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ACT4CH57 - After The Snap
🕑 Added 2025-04-27 04:23:02 +0000 UTCThe silence after Harry vanished was deafening.
Not the kind that followed awe or reverence.
This was the silence of failure.
Of something so colossal happening that thought itself had gone still.
And in the wake of Harry Potter’s departure, the chamber of the Wizengamot didn’t roar back to life.
It whimpered.
Dozens of seats lay empty. Others were scorched or cracked, steam curling faintly from charred velvet. Runes still flickered in the stone beneath them—twitching like nerves after seizure. Whatever Harry had done, it hadn’t just wracked the courtroom. It had woken something deeper.
The stone beneath Daphne’s boots felt… brittle. As though the weight of history had finally cracked it.
Her father hadn’t spoken in a full minute. He stared ahead, dazed—lips parted, eyes unfocused—like reality had taken one step too far and left him behind.
Around them, the Wizengamot shifted like dazed cattle in a collapsing temple.
Arabella Brown groaned faintly as she was levitated onto a stretcher, her robes stained with blood and shame. Mulciber hadn’t moved. Nott twitched in his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
And then—
“Is the chamber stable?” asked Amelia Bones.
Saul Croaker of the Department of Mysteries—silent until now—stepped forward. His robe was half-burned, one sleeve shredded, and his voice sounded like parchment rubbed raw.
“Stable? Technically. But the enchantments are gone. Dead. For all intents and purposes… this chamber is broken.”
“That’s absurd,” said Smith, indignant. “Surely a Reparo—”
“Will do nothing,” Croaker snapped, eyes wide and bloodshot. “None of my enchantments are holding. The wards won’t take. The anchors are gone. Whatever Potter did… it’s not damage. It’s rewriting. The room doesn’t remember how to obey magic.”
That ripple of panic—it wasn’t loud.
But it was enough.
Jugson stood abruptly, red-faced and trembling. “He’s unstable! Deranged! We must issue an international alert immediately!”
“And say what?” Amelia Bones snapped, her voice hard enough to cut stone. “That we summoned the boy who saved this country and threatened to chain him like a dog? That we tried to steal his name, his blood, his home—and when he didn’t kneel, we called him mad?”
She exhaled slowly. Controlled. Furious.
“I warned you. All of you. You wanted to test the weight of his power? Well—” she swept her hand across the fractured floor, “—now you know.”
“He’s not human anymore,” whispered Lady Ketteridge. “He walked like a man but… that was something else.”
“He said if we came near the Gate again—”
“We wouldn’t meet the Gatekeeper,” muttered Lord Vaisey.
“We’d meet Death,” Croaker finished grimly. “And I don’t think he meant it metaphorically.”
Dumbledore walked to the epicenter of the devastation—where the Operarius had flared to life and died. Blackened runes trailed across the floor like burn scars on skin. He knelt, touched the stone.
Cold.
Not magically cold.
Funeral cold.
From above, Joshua Greengrass finally spoke. “And that, dear colleagues, is why you don’t bring a wand to a god’s doorstep.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Rosier growled.
Joshua met his gaze. “No. I’m remembering. That power isn’t always something you invite. Sometimes it’s something you survive.”
Daphne still hadn’t moved.
Her eyes were fixed on the place where Harry had stood. Her hands were cold. Her thoughts racing.
She loved him. Knew him.
And still—even she didn’t fully recognize what he had become.
But gods help her—she understood why.
“We can’t ignore this!” babbled Yaxley. “The Aurors—”
“Enough,” Bones said again, voice taut as wire. “Enough with your demands!”
“You saw what he did!” Smith barked. “He brought ruin down on this chamber! Turned our laws against us!”
“No,” Daphne said quietly. “He reminded us what we once were.”
Heads turned.
She hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
Too late now.
“Miss Greengrass,” Amelia said sharply. “Explain yourself.”
Daphne stepped forward, voice even but cutting. “I didn’t shatter the Operarius. He didn’t either. You did. The moment this body forgot that the Miraculum was created to serve unity, not control. To grant miracles—not maintain your grip on power.”
“You dare—” Nott began.
“I dare,” Daphne snapped, her voice suddenly fierce. “Because I watched you call my fiancé a threat while hiding behind quills and parchment. I watched you try to leash the only wizard who actually did something when the world was on fire!”
“He was offered—”
“What? Compromise?” Her lip curled. “Obedience or exile? That’s not a negotiation. That’s a threat with a bureaucrat’s polish.”
