenched his fists.
He'd dreamt of being Minister for over a year. But now, on the verge of success, he no longer wanted the title—he just wanted to stay where he was.
Thicknesse patted his shoulder and spoke softly. "After I become Auror Director, we'll conduct a one-week investigation."
"Then, I'll announce that Baird Nott committed suicide."
"A loyal Death Eater who followed his master to the grave."
"And really, if you put politics aside—that's… quite admirable."
"Isn't it?"
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Powerstones?
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