"So, you're ready?" Harry looked at Cornelius Fudge, his tone calm and measured as he spoke.
"Of course, Harry," Fudge replied with a broad smile. "I, Cornelius Fudge, will always stand by your side~"
"Very well," Harry's voice rang out. In the next moment, Fudge jolted awake alone at his desk.
"What's this? Just a dream, then?" Fudge muttered, patting his chest in relief. But as he stood to call his secretary for a cup of coffee, a bone-chilling cold suddenly swept in from the direction of the door. Moments later, one after another, cloaked Dementors began squeezing through the office entrance.
Soon, the spacious office was packed with tall figures shrouded in black cloaks. As Fudge stared at the Dementors—those faintly visible, single-holed mouths beneath their hoods—his small eyes, nearly swallowed by the fat on his face, flickered with a hint of panic. Yet he forced himself to remain composed, barking sharply, "What's the meaning of this? Are you defying me? Or is it that, once your numbers grow, you no longer see me, the Minister of Magic, as worth your respect?!"
But instead of retreating at his reprimand, the Dementors slowly closed in.
These faceless, black-clad creatures radiated an aura of death, their gazes—hidden beneath hoods—brimming with a ravenous hunger for sustenance. The nearest Dementors had already removed their hoods.
A wave of unprecedented fear surged within Fudge. He knew what Dementors did once their hoods came off. In fact, his favorite pastime was offering prisoners slated for the Dementor's Kiss a fleeting glimmer of hope, only to gleefully watch them plead before being snuffed out like mosquitoes crushed in a hand. Dementors would suck out their victims' souls, leaving behind nothing but hollow shells.
He tried to flee, but surrounded by this impenetrable wall of Dementors, his legs felt as though they'd been filled with lead, refusing to budge.
The Dementors formed a tight circle, trapping Fudge in the center. They leaned in, drawing long, deep breaths. With each inhale, Fudge's hope and joy vanished in an instant. He felt his mind being frantically hollowed out, his thoughts growing muddled and chaotic as memories of happier times slipped away.
He recalled his youthful dreams, the glory of becoming Minister of Magic, and the countless riches he'd amassed. But as the Dementors drew closer, those memories faded into the distance until nothing remained in his heart but despair.
Fudge's face turned ashen, the spark in his eyes dimming. His body trembled—not from the cold, but from a terror rooted deep in his soul. He tried to resist, but he knew neither the Patronus Charm nor any of Harry Potter's miraculous spells. In the end, overwhelmed by unbearable mental torment, he fainted. As he collapsed, a faint whiff of urine tinged the air.
"I'm heading back to school, Professor Dumbledore. I'll leave the rest to you," Harry said, casually tossing a Mind Cage spell at Lucius Malfoy for good measure. With his anger somewhat subsided, he strode out of the Minister's office.
"Why do you insist on making things harder for yourselves?" Dumbledore murmured, still standing in the room. He glanced at Fudge, slumped in his chair, foaming at the mouth with a wet patch spreading across his trousers, then at Lucius Malfoy, writhing in agony on the floor. Sighing, he added, "Provoking me is one thing, but why him?"
The old wizard tapped his wand in the air. A phoenix Patronus materialized atop the oak desk, recording a brief message for the head of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. With a sharp pop, the Patronus vanished, and Dumbledore stepped out of the increasingly pungent office.
After returning to Hogwarts via the Floo Network, Harry made a beeline for the hospital wing.
As he approached Hermione's room, the faint sound of Ron's voice drifted out, mid-conversation with her.
"I'm telling you, Hermione, it's a shame you didn't see it," Ron said, his hands flailing dramatically in the air. "You should've been there—the dragon Patronus and the phoenix Patronus were unreal! They went whoosh—up into the air—and then bam, rounded up all those runaway Dementors! We don't know who conjured the dragon one, but Professor McGonagall said the phoenix was Professor Dumbledore's. And if someone can summon a Patronus as strong as his, they've got to be some seriously powerful wizard. Maybe even Nicolas Flamel from the research institute! I hear he's lived over seven hundred years—anyone that old has to be insanely strong!"
"Six hundred and sixty-six years, to be precise, Ron," Hermione corrected. "And he and his wife didn't live that long because of raw power. Nicolas Flamel, the alchemist and creator of the Philosopher's Stone, used the Elixir of Life it produced to extend their lives. Honestly, Ron, you really should read more. Being good in a fight won't get you through your fifth-year O.W.L.s."
"Oh, come on, Hermione, we've still got three years until the O.W.L.s!" Ron groaned, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.
"Two years and six months, to be exact—so… Harry!" Hermione began patiently, then her eyes lit up as she spotted him pushing open the door. Almost instinctively, she leapt off the bed, ignoring Neville and Ron—who was mid-bite into an apple—and darted over to Harry in her socks in just a few steps. She looked him up and down, inspecting the dark-haired boy in front of her. "Are you okay? The Dementors didn't do anything to you, did they? Do you want some chocolate? Madam Pomfrey gave me a piece earlier—it really helped. Oh, and when I woke up, she said you and Professor Dumbledore went to the Ministry. Was it about the Dementors?"
Her barrage of questions came like rapid-fire spells, leaving Harry—who was already feeling a bit worn out—with a faint headache.
