Chapter 735: The Jester and the Dark Lord
“Oh… no, of course not,” Dumbledore said, his lips curling into a faintly mocking smile. “Back then, Gellert Grindelwald claimed he was going to visit Fudge—not the Minister of Magic of Britain…”
Wade felt a flicker of understanding. He widened his eyes and asked, “And then?”
“And then?” Dumbledore’s expression grew subtly layered. “Well, this afternoon, he actually did visit Fudge in person…”
Wade blinked. “So… is the former Minister still alive?”
Dumbledore chuckled lightly. “Of course. Our former Minister of Magic didn’t lose a single hair. But… he may need some time before his courage regrows.”
Wade snorted. “So the threat to the next Minister has been automatically removed? Now the position’s a hot commodity again?”
“Precisely,” Dumbledore replied, shrugging with a light, almost cheerful tone—though beneath it lingered a hint of self-deprecating amusement.
With the sword of Damocles now removed from above, the scramble for the Minister’s seat had begun in earnest. The man once considered the inevitable choice—Dumbledore—suddenly became an obstacle, a burden others were eager to see disappear. Even the Ministry’s own home was glad to be rid of him.
So Dumbledore could finally return to Hogwarts. And this time, save for a handful of loyal souls, no one in the Ministry’s upper echelons made a firm or united effort to keep him.
The Ministry of Magic of Britain hadn’t been reborn with Fudge’s departure. Far from it. It remained steeped in the same stale air of bureaucracy and petty ambition. The officials who once fawned over Fudge were still the same greedy, opportunistic scavengers—ravenous wolves in suits.
—Disgusting.
Wade wanted to lash out, to tear the masks off their pompous faces. But seeing Dumbledore’s expression—calm, as if a great weight had been lifted—he swallowed his words.
Instead, he asked, “What did Gellert Grindelwald say when he visited Fudge?”
Dumbledore tapped the table. Instantly, two glasses of Honey Water appeared before them.
“Apparently,” he said, “Fudge was on edge during the meeting. But Grindelwald didn’t utter a single word of consequence. He simply chatted about the weather, roast meat, afternoon tea—then left.”
Wade frowned. “Left?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore smiled. “Fudge panicked, convinced he’d been cursed. He bolted straight to St. Mungo’s for testing. That’s how we heard about it.”
At the sheer absurdity of the turn of events, a strange thought flashed through Wade’s mind.
Grindelwald’s entire performance—his visit, his silence—had felt like a carefully orchestrated act, designed to clear the path for Dumbledore. To force the wizarding world of Britain to place him on the Minister’s throne.
Yet after Dumbledore had twice refused, Grindelwald had simply stopped—his gesture so casual it could only be interpreted as a literal visit. A mere social call.
But Wade quickly dismissed the idea. It was too absurd.
Neither Grindelwald nor Dumbledore were the kind to play games like “setting fire to the palace to test loyalty.” If Grindelwald had truly wanted power, he would never have helped Dumbledore climb the ladder. He would have crushed him.
And yet, his timing was perfect—arriving just in time to free Dumbledore from a political trap. It looked like a kindness. But it might also have been a precaution—fearing Dumbledore might be pressured into accepting the role out of guilt or obligation.
First, create the crisis. Then, dissolve it with a laugh.
Toying with the entire Ministry of Magic of Britain like a child with a toy box. One sentence, and the Minister fled in terror.
Grindelwald had made his presence unmistakable—asserting dominance in the most devastating way. Fudge and his cronies looked like clowns. Yet, he did so without triggering open hatred—because they had only frightened themselves.
After all, what did Fudge and his circle have to do with Grindelwald’s actual intentions?
But this twist had done more than just embarrass the Ministry.
It exposed its weaknesses. It shattered its authority. It broke the morale of its insiders and eroded trust in the system.
Only one thing could reverse this: a return to the sound, unwavering decisions of the past—putting Dumbledore, the only one capable of confronting Grindelwald, into real power. To reform the Ministry from within.
But that was impossible.
Even if Dumbledore himself agreed—no one in the real power circles wanted a man this strong taking the top seat. They feared the share of influence being split.
And worse—they all knew: if Dumbledore became Minister, their own corrupt practices would face exposure, punishment, and emotional reckoning.
Stupid. Short-sighted. Corrupt.
—That was the Ministry of Magic of Britain today.
Wade smirked inwardly. But he said nothing.
He didn’t like shouting his thoughts aloud. Right answers seemed redundant. Wrong ones made him look foolish. Kindness invited disdain. Harshness invited isolation.
The young wizard lowered his gaze, his fingertips tracing the rim of his cup. His eyes were thoughtful, his expression cool.
He lifted his eyes again, meeting Dumbledore’s.
He didn’t know how the headmaster viewed Grindelwald’s approach.
But Dumbledore simply finished his Honey Water, his face utterly still. Seeing Wade watching him, he asked lightly, “Want another glass? More Honey Water… or perhaps juice?”
He noticed Wade’s drink was still half-full.
“No, thanks,” Wade said. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Good. The small talk’s done. Let’s get to business.”
Dumbledore set down his glass, as if setting aside the entire web of political intrigue and petty scheming. He rose and walked to the cabinet, pulling out the familiar stone basin.
“If you hadn’t come today,” he said, “I’d have invited you before curfew anyway.”
He placed the Pensieve on the table and poured the contents of the crystal vial into it.
“Care to see it? The memory of Horace’s Tom Riddle.”
Wade stepped beside the Pensieve, his fingers brushing the cold edge of the basin. He stared into the swirling silver mist within.
“Not waiting for Harry?” he asked.
“He’s not ready yet,” Dumbledore said, gazing into the Pensieve. “Some truths are too heavy to carry. I have no doubt of Harry’s courage. But… not yet.”
In truth, he hoped to preserve Harry’s current happiness—the simple, unburdened innocence of childhood. He kept delaying the moment, again and again.
As for Wade…
It wasn’t that Dumbledore didn’t want to protect him. It was simply that by the time Dumbledore had stepped in, Wade had already burned Voldemort’s Horcruxes in fire—over and over again. The number was so high, the headmaster himself began to feel a pang of sympathy for the unaware Tom.
Sometimes, Dumbledore wondered if Wade already knew more than he did. He could only watch silently, holding back Wade’s relentless pace—afraid the boy might run too fast and fall into a hole of his own making.
Wade didn’t react to Dumbledore’s words. He simply nodded.
Then, leaning forward, he stepped into the darkness—plunging into the memory.
He found himself in an office.
“Sir,” a young voice said, polite, hesitant. “I’d like to ask you something.”
(End of Chapter)
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