In the back, someone—maybe Burke—murmured agreement. Another voice followed.
“He was right.”
Amelia didn’t flinch. She simply turned her head toward Dumbledore.
“Chief Warlock,” she said. “You’re being annoyingly silent.”
Dumbledore had remained seated throughout—fingers steepled, lips pursed.
Now he exhaled.
“The world,” he said softly, “has just changed. Again.”
“That’s it?” Smith snapped. “That’s all you have to say after he unmade our spells and vanished like a bloody god?!”
Dumbledore’s ancient eyes met his.
“Yes,” he said, his voice still soft as falling snow. “Because anything more, right now, would be… dangerous.”
“More dangerous than him?” Brown rasped from her stretcher.
“Far more,” Dumbledore murmured.
Daphne’s hands curled into fists. She knew what would come next.
Panic.
Propaganda.
They’d twist Harry into a monster, paint him as a tyrant. They always did. Power frightened cowards into speaking lies loudly.
And the public? The public would listen. They always listened when the voice of fear was loud enough.
Unless someone stood in the way.
She stepped forward.
“If you plan to declare open opposition to the Gatekeeper,” she said, voice ringing clear, “then you do so with full knowledge that House Greengrass will not stand with you.”
“Miss Greengrass—”
“My father raised me to understand power,” she said. “Not how to hoard it. But how to walk beside it. How to wield it with responsibility. That’s what Harry did. He bore the weight of a dying world. And he didn’t ask for thanks.”
Her voice rose, cutting through what remained of the chamber’s grandeur.
“But you—you tried to break him. And now you’re shocked that the chain snapped.”
“Joshua,” Selwyn barked. “Your daughter—”
“Speaks for the House,” Joshua Greengrass said calmly. “And I agree with her.”
Andromeda Tonks stood next. “Since you’ve already exiled House Potter and House Black…” She smirked. “I suppose we’ll just join her.”
Amelia Bones met Daphne’s eyes.
And this time?
Her gaze didn’t hold steel.
It held grief.
“We… we have to prepare ourselves. As of now, the country is facing an emergency.”
“Against whom?”
Every eye in the chamber—including Daphne’s—turned to the speaker.
Albus Dumbledore stood.
And the air changed.
Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic sense.
The air actually changed—grew denser, charged, like static before a storm. Old magic stirred around him. Not the kind born of spellwork or bloodline, but of memory. The sort of magic that predated kings and ministries alike.
He descended the staircase in silence.
The sound of his boots on stone landed like thunder.
No one dared speak.
“I have sat quietly,” Dumbledore said softly. “I have watched. I have listened. I allowed myself to believe—foolishly—that this body, flawed though it may be, would eventually correct its own course.”
His voice didn’t rise.
It didn’t need to.
“You have proven me wrong. Again.”
Several heads lowered. Others looked away.
“It was this chamber that ignored the return of Voldemort,” Dumbledore continued. “This chamber that refused to investigate mounting evidence. This chamber that let Dolores Umbridge remain unchecked until she unleashed an Obscurial in the name of order.”
“Albus—” one of the senior Lords began, weakly.
“You will not interrupt me.”
The words struck like a blade. And the Lord’s voice died in his throat like a spark in water.
Dumbledore raised a hand.
Above them, the shattered crest of House Black—its marble sigils cracked and defaced—reformed. The stones realigned. Seals slid into place with a hum of power so ancient it reeked of parchment and fire.
And then it shattered again.
“Just as I expected,” Dumbledore murmured. “He ripped the magic of Binding out of this courtroom.”
“Surely our warders—” Smith began.
“—Will do nothing,” Dumbledore cut in. “Because they can do nothing. You cannot fix things in place if the glue itself refuses to bind. With a snap of his fingers, he unstitched the very concept of Binding from this space.”
He paused. Let the silence stretch.
“Now ask yourselves… what would happen if he did that to the Ministry itself?”
Tiberius Fawley shifted in his seat. “A show of power. Is that what this was? After Ekrizdis and You-Know-Who nearly destroyed Britain, are we to live under fear of Harry Potter’s wrath?”
“No,” Dumbledore replied, calm as still water. “He came here to offer clarity. You treated him like a criminal. Offered him obedience in chains. And when he refused to kneel, you called it rebellion.”
“He destroyed this room,” Ogden snapped. “What else would you call it?”
“Unbound,” Dumbledore said simply. “He did not destroy. He released this body from the illusion of control. From the lie that its authority was inherent, rather than inherited—from power it no longer respects.”