"Calm down, Hermione, calm down," Harry said, waving his wand to gently guide her back to the bed. He pulled over a stool and sat beside her. "First off, yes, Dumbledore and I went to the Ministry for a reason…"
Harry recounted the day's events to Hermione, Ron, and Neville, though he left out the part about summoning the dragon Patronus and casting spells on Fudge and Malfoy. Even so, the trio's jaws dropped in shock.
The next morning, after a thorough check-up by Madam Pomfrey, Hermione was discharged. As the young witches and wizards affected by the Dementor attack gradually recovered and left the hospital wing, Hogwarts returned to its usual rhythm of classes—much to the disappointment of many students.
Meanwhile, The Daily Prophet published a detailed report on the rogue Dementors' attack on Hogwarts. To everyone's surprise, the Ministry didn't scapegoat a few low-level staffers as usual. Instead, Fudge led a group of senior officials in front of the cameras, sincerely admitting their mistakes. He vowed to send all Dementors stationed at Hogwarts back to Azkaban (not that many had survived, anyway), investigate the incident thoroughly, and ensure every responsible party faced justice—promising parents a satisfactory resolution.
The uncontrolled Dementor assault on Hogwarts sent shockwaves through the wizarding world, overshadowing another story that might otherwise have sparked discussion. Tucked away in a quiet corner of The Daily Prophet, it faded into obscurity.
On November 29, 1993, Hagrid—represented by a lawyer provided by Sirius Black—appeared as the defendant in a trial concerning an injury caused by a Hippogriff and allegations of negligence as Hogwarts' new Care of Magical Creatures professor. The plaintiffs, unsurprisingly, were Lucius Malfoy and Draco Malfoy.
Despite the Malfoys' machinations, Sirius's costly lawyer fought tooth and nail, and Harry and his friends had prepared Hagrid as best they could. Yet, in the end, the Malfoy family eked out a narrow victory.
Buckbeak was sentenced to death.
Unhappy with the outcome, the Malfoys pressed their advantage, while Hagrid, at Hermione's urging, opted to appeal.
And so, the Christmas holidays arrived.
Students who didn't stay at school boarded the Hogwarts Express, chattering excitedly. The train—repaired after Harry had blasted a hole in it earlier that term—carried them smoothly to King's Cross Station.
After bidding farewell to Ron and Hermione, Harry rode home to Godric's Hollow in a new car Sirius had bought. There, with Sirius, Kreacher, and Dobby by his side, he planned to enjoy a cozy Christmas.
That was the plan, at least. But on the second day back, while chatting with a portrait of his grandfather, Fleamont Potter, Harry stumbled upon a surprising revelation. The shampoos, cleaners, and similar products circulating in the British wizarding world were originally exclusive to a company his grandfather had founded. However, in his fifties, Fleamont had sold the family business—lock, stock, and barrel—to none other than the Malfoy family.
"But even though I sold the company," Fleamont's portrait said, rubbing his nose smugly, "the patents for Potter Potions are still firmly in our hands. And those patents alone are enough to keep the Potter family quite comfortable. After all, wizarding patents aren't like Muggle ones—they can be passed down through generations. With those, the Potters rake in at least a thousand Galleons a year!"
"A thousand Galleons?" Harry echoed, thinking of the steadily dwindling Potter vault since his first year. "Er, Grandpa, reality seems to differ quite a bit from what you're saying."
Ten minutes later:
"MALFOYS, I @#$% YOU @#$%!"
Watching his grandfather's portrait turn into a ranting telegram, Harry rubbed his chin. "Looks like it's time to pay Gringotts a visit and check the accounts."
That afternoon at 2:00 p.m., Harry and Sirius stepped into Gringotts.
A sharp-looking young goblin greeted them.
"The Potter family's financial records for the past twenty years? Right away!"
The goblin dashed off and returned minutes later with a stack of papers.
"Mr. Harry Potter, here's everything on the Potter family's income and expenses over the last two decades," the young goblin said, handing over the stack before bustling off again.
1973: Income 1,021 Galleons, 11 Sickles, 6 Knuts; Expenses 1,954 Galleons, 9 Sickles, 9 Knuts.
1974: …
…
1982: Income 0; Expenses 0.
1983: Income 0; Expenses 0.
…
1991: Income 0; Expenses 103 Galleons, 5 Sickles, 10 Knuts.
1993: …
Browsing the numbers, Harry raised an eyebrow. Well, his preconceptions about the Malfoys didn't seem so prejudiced now.
Sirius, who'd tagged along, didn't look thrilled either. He'd never had a high opinion of the Malfoys—his cousin who'd married into the family wasn't exactly close—but having a relative pull something this sleazy made him feel like he'd let James and Lily down.
"Godfather," Harry said after a moment of silence, looking up at Sirius, "do you know where the Malfoys live?"
"Of course I do."
"Good," Harry said with a smile. "Since it's still light out, how about we pay the Malfoy family a visit?"
"Harry, are you planning—" Sirius started, then grinned with excitement. "Should I call a few friends?"
Harry shook his head. "No need—just the two of us will do. I'm going to negotiate, not fight. More people wouldn't help much."
At 3:00 p.m., Harry and Sirius hopped on the Knight Bus and arrived at Malfoy Manor.
As Sirius raised his hand to knock, a massive fireball whizzed past his head and slammed into the ornate front door.
With a deafening boom, the intricately carved door blasted off its hinges, crashing heavily into the garden shrubbery.
Sirius turned, staring dumbfounded at Harry, who'd just insisted they were there to "visit" the Malfoys.
"Wait—you call this a visit?"
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