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Chapter 723: Keeping Distance from Power
As Wade and Dumbledore arrived before the gargoyles guarding the Headmaster’s Office, they recited the password. The staircase began to rise slowly, spiraling upward in quiet motion.
Dumbledore smiled faintly. “It sounds like you’re not particularly fond of Minister Rufus Scrimgeour?”
There was no reproach in his tone, and Wade, taking the cue, answered honestly.
“Not really.”
He admitted plainly: “Rufus Scrimgeour is known for his firm-handed approach—but being tough on the surface isn’t the same as being truly strong. I worry he might resort to extreme measures—”
“Not just against suspicious individuals,” Wade continued, “but also ordinary people, even allies.”
“Though I don’t know him well, I do know Professor Moody. A brilliant Auror can make an excellent professor, but it’s rare for one to become a capable Minister of Magic.”
Who would want a Minister who was suspicious, sharp-tongued, obsessed with arrests and surveillance cameras?
“No one’s perfect, Wade,” Dumbledore said. “Perhaps you’re thinking I’d make a better Minister than Fudge—or even Scrimgeour? Well, to be honest, I’ve had that thought myself. Let’s just say… I’ve a certain confidence in my own abilities. Or perhaps arrogance is a better word.”
He opened the office door and gestured for Wade to enter. As they stepped inside, a portrait on the wall erupted in a loud snort.
“Hmph! Dumbledore, always so humble… You’re a hundred times better than those fools! If you wanted to lead, you could—just recall your old ambitions. I won’t let you forget!”
Phineas Black tapped his knee with a finger, eyes glinting mischievously as he studied Wade.
“Thank you, Phineas Black,” Dumbledore replied. “I appreciate your generous assessment of my youthful foolishness.”
He gestured for Wade to sit. Then he turned and settled into his high-backed chair.
On the table beside him, alongside the elegant magical devices, sat a golden, shimmering water kettle—radiant with an almost living light.
Ignoring the portraits that watched him from the walls, Wade said, “I’m guessing your earlier words were followed by a ‘but’?”
Dumbledore chuckled. “Yes. There is a ‘but.’”
He paused, then added: “Power is like a mirror—it magnifies the deepest flaws within us. I may have mastered more knowledge than most, but that also means my mistakes could cause greater harm.”
He looked directly at Wade, voice soft. “When someone wields both power and wisdom, it’s easy to fall into the dangerous self-justification: for the greater good, for world peace. That kind of thinking can be deadly.”
A soft cry came from the perch above. Fawks fluttered slightly, and Wade glanced up—his eyes instantly filled with affection and gratitude.
Wade wasn’t stepping into battle against Voldemort without protection. When they faced each other, Fawks had been hidden within him—nestled in a pocket enchanted with an Invisibility Expansion Charm, its space just large enough to hold the phoenix.
It was Fawks who had urged him to endure when Little Barty Crouch held him hostage. It was Fawks who had warned him about releasing the Magic Puppet. Or rather, it was Dumbledore speaking through Fawks—reaching him across the distance.
Wade returned his gaze to Dumbledore, who now spoke with quiet honesty:
“You know… I once made a grave mistake driven by my hunger for power. If I were to hold the highest office, I might repeat that error. Or fall into the trap of absolute rule.”
He smiled wryly. “As I’ve told you before—I’m just as arrogant and foolish as anyone else.”
“But unlike Fudge, I’m aware of my weaknesses. That’s why I keep my distance from power. That’s how I stay clear-minded when it truly matters.”
Wade nodded slowly. The fog in his mind began to lift.
He had once believed that, with Gellert Grindelwald rising in strength and Voldemort secretly rebuilding his power, Dumbledore should no longer refuse the role of Minister of Magic. For the sake of peace in the wizarding world, it was time to act.
Yet Dumbledore’s steadfast refusal had drawn mockery—Gellert called him cowardly, Voldemort called him hypocritical, and many ordinary supporters, even werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, had grown disillusioned.
Wade had thought the same.
But now he understood.
This wasn’t weakness. It was clarity—above the temptation of power. It was a kind of responsibility that looked foolish to the world, but was, in truth, the highest wisdom.
Dumbledore had chosen not to seize control because he had chosen to protect the foundation of the castle, the future of the wizarding world.
As the realization settled in, Dumbledore returned to their original conversation.
“Rufus may be stubborn,” he said, “but precisely because of that stubbornness, he’ll stand firm in turbulent times. He’ll see threats more clearly than Fudge ever did. He’ll act decisively—even if his actions aren’t always right. But at least he acts. That’s better than doing nothing.”
Wade paused, then gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“You’re right, Professor.”
He smiled wryly. “Compared to Fudge’s self-deception, at least Scrimgeour is willing to face the truth—however hard it hits.”
A sudden, absurd thought struck him.
Maybe Fudge’s talent for being insufferable was simply too strong. Even someone as forgiving as Dumbledore couldn’t bear to endure another Minister like him. So he chose to support the opposite—Rufus Scrimgeour.
Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled with amusement, his beard trembling slightly.
“My dear Wade,” he said, “you clearly understand Scrimgeour far better than you realize!”
“Headfirst into a wall…” He chuckled. “Did you know? Years ago, Rufus actually bashed his head through a wall while chasing a werewolf fugitive!”
Wade blinked. Then he couldn’t help but laugh.
His gaze drifted to the quiet golden water kettle. For a moment, his expression tightened—just slightly.
“Professor,” he asked, “what is that kettle? It looks like a Time-Turner—some kind of time-related magical device?”
“Indeed it is,” Dumbledore said, his tone suddenly grave. “And that’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
“Worried?” Wade frowned. Then comprehension dawned. “So… it wasn’t stolen by Voldemort during his break-in at the Department of Mysteries?”
He remembered—there had been something like this in the original story.
Dumbledore removed his glasses, wiped them slowly, then sighed after a long pause.
“If it were just that—something stolen from the Department—it would be simple. But this kettle… it wasn’t made by any of the Silent Ones in Britain’s Department of Mysteries. That’s the real problem.”
(End of Chapter)
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