He glanced down at the broken runes. “And let us not pretend he couldn't have done far worse.”
“You’re defending him,” Ogden spat.
“I am acknowledging reality,” Dumbledore replied, turning fully to the chamber. “And I will do more than that, if pushed.”
A beat.
It struck like an axe.
“Is that a threat?” Smith rasped.
“No,” Dumbledore said, voice like a blade. “It is an off-ramp. The last one. If this body continues its pursuit of retribution, I will leave it. Publicly. Permanently. I will renounce my seat and take with me every ounce of legitimacy you still cling to.”
Another beat.
Then, almost gently:
“And I will stand beside him.”
The chamber didn’t gasp.
It froze.
Because this wasn’t a hypothetical.
This was the wizard who defeated Grindelwald. The one who held postwar Europe together through sheer moral gravity. This was Albus Dumbledore choosing a side—and offering the Wizengamot a chance not to be standing on the wrong end of history.
Daphne leaned against the wall, heart clenching.
She had seen Harry bring the storm.
Now she was watching the man who could weather it… step into the eye.
Amelia Bones stood slowly. Her face was pale. Not with fear, but with something worse—understanding.
“Then what would you have us do, Albus?” she asked. “Let him rule?”
“He did not seek to rule,” Dumbledore said. “If he had… I suspect none of us would still be standing.”
No one argued.
“I’m not asking you to kneel,” he continued. “I’m telling you to understand. Rules have their place. But sometimes—” he looked at Amelia—“you must do what is right, not what is easy.”
Amelia’s shoulders squared. “An armistice, then.”
Dumbledore nodded once. “An understanding. Not obedience. Not surrender. A truce.”
“He won’t accept it,” muttered Fawley.
“Then offer it,” Dumbledore said, “before he decides not to.”
Smith cleared his throat. “On what terms?”
Dumbledore’s eyes closed for a moment. Then reopened—old, and heavy with weariness.
“You will acknowledge the Gatekeeper’s sovereignty over Azkaban and all adjoining anomalies, under the Sealed Territories Act of 1412. You will rescind all inquiries into House Potter and House Black, on the grounds that both have fulfilled acts of miraculous service under Clause Eighteen of the Old Blood Compact.”
He began to walk as he spoke.
“You will declare the events of today an extraordinary magical convergence, to preserve public confidence and social stability. And most critically—” he stopped at the center of the room—“you will pass no motion, public or private, that seeks to challenge the Gatekeeper’s autonomy without a supermajority of this body and the oversight of an Unaligned Arbiter.”
Ogden’s voice rang out, uncertain. “And in return?”
“In return,” Dumbledore said, “he will not unmake anything else.”
The room inhaled.
Like it had remembered breath.
“How can you guarantee that?” Smith demanded. “You’re not his proxy.”
Dumbledore turned toward him.
And for just a flicker—beneath the surface of those piercing blue eyes—power moved.
“Archibald,” he said quietly, “if you had ever earned the right to speak to him… you’d know he needs no proxy.”
He stepped closer.
“He does not bargain. He does not bluff. He gives the world one chance to do the right thing.”
A pause.
“And today may be your last.”
“And if we refuse?” Jugson asked, voice dry.
Dumbledore did not blink.
“Then I will leave this chamber. I will return to Hogwarts—not as a Headmaster, but as a citadel. And when the world comes knocking at the Gate…”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“…I will stand beside him.”
Silence fell.
Even the torches seemed to hesitate.
“Choose,” Dumbledore said. “Before the world chooses for you.”
Then he turned and walked.
Not in anger.
Not to prove a point.
But because he was finished.
Daphne watched him pass—the echo of his footsteps slow, deliberate, sacred.
He didn’t look at her.
He didn’t need to.
Because she already knew:
Harry had forced the world to choose.
And Albus Dumbledore had just chosen him.
....
....
He didn’t walk far.
Just far enough that the walls of the Wizengamot, and its members were no longer in sight—and yet he could still feel them breaking behind him. Like paper, like bone, like something that was never meant to survive the truth.
The world was quiet.
Uncomfortably so.
As if the very air was trying to decide whether it still wanted to breathe around him.
He found the old war memorial stairwell. Sat down on the cold stone, the wind curling around his cloak like a question.
The corridor was empty.
He had made sure of that.
He needed a moment without their stares. Without their silence. Without their fear.
Because the truth was…
He was afraid too.
Not of them.
Of himself.
He looked at his palm, aching. The skin had cracked when the Binding was released. Where he'd snapped and the world obeyed.
