The day for the Wizengamot vote arrived under a dreary, overcast sky.
Dark clouds loomed over London, throwing long shadows on the grand white marble building that held Britain’s oldest governing body. Enchanted carriages touched down in the courtyard as Ministry officials Apparated into the secure reception hall. Dressed in deep plum robes adorned with silver runes, Wizengamot members ascended the grand staircase in silence.
Few people smiled.
Everyone sensed the weight of the day’s proceedings.
By nightfall, Britain’s magical community would either retain its long-trusted Minister…
Or welcome a new one.
Inside the circular chamber of the Wizengamot, the mood was unlike anything witnessed since the conclusion of the First Wizarding War.
Typically, members exchanged warm greetings before starting. Old rivals shared polite smiles, old families rekindled ties, and Ministry officials engaged in quiet discussions about legislation as attendants served tea.
Today, however...
Such traditions had nearly vanished.
Instead, clusters of members stood in hushed conversations, their expressions cautious. No one wanted to be seen associating with the wrong allies when the voting concluded.
At the chamber’s center stood the Minister's chair.
Tall.
Elegant.
Crafted from dark oak, it had served generations of Ministers long before Cornelius Fudge ever aspired to office.
It remained unoccupied.
That solitary empty chair garnered more attention than any of those seated within the chamber.
Cornelius Fudge sat several rows back near the witness section, his posture rigid, fingers clenched tightly around the brim of his bowler hat.
He loathed everything about it.
Although the distance to the Minister's chair was short—just a few yards—
To Fudge, it felt like an expanse of miles.
For years, he had occupied the center of this chamber, directing discussions, announcing policies, and receiving updates from every department of magical Britain. That chair had become synonymous with his identity.
Now, he was nothing more than another man awaiting judgment. His grip on his hat tightened until his knuckles turned white.
How had everything unraveled so swiftly?
He had devoted decades to building his career.
He had greeted people he secretly detested with a smile.
He had shook hands with rivals whose ambitions he knew all too well.
He had learned which families sought influence, which craved recognition, and which preferred solitude. Whenever disputes arose, he made compromises. Whenever dissent loomed, he softened his language until everyone left believing they had won something.
And it had worked.
Each cautious decision had propelled him upward through the Ministry.
He had convinced himself of his superior understanding of politics.
He knew when to yield.
He knew when to stand resolute.
Most importantly...
He believed he knew how to survive.
That belief now felt naively misguided.
Gradually, more members entered the chamber. Fudge observed familiar faces taking their seats.
Some acknowledged him with polite nods.
Most did not.
Several seats, typically filled by influential pure-blood families, were vacant. Others were occupied by younger relatives rather than the family heads themselves.
The aftermath of the battle in the Department of Mysteries extended far beyond the battlefield.
Many prominent families had discovered that sons, nephews, brothers, and cousins had covertly sided with Voldemort. The scandal had tarnished reputations built over generations.
Those families still held wealth and influence.
But not nearly enough to protect Cornelius Fudge today.
He pulled out a handkerchief and quietly dabbed the sweat accumulating on his forehead.
His gaze shifted to another part of the chamber.
Albus Dumbledore sat calmly among the senior members of the Wizengamot.
Unlike many others, the Headmaster seemed entirely at ease. His silver beard neatly rested across his robes. From time to time, respected elders leaned in to converse with him in whispers that Fudge couldn't hear.
Months ago, he would have dismissed those exchanges as trivial.
Now...
He found himself pondering how many votes were being determined in those hushed discussions.
He quickly averted his gaze.
There had been a time he believed Albus Dumbledore could always be swayed.
With enough patience, compromise, and careful wording...
Fudge had thought they would eventually find common ground.
The grand doors at the rear of the chamber opened once again.
Rufus Gringotts entered without ceremony.
The Head of the Auror Office donned simple dark robes as opposed to the elaborate ceremonial garments preferred by many senior officials. His broad shoulders and scarred face made him look more like a seasoned commander than a politician.
He acknowledged no one beyond the briefest nod.
His eyes roamed the chamber before he quietly took his place.
The ensuing silence lasted just seconds.
Yet those fleeting moments conveyed everything to Fudge.
People were looking at Rufus.
Fudge’s stomach clenched.
He lowered his gaze to the floor.
The possibility he had spent days refusing to confront soon became undeniable.
If today’s vote turned against him...
His successor was already present in the room.
The heavy doors closed once more.
Shortly after, the Chief Warlock entered.
Every member of the Wizengamot rose in respect.
The elderly wizard advanced toward the central platform, striking the polished stone floor once with his ancient staff.
The sharp crack echoed throughout the chamber.
"Be seated."
Robes rustled as hundreds of witches and wizards reclaimed their places.
The silence that followed felt almost stifling.
