Chapter 129: Cornelius Fudge
"Art," Rita said coolly after realizing her trick had been exposed, "always requires a bit of… enhancement."
She'd clearly reined herself in, but her arrogance was still very much intact.
"If you return my notebook right now," she added, grinding her teeth as she stroked the jagged ends of her severed hair, "I'm willing to forget what just happened."
It sounded like an enormous concession—at least in her own mind.
Russell almost laughed in anger.
Where did she even get the nerve?
He'd already skimmed her interview notes about Slughorn. Same old story—twisted facts, outright fabrication.
"If you dare publish even a single word of what you just wrote," Russell said calmly, "I'll burn this notebook to ashes."
"Then go ahead and burn it," Rita replied without the slightest hint of fear—if anything, she looked excited.
If Russell really destroyed it, she'd gain yet another scandal to write about.
"What's wrong?" she sneered when he didn't move. "Suddenly lost your courage?"
Her confidence surged, and she leaned in threateningly.
"Your behavior just now made me very uncomfortable, Mr. Fythorne. But if you're willing to continue cooperating with my interview, I can pretend none of this ever happened."
She was already planning her next questions—sharper ones. Ones about Dumbledore, perhaps.
"Is that really what you think, Rita Skeeter?"
Russell suddenly smiled.
He raised his wand and transfigured the severed strands of hair on the floor into a beetle, controlling it as it scuttled across the tabletop.
For the first time, panic flickered in Rita's eyes—though she forced herself to hold firm.
"Mr. Fythorne," she said stiffly, "why would you conjure an insect? What is this supposed to mean?"
"Do you know a type of magic called Animagus?" Russell asked calmly, ignoring her question.
"It allows a witch or wizard to transform into another animal. Something as small as a beetle… or as large as a lion."
"The Ministry requires Animagi to be registered," he continued lightly. "But surely there are plenty of unregistered ones."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Do you think it's possible that someone's Animagus form just happens to be a beetle?"
Russell smiled at her.
Rita felt as if she'd plunged into an icy abyss. Her body stiffened.
"P-Perhaps," she stammered. "I—I don't really know much about that kind of magic."
Her greatest secret had been laid bare. Even a seasoned vulture like her couldn't suppress the fear rising in her chest.
"A beetle is actually an excellent Animagus form," Russell continued conversationally. "Tiny, unobtrusive—and it can fly."
"Think about it. Who would ever stay alert around something so insignificant?"
He idly twirled his wand.
"But if I ever discovered someone using such a form to spy on my private affairs…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
With a flick of his wand, an invisible blade sliced down. The beetle on the table was cut cleanly in half.
Rita shuddered violently—as if it were her body that had been severed.
Any lingering doubt vanished.
This wasn't coincidence.
Russell knew.
And if this secret were exposed, her end would be far worse than public disgrace.
Rita Skeeter had never been a woman of principles. She changed her attitude instantly.
"Mr. Fythorne… of course. I understand completely."
As if offering a pledge of loyalty, she snatched up her notebook and—gritting her teeth—ripped out every page concerning Hogwarts.
"An extremely pleasant interview, Miss Skeeter," Russell said, nodding in satisfaction. "I hope you'll look after me in the future."
With her weakness in hand, he no longer had to worry about her reckless fabrications.
If needed, he could even use her to release certain stories.
After all, Russell understood the balance well—a stick, followed by a carrot.
"Miss Skeeter," he added casually, "you might want to stay in the nearby village of Hogsmeade for now. There's another major story coming soon."
"If you don't want to miss it."
"Really?" Rita's lifeless expression instantly reignited with excitement.
"Absolutely," Russell replied.
"Guaranteed."
Seeing how confident Russell was, Rita immediately reverted to her usual self. She gave him a respectful nod—at least on the surface.
"Then I'll take my leave, Mr. Fythorne."
Only a few days later, Dumbledore suddenly asked Professor McGonagall to bring Russell to his office.
The moment Russell stepped inside, he saw a short, round, pudgy wizard—small and stocky, with an overhanging beer belly and a clumsy gait, looking rather like a dressed-up penguin.
His face was plastered with a smile, the muscles at the corners of his mouth stiff from years of habitual grinning. His cheeks were flushed an unhealthy red, and behind old-fashioned round gold-rimmed spectacles, a pair of small eyes darted about restlessly.
He wore a dark green pinstriped suit that was cut far too tight, paired with an incongruously purple bow tie, and held a gold-plated cane in his hand.
Just as Russell had expected—the current British Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, had rushed over the moment he heard the news.