He'd felt the enchantments scream. Felt the runes try to hold—then fold.
It hadn’t been a spell. Not really.
It had been a decision.
And the stone, the foundation had listened.
Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the throbbing.
The Binding didn’t just cost energy—it cost intent. Purpose. Belief. He had snapped his fingers not to destroy, but to remind the world that consent is not obedience. That miracles cannot be demanded by vote.
The sound of footsteps approached him. Soft. Like running water.
He didn’t look.
He didn’t need to.
“You followed,” he said.
“Of course I did.”
Daphne’s voice was quiet, but not calm. Controlled. Which meant she was still sorting through it.
He looked down at his palm again. The cracks were fading. But they hadn’t healed. That kind of magic never did.
“That feels like something you should get looked at.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Let it leave a mark.”
“But it’s bleeding.”
“I’m always bleeding,” he replied. “It’s just not always visible.”
She said nothing. Just sat beside him, and for a while, neither of them spoke.
Then:
“They think this was me going too far,” he said. “That I flexed. That I snapped. That I made them afraid.”
She didn’t interrupt.
“They have no idea,” he continued. “This wasn’t rage. It wasn’t escalation.”
He closed his eyes.
“It was restraint.”
The wind moved again—sharper this time. Almost reverent.
“Back when I faced Quirrell as a firstie, Voldemort told me something. There is no good or evil. Only power, and those too weak to seek it.”
The words tasted like ash.
He hadn’t thought about that phrase in years. Not since first year. Not since the mirror.
Back then, it had felt like a warning. Like Voldemort whispering through the edges of temptation.
Now though?
“Turns out, he had it right. He just… didn’t think it through.”
He let the silence settle before he spoke again.
“There’s something worse than those too weak to seek power. People who have power — true power — and are too afraid to use it.”
“The ones who hold titles, positions, influence, legitimacy—and still choose to do nothing. Chose silence over action. Procedure over protection. And then panic when someone finally stands up and does what needs doing.”
And so they clung to law. To process. To parchment. People who kept power under glass and pretended it wasn’t their problem.
They built systems to hold back monsters, then forgot that monsters don’t ask for permission. That sometimes, you have to be the one to knock first.
“You knew something like this would happen,” said Daphne. “We warned you. They would want to make a Dumbledore out of you.”
Harry let out a mirthless laughter. “I doubt they ever had a chance. No, that’s not what I’m afraid of, Daphne.”
He looked at her, and then at his hand again.
It wasn’t that he had to fight back that worried him. Or that he had earned the ire of the entire Wizengamot. Or the power he had used.
No, what truly scared him was the way the power had come to him so easily.
And that no one— not even him — had tried to stop it.
“You know,” he said, “when I became the Eternum… I had access to everything.”
He said it like a confession. Like a priest remembering a sin he’d never committed but still carried.
“All the power of the Universe at my fingertips. And in that moment, I saw them. All of them.”
He opened his eyes.
“Future versions of me. Thousands. No—millions. Twisted by time, by loss, by glory, by madness. Some were saviors. Others were monsters. One of them ruled over ash. One of them turned Death itself into a weapon. One lived forever by making sure no one else did.”
Daphne didn’t interrupt.
“One became the Master of Permanence. Untouched, even by Death. An immortality that would terrify even Voldemort. Other was Chaos incarnate. A warlord. A god-king. A shepherd, guiding souls to their final rest.”
His voice was low. Measured. Final.
“I walked past every future that asked me to be a god. Or a tyrant. Or a hero with too many statues and not enough soul. I rejected them all.”
“I thought I had chosen differently,” he said softly. “I did not want to use this power, but I didn’t just want to throw it away either. I just wanted to keep it away from those that were not worthy to lay their hands on it. I… I thought that by building the Gate, I’d be a guardian. A custodian.”
“Responsibility,” murmured Daphne. “Not power.”
He paused.
“It was… unbearably naive of me to think that I could limit myself to that one act. That I would just watch. Guard it. Keep out what didn’t belong. I thought I was rejecting power.”
He turned to her, and his voice sharpened.
“I was wrong. So very wrong.”
Her breath caught.
“I didn’t reject power,” he said. “I became it. In its most dangerous form. I became the version that doesn’t want the throne, doesn’t need to dominate. I became the throne itself. Much like the blade of Godric Gryffindor, waiting. Watching. Only moving when the world leaves him no choice.”
She didn’t speak at first.
But she didn’t look away, either.
