Chapter Text
It was still dark when he suddenly woke up.
He realised in an instant that something was different, but he needed a couple of seconds to guess what.
He raised his hands in front of his eyes, moving them just for the pleasure of doing it at his own command.
Finally, he was free.
The Prime Minister looked at his wife, asleep on the other side of the bed. He smiled, almost moved realising that, despite how careless he’d been in the past months, she’d patiently stood beside him.
A stomach cramp took him by surprise, and he suddenly realised how hungry he was. Too often they’d kept him on a leash preventing him to be properly fed, too often they’d interrupted his rushed and improper meals.
He got up hesitantly, afraid that his legs wouldn’t support him; it was a relief finding them as solid as ever. He went in the kitchen, put the kettle on and grabbed four slices of bread, slipping them in the toaster – it was the first time in months he touched electronics. He looked for milk, sugar, a teabag, jam and butter, and when water was hot and the slices were ready he and arranged his breakfast with no hurry. The meals was essential, but the simplicity of it helped dissolving a tension in his muscles that he wasn’t even aware of until then. He took all the time he needed to finish his breakfast – it was quite early even for his standard, after all – and then he went to the bathroom, eager to enjoy as a free man the pleasant sensation of hot water flowing upon his skin.
Before getting in the shower he studied his reflection on the mirror: he was pale and gaunt, but clean-cut; his stubble was less than a day old and his hair was messy from the night, but decent.
Unlike his Junior Minister, who’d entertained the public impersonating a duck, he’d always had to act beyond reproach in his professional capacity – that Who-Know-Who had probably thought he’d have been of a better use remaining credible. They didn’t bother with appearances when he was with his family, though, and he suffered a great deal because of it. He had no idea how he was going to justify his past behavior to his wife, but the fact that she stayed through it all made him hope that she’ll eventually forgive him. After a last look at his reflection, he entered the shower and let the hot water wash his worries away.
It was half past six in the morning when he descended in his office, ready to start working again as a free man.
**
When he reached his room he went to the window and opened it for the first time since ages – they’d never bothered to make him do that, as if they weren’t even used to.
He couldn’t resist the temptation to peer outside, letting his gaze wandering while the early breeze caressed his face.
The weather was unusually nice: the morning mist was already fading, the sky was cloudless, the air fresh, and for a mere minute he let himself enjoying it, almost pretending that London was embracing his renewed freedom.
He then lowered his eyes on Downing street, already alive with cars and people, and he noticed a funky cluster of persons dressed in weird long robes; they were whispering in excitement, and he imagined they were heading to some sort of convention – didn’t those Star Wars fans celebrate their beloved saga at the beginning of May? Yes, that must have been it.
An instant later, a horrifying thought crossed his mind. What if he’d lost track of time under that spell, and it was actually Halloween?
He hurriedly grabbed his personal phone from its belt pocket to check the date, and a wave of relief washed over him when he read it was May the second as he’d expected.
It was only when he saw a flock of owls crossing the daytime sky that he finally put the pieces together.
He remembered needing a fistful of second to found the source of the rhythmic patter. He’d been astounded when he’d seen the majestic brown owl that was pecking insistently at his window in full daytime.
He’d turned the other way, ignoring the bird, but it’d kept drawing his attention from the window. Eventually the Prime Minister had opened the window, letting the owl storm in. It’d dropped an envelope on his desk, dunked his beak on his tea, eaten a biscuit and left.
Still taken aback, the Prime Minister had read the letter, which had turned out to be pretty short.
The Ministry of Magic has fallen. The Minister is dead. I won’t be able to come to your office anymore. – C. Fudge
He’d barely finished to read when a hooded man in a black cloak had entered in his room and had waved his wand.
The Prime Minister clenched his fists at the memory.
By now, he knew enough about magic to be aware that it couldn’t be a coincidence that those owls and those wizards – they had to be wizards – had appeared precisely the day he’d regained his free will, as it couldn’t be a coincidence that the mist was finally fading away.
It was time to demand an explanation.
For years he’d tried to ignore it, but this time he stepped firmly towards the small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of his room.
It was frustrating to find it irrevocably empty.
**
He had to wait several ours before the froglike man with the silver wig came back to his frame.
The Prime Minister been pacing on the antique rug when he finally heard the awaited coughing. He’d been eager to talk to the portrait, but he walked towards him feeling rather anxious nonetheless. After all, as far as he knew the last wizard he’d met was the one that put him under the Imperial Spell – or whatever it was called.
He greeted the man with a stiff nod, and in response the portrait began speaking with his usual crispy voice.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”
He sighed in relief learning that his visitor was going to be Fudge. Even if the wizard had always brought bad news and had the bad habit to treat him like an ignorant schoolboy, the Prime Minister wished his return was a good sign.
“Oh, well… er, very good, then… he may come” he mumbled. He then remember that he was the one that had wanted the meeting in the first place, and added with more resolve that he “had to urgently meet him too, anyway.”
He hurried behind his desk and he’d just finished adjusting his tie when bright green flames burst into life in his marble mantelpiece and a man came out, a lime green bowler hat in his hand.
“Prime Minister!” he exclaimed delighted, stepping forward to offer his hand without even caring to brush the ash from his cloak. “What a pleasure to see you!”
Fudge was thinner and balder than the last time he’d seen him, but the wide grin on his face made him look several years younger.
The Prime Minister shook his hand and politely greeted him, but he wasn’t affected by the wizard’s mirth.
“You look well!” said Fudge with enthusiasm, taking a sit. “Sure, you’re a bit knackered, but who wouldn’t be after months under the Imperius Curse?”
Imperius, that’s how it was called.
He needed few seconds to grab the other implication of those words.
“Wait, you’re telling me you knew?” he asked bewildered.
“Of course I knew!” exclaimed Fudge. “Who didn’t know?”
The Prime Minister suddenly remembered why he disliked those visits so much. “Well, why haven’t you done something, then?!”
“Don’t you think we didn’t try! But it was utterly impossible to sort thing out with our own Minister under the Imperius Curse as well.”
“Your Minister was controlled too?” he asked, taken aback.
“Unfortunately, he was” said Fudge wearily, losing his mirth for the first time. “He was You-Know-Who puppet.”
The Prime Minister didn’t miss the use of the past tense, but Fudge kept talking, cutting his attempt to demand an explanation.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Nothing personal, but they want me to check if you’re clean. One can only be that sure, you know?”
He did’t know at all, actually, and he certainly didn’t appreciated his hygiene to be questioned, but his retort was stuck in his throat when Fudge took a glassy spinning top from a pocket and laid it on the desk. Even if motionless, it creepily stayed up.
“Well,” said Fudge, cheerful again, “I suppose it’d spin if you’d still been under the Curse!”
“I’m not under any curse anymore!” he argued indignant.
“No, it doesn’t look like that. Well, that’s a wonderful news, don’t you think?” asked Fudge, clapping his hands in delight.
“Of course I think it is! And since you clearly weren’t the one to set me free, I’d like to know why the spell broken! And I also demand an explanation about those dressed up wizards in Downing Street, and don’t even let me start about the owls!”
“Sure, sure, you’re right, you’ve the right to know… but Merlin, I can’t believe there still somebody that haven’t heard the news!” Fudge said with excitement, and he felt the sudden urge to punch him in the nose. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. Harry Potter defeated him!”
At those words, the Prime Minister leant heavily on the back of his chair and took a deep breath.
“So… it’s over?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, it’s gonna be a while untile we catch all the survivor supporters, settle things with the Muggleborn, retake control of the Dementors, prevent little retaliations, etcetera, but yes, it’s over” confirmed Fudge. “We won.”
“When?”
“This evening, at Hogwarts. You know, our school. A huge battle, many dead. We’ll remember them with full honors, of course, but today wizards and witches all over the world are celebrating. I believe we’ll make a breach of the Statute of Secrecy as the last time” added Fudge with a knowing smile.
The Prime Minister had no idea when that ‘last time’ was, but he nodded nonetheless, finally feeling thrilled as