The Chief Warlock surveyed the chamber before addressing the members.
"We are gathered under emergency procedures to deliberate on the motion of no confidence raised against Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic."
His voice remained calm.
Yet each word seemed to carry additional weight within the ancient hall.
"The query before this chamber is straightforward."
He paused momentarily.
"Is Cornelius Oswald Fudge fit to continue leading magical Britain in a time of declared war?"
The silence itself became a response.
The Chief Warlock slightly inclined his head.
"The proceedings shall commence."
The first speaker rose.
An elderly wizard whose family had been part of the Wizengamot for generations.
"I present the first charge."
His voice resonated clearly through the chamber.
"The Minister knowingly disregarded repeated warnings about the return of Lord Voldemort, despite testimony from Albus Dumbledore."
Fudge stood up immediately.
"I acted on the information available at that time."
Another member rose before he could finish.
"The second charge."
"The Ministry coordinated a lengthy campaign to publicly discredit Rose Potter by working with certain elements of the press."
Fudge's shoulders tensed.
Again he attempted to defend his actions.
"The country required stability. Extraordinary claims required extraordinary proof."
"The third charge."
Another member got up.
"The Ministry unlawfully pressured Hogwarts School through the appointment and continued support of Dolores Umbridge."
"The fourth charge."
"The Ministry consistently interfered with independent investigations into suspected Death Eater activities."
"The fifth charge."
"Following the battle in the Department of Mysteries, the Minister sought leniency for several influential pure-blood families, despite strong evidence linking their relatives to Voldemort."
One accusation after another was presented.
With each charge, another layer of the reputation Cornelius Fudge had meticulously crafted began to unravel.
By the time the final accusation was laid out, the Minister no longer resembled the self-assured politician who once commanded this chamber.
He looked like a weary man struggling to convince himself that events hadn’t spiraled beyond his control.
Gradually, he rose again.
"I did what I thought was best for Britain."
His voice held steady...
"The return of You-Know-Who was an extraordinary claim."
He scanned the chamber, desperately seeking sympathetic expressions.
"A responsible Minister cannot throw an entire nation into panic based solely on the words of a child."
For a heartbeat...
No one uttered a word.
Then an elderly witch slowly rose from her seat.
"That child..."
She said quietly.
"...was Rose Potter."
"That child," she continued, "was the same witch who vanquished Lord Voldemort as a baby."
A low murmur ran through the Wizengamot, not from disagreement but from the stark reminder of a truth they had tried to ignore for almost a year.
Fudge gulped.
"I... I never questioned Miss Potter's bravery."
"No," a member across the chamber rose slowly, "you questioned her integrity."
Several agreed with nods.
The wizard continued, "You let your Ministry frame her as someone seeking attention. You allowed mocking articles to be published. You endorsed a campaign that made ordinary witches and wizards believe that Britain’s greatest war hero was either deranged... or was lying on purpose."
Fudge's complexion faded.
"I was trying to avoid panic."
"Was it panic?" the wizard responded. "Or was it about your own embarrassment?"
Fudge glanced around, searching for allies among familiar faces, wishing someone would defend him.
None did.
Even those who had previously supported him now stared down at the floor, avoiding his gaze.
Others crossed their arms, maintaining inscrutable expressions.
Their silence was more painful than outright condemnation.
They had turned their backs on him.
The Chief Warlock stood quietly, allowing the conversation to unfold without interference.
This was not a typical political discussion.
It was a reckoning for a Minister whose choices had altered the course of an entire nation.
Eventually, Albus Dumbledore rose, moving slowly and leaning on his seat, instantly commanding attention.
The room fell silent, every whispered conversation halted.
Even those who had been glaring at one another shifted their focus to the elderly Headmaster.
Dumbledore didn't start with accusations or even glance at Cornelius Fudge.
Instead, his calm blue eyes scanned the assembly of the Wizengamot.
"When history recalls this war," he spoke softly, "many names will be remembered."
His voice was gentle yet resonated powerfully in the chamber.
"It will remember those who stood firm against darkness."
"It will remember those who submitted to it."
"And it will remember those who simply turned away."
No one interrupted.
"Rose Potter," Dumbledore continued, "is not a symbol."
The remark was simple, yet the weight of its meaning settled heavily in the room.
"She is not a banner to be raised in times of hope."
"She is not a weapon for the Ministry to use against Lord Voldemort."
"And she is certainly not a shield behind which irresponsible adults can hide."
Some members lowered their gazes, while others shifted uncomfortably.
Dumbledore maintained his calm tone.
"She is a young witch."
"...she deserved to be listened to."
Silence engulfed the chamber.
"When she spoke the truth..."
"...she deserved to be believed."
Another long pause ensued.
"But instead..."
Dumbledore's expression stiffened slightly.
"...she was ridiculed."