And when she finally did open her mouth, it wasn’t with judgment. It was with something far worse.
Knowing.
“You should’ve seen them after you left,” she said.
Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t clinical. It shivered in places.
“They didn’t argue. They didn’t retaliate. They just… sat there. Like children who’d broken into a tomb and suddenly realized the god inside was awake.”
He said nothing. Let her speak.
“Croaker looked like he was going to be sick. Brown couldn’t stop muttering. Nott… just stared at the scorch marks like they’d follow him home. You didn’t just break the room, Harry. You broke their illusion that they were the ones in control.”
He inhaled, sharp and slow.
Then Daphne’s voice changed. Turned distant.
“Even I didn’t know what to think. I wanted to follow you. But for a moment… I froze.”
He looked at her. Really looked.
There was no fear in her eyes. But there was something close to it.
Awe, perhaps. Or the shadow of awe.
“And then,” she continued, “Dumbledore stood.”
Harry’s pulse twitched.
She nodded. “He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t ask permission. He just stood, and everything in that room bent toward him like gravity remembered who it owed.”
“Then he said,” Daphne went on, voice tightening, “‘If this body continues down the path of retribution, I will leave it. Publicly. Permanently. I will renounce my seat and stand beside him.’”
Her next words hit different.
“He meant it, Harry.”
Harry closed his eyes.
He’d thought he was alone.
He’d believed—had to believe—that what he’d done in that room had put him beyond allies.
But Albus Dumbledore—quiet, infuriating, manipulative Dumbledore—had stood up and declared that Harry was no longer the student.
He was the line the rest of them would now answer to.
“You don’t know what that did to them,” Daphne said, softly now. “You unmade their chamber. But Dumbledore? He unmade their excuse.”
It didn’t comfort him.
It humbled him.
“I thought I was alone,” he whispered.
“You never were,” she said. “Not even at the edge.”
He looked at her, and for once, didn’t have the words.
So she gave them to him.
“I know what you’re going to do,” she said. “You’re going to go back to Azkaban. Tell yourself you’re just a gatekeeper. That if you stay out of the way, if you stay contained, the world will balance itself.”
She stepped closer.
“But Harry… Today wasn’t you losing control.”
She touched the fingers of his injured hand.
“It was the first time you showed the world that you were already holding back.”
His breath caught.
“You didn’t become a monster,” she said. “You became the one thing they don’t know how to control.”
He whispered it before he could stop himself.
“I became more than I ever meant to be.”
She nodded.
“And now you’re terrified that what you’ve become might be permanent.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Because in her eyes, he saw it.
Not fear. Not worship.
Recognition.
“You’re not just the Gatekeeper anymore,” she said.
And this time, the words came from him.
“No,” he said. “I’m the Gate.”
....
....
The Minister of Magic's Official Statement to the Press
Delivered the morning after the incident, in a brief appearance before the assembled press outside the Ministry of Magic.
“Good morning.”
“Yesterday, an emergency session of the Wizengamot was convened regarding matters of oversight and magical sovereignty related to the structure known as the Azkaban Gate, and the individual recognized under the title of Gatekeeper, Mr. Harry James Potter.”
“During the course of this session, an unforeseen and historically unprecedented magical convergence occurred. This convergence, triggered by ritual destabilization in the chamber’s Operarius array, resulted in the temporary collapse of enchantment matrices bound to the chamber floor and the spontaneous activation of previously inert rune systems.”
“No fatalities occurred. All present members of the Wizengamot and Ministry staff have received immediate treatment and are expected to recover fully. Structural damage is being assessed. The Department of Mysteries is investigating the arcane implications of what we are referring to as the Gatekeeper Event.”
“Mr. Potter was not detained, nor charged with any criminal activity. He has since returned to his position at the Azkaban Gate, and will likely continue holding up his usual mantles as the Professor of Defence Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts, as well as his role as a member of the Wizengamot. I want to be absolutely clear: the Gatekeeper is not considered a hostile entity. He remains an ally of this government, and is not under suspicion.”
“Effective immediately, and by vote of the Wizengamot, the Ministry of Magic formally recognizes Azkaban and its associated anomalies as sovereign magical territory, governed independently by the Gatekeeper under Clause Eighteen of the Old Blood Compact and the Sealed Territories Act of 1412.”
“Any matters concerning Mr. Potter or the Gate will be subject to regulation through a newly established Magical Oversight Council, composed of neutral observers and international legal experts. The Council’s first task will be to review the incident and ensure safeguards for continued stability.”
“I urge the public not to give in to fear, or to the more fanciful interpretations currently being circulated by unsanctioned sources. Magical Britain remains safe. There is no indication of intent to escalate from Mr. Potter or any associated magical construct.”
“The world is changing. That much is undeniable. But let us be judged by how we meet change—with dignity, with reason, and above all, with clarity of purpose.”
“Thank you.”
No questions were taken. Statement concluded in under four minutes.
....
....
BONUS: CONTRABAND “LEAKED” TRANSCRIPT SOLD IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY
(Sold as a charmed recording scroll under the title: “THE SNAP: What REALLY Happened in the Chamber”) Heavily exaggerated, partly true, completely illegal.
Harry Potter: “You want to strip House Potter. Strike House Black. You think that makes me vulnerable. Maybe you ought to rethink that.”
(Sound of heartbeat accelerating. Scroll starts vibrating.)
Harry Potter: “This place was sacred. You turned it into a circus.”
(Crackling noise — described as ‘Binding Disintegrating’.)
Mulciber: [muffled] “Treason—!”
Sound: CHAIRS EXPLODE. PILLAR CRACKS. SOMEONE SCREAMS LIKE A TINY CHILD.
Harry Potter: “You won’t find the Gatekeeper. You’ll find Death.”
(Loud pulse. Magical spike. Scroll emits faint traces of residual magic for several minutes after playback.)
“Sold for 15 Galleons. Comes with a silencing charm. Do not play near officials.”
....
....
Back at the office of the Minister of Magic.
Amelia slammed the charmed parchment onto her desk. The fake gold-embossed title glowed faintly in the flickering light.
“I want to know,” she said, very calmly, “how this garbage made it out of a sealed chamber protected by twelve overlapping silencing spells, three Truth-Seals, and a goddamn anti-divination hex.”
Robards shifted awkwardly. “They say it was reconstructed from... psychic impressions. And a loose-lipped House elf.”
“A House elf?” she hissed. “Brilliant. I built a war-time security apparatus and I’m undone by a bloody unpaid intern with memory recall and a knack for sound effects.”
She stood slowly. Her hands were clenched so tightly her signet ring bit into her palm.
“This thing is selling for ten galleons a copy. Fifteen with animated screaming.”
Robards nodded mutely.
“Do you know what people are saying? That Harry Potter snapped magic. That he made stone plead. That he didn't just walk out—he evaporated dignity from the room.” She turned to the window.
“And the worst part?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“They’re not wrong.”
She exhaled.
“Seal the Alley. Burn the stall. Obliviate the seller if you have to. I want that transcript scrubbed from memory, reality, and Merlin’s left testicle. Do you understand me?”
Robards nodded with the fervor of a man who very much wished he were elsewhere.
“And from now on,” Amelia added, “no more mistakes. None. I don’t care if the Gate itself opens a bloody gift shop, the Ministry’s response will be airtight, controlled, and dignified—”
WHUMP.
A snowy owl crashed unceremoniously into her office window, beak-first, and slid down with all the grace of a stunned mandrake.
Amelia froze. Robards blinked.
“…that’s not one of ours,” he said.
The owl shook itself, ruffled indignantly, then hurled a glitter-dusted copy of The Quibbler through the window’s post-slot with terrifying accuracy.
It landed squarely on Amelia’s desk, still warm from press enchantments.
The cover showed a dramatically overexposed Harry Potter, shirtless and glowing faintly, beneath the words:
SNAP!
He Broke the Law (and the Floor) – Now You Can Own It!
Yes, you read that right.
Straight from the rubble of the Wizengamot’s collective breakdown, lovingly bottled by certified Runic-Sympathetic Foragers™ operating entirely outside of Ministry regulation!
LIMITED QUANTITIES!
(Reality only shattered once… so far.)
At the bottom, a starburst-shaped sticker announced:
“Includes Free Sample of Authentic Operarius Floor Dust!”
There was even a tiny corked vial glued to the inside page. It rattled.
Amelia stared at it.
Robards stepped back instinctively.
The vial winked.
Amelia took a very deep breath.
“Robards.”
“Yes, Minister?”
“Do I have the authority to sanction an entire publication under Article Seven of the Psychological Hazard Act?”
“…Technically, no.”
“I see.” She opened the Quibbler slowly. It sparkled.
“Then fetch me the technician who does.”
Comments
Aleksandr Mitiunin
I thought he killed Nott and Jugson. A pity
Book reader
Great follow up