But he hadn't come to free Sirius Black.
Instead, he wanted Dumbledore to suppress the matter for now and interrogate Peter Pettigrew privately, to avoid any "complications."
Russell understood him perfectly.
Fudge feared that exposing such a grave miscarriage of justice would damage the Ministry's reputation—and, more importantly, his own political future.
"Albus, you know the pressure I'm under," Fudge said, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "If this gets out, it'll put me in an impossible position."
"Cornelius," Dumbledore replied evenly, refusing to budge, "Sirius has been wronged for far too long. We cannot simply watch him continue to suffer in Azkaban."
"But—"
Fudge suddenly broke off and looked toward the door.
When he saw Russell enter, his expression instantly transformed, as though the man who'd been pleading moments ago was someone else entirely.
"Well, look who it is!" he exclaimed warmly. "Our brilliant young wizard—Russell Fythorne, isn't it?"
He hurried forward and clasped Russell's hand enthusiastically, showering him with praise.
"Handsome, talented—truly remarkable," he said, nodding repeatedly as he sized Russell up. "I hear you were the first to uncover Pettigrew's trail. Extraordinary, truly extraordinary."
Russell merely smiled and said nothing. He knew this was just preamble.
Sure enough, Fudge soon revealed his real purpose.
"You see, Fythorne," he said confidentially, "the Ministry is extremely busy at the moment. Pettigrew's formal trial likely won't happen until next year."
"So during this time, could I ask you not to speak publicly about this matter? The Ministry will, of course, reward you appropriately."
"As for Sirius…" Fudge dabbed theatrically at his eyes. "Well, he'll just have to suffer a bit longer. I'll bear the blame."
Seeing that Dumbledore wouldn't yield, Fudge placed his last hope on Russell.
His strategy was simple: delay. Delay until something even bigger happened—then this could be quietly revisited later.
"I actually think," Russell said calmly, not following Fudge's lead at all, "that other matters can wait. This one should be dealt with first."
Fudge's smile froze.
That wasn't how this was supposed to go.
"Minister," Russell continued pleasantly, "may I ask—who handled this case back then? It wasn't you, was it?"
"Of course not!" Fudge replied at once, eager to distance himself. "I was just an ordinary Ministry employee at the time."
"Exactly," Russell said. "Then the responsibility doesn't lie with you at all."
"You mean…?" Fudge's eyes lit up.
"Yes," Russell nodded. "The Black family's anger will fall solely on those who originally passed judgment."
"And you, Minister, will be the hero who sets things right—who rescues Sirius Black from unjust suffering. He'll feel nothing but gratitude toward you."
"Ah—yes! Exactly!"
In his excitement, Fudge blurted out what he was really thinking, then hurriedly coughed to cover his slip.
"I mean—those investigators back then were utterly disgraceful! To imprison an innocent wizard for so many years!"
He spoke with righteous indignation.
"Russell, you've rendered yet another great service," Fudge beamed. "Let me think… this contribution surely merits a Second Class Order of Merlin."
"Well then, I must be off," he said cheerfully. "The Ministry is drowning in work. Albus, do remember to send Pettigrew over as soon as possible."
He nodded to both of them and left in high spirits.
"Russell," Dumbledore said, clearly surprised, "you've given me quite a shock. I never expected you to be so… eloquent."
"A small matter," Russell replied with a smile. "Is this what you wanted to see me about?"
"Yes—related to this," Dumbledore said, gesturing for him to sit. "Would you care for a Cockroach Cluster?"
"Sure," Russell nodded. He'd learned something at the Addams household—taste and appearance weren't necessarily related.
"At last, a wizard who shares my refined palate," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye, pulling out a clear jar from a drawer.
Inside, cockroaches writhed and clung together in a dense mass.
Russell looked closely.
They were alive. Even the faint twitching of their antennae was visible.
Dumbledore set a small dish in front of Russell and poured some out.
Russell picked one up, examined it briefly, and popped it into his mouth without changing expression.
Crunch.
A burst of syrup exploded across his palate. Russell frowned slightly.
"This candy is too sweet."
"Is it?" Dumbledore said mildly, tossing one into his own mouth. "I rather like it."
After swallowing, he continued casually,
"Do you know the relationship between Sirius and Harry's father?"
"I know a little," Russell replied flatly. "To sum it up—an organized campus bullying gang."
Without ceremony, he swept the remaining Cockroach Clusters into a bag.
"You should really eat less sugar."
He planned to bring them back for Wednesday to try.
Dumbledore didn't mind the small matter at all—though he did have a different opinion about Russell's summary.
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