His words landed more heavily than any raised voice.
Many in the Wizengamot recalled the headlines from the Daily Prophet vividly.
Dumbledore pressed on.
"I have heard people claim that Rose Potter represents Britain's greatest hope."
His gaze swept the chamber.
"I beg to differ."
A few members looked taken aback.
"Our greatest hope," he asserted, "should never rest on the shoulders of a single child."
That statement resonated throughout the room.
"If magical Britain is to survive the upcoming war, it will not be due to one young witch rescuing us."
"It will be because collective efforts of ordinary witches and wizards unite."
"Every Auror."
"Every healer."
"Every Ministry official."
"Every parent."
"Every family."
He tightened his grip on his staff.
"If we place all our hopes on Rose Potter..."
"...then we have already failed her."
Even the staunchest supporters of the Minister fell silent.
No one dared interrupt.
"Miss Potter may choose to battle."
"She may choose to confront Lord Voldemort again."
Dumbledore paused, emphasizing his next point.
"But make no mistake."
"That choice is hers alone."
His tone grew more authoritative.
"She owes this country nothing."
Several exchanged apprehensive looks.
"She is not obligated to rescue those who belittled her."
"Not obligated to protect those who questioned her integrity."
"Not obligated to save a government that prioritized political convenience over truth."
His words struck with the force of blows.
Fudge slowly lowered his head, real regret finally crossing his features.
Dumbledore directed his attention to the Minister.
"A government exists to protect its citizens."
"It must never burden its children with responsibilities meant for adults."
He allowed his words to resonate before quietly adding,
"A government that ignores peril until it is at its own doorstep cannot be trusted to guide Britain through the war ahead."
Once Dumbledore retook his seat, the chamber remained in complete silence.
After a few moments, the tranquility shattered.
Several members jumped to their feet to voice their opinions.
"The Headmaster speaks the truth."
"The Ministry has failed."
Others attempted to interject.
"Fudge acted with the knowledge available—"
"The country wasn't prepared!"
Voices clashed.
Debate erupted from row to row.
The Chief Warlock struck his staff sharply on the floor, the sound echoing like thunder.
"Order."
Gradually, voices quieted.
Fudge abruptly stood, his face flushed red.
"I did what I believed was right!"
His voice rang across the chamber.
"I was responsible for an entire nation."
"If I had declared You-Know-Who's return without sufficient proof..."
"There would have been panic."
"There would have been chaos."
"I acted to maintain stability."
His breaths were now labored.
"I made tough decisions."
"I bore burdens none of you comprehend."
Vulnerability broke through the facade he maintained for years.
"I love this country."
"I never wanted Britain to suffer."
The chamber listened intently.
Some members appeared sympathetic.
Others remained skeptical.
Before anyone could reply, another figure gradually rose.
Rufus Scrimgeour.
Unlike many politicians, the Head of the Auror Office didn’t resort to grand gestures.
He simply stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Rufus fixed his gaze on Fudge.
"No."
His voice was rough, calm, and controlled.
"You did not act in Britain's best interest."
He paused.
"You chose the easier path."
The statement hit the chamber harder than any loud accusation.
Fudge was taken aback.
"That's unfair."
Rufus remained unflinching.
"When my Aurors reported suspicious activities..."
"They were told to gather more evidence."
"When they sought additional authority..."
"They were told to wait."
"When they warned of increasing Death Eater activity..."
"They were instructed not to raise unnecessary alarms."
His expression remained unreadable.
"Every week we delayed."
"Every month we stalled."
"The enemy grew bolder."
Rufus continued.
"You wanted to protect the Ministry's image."
"I wanted to save lives."
The distinction was clear.
Fudge opened his mouth to respond.
"I was trying—"
"Were you?" Rufus gently interrupted.
There was nothing rude about it—just finality.
"You prioritized your reputation."
"You safeguarded your position."
"You shielded influential families whose loyalties should have been scrutinized from the start."
His eyes narrowed.
"My team buried Aurors while the Ministry debated if the war had even started."
Fudge clenched his fists.
"War is complex."
Rufus nodded once.
"It is."
Then he delivered the line that would later make headlines throughout Britain.
"War is unkind."
He let his words take root in the chamber.
"But denying you are already in one..."
"...is far worse."
For the first time since the proceedings began, Cornelius Fudge found himself utterly isolated.
The arguments had been laid out.
The chamber was no longer discussing whether mistakes had been made.
It was solely determining whether the man accountable for those missteps could still hold the position of Minister for Magic.
The Chief Warlock stood once again, gazing across the assembled members before he spoke.
"The arguments have been made."
He raised his staff.
"The Wizengamot will now move to the vote."
Across the chamber, hundreds of witches and wizards straightened in their seats.
The moment that would determine magical Britain's future had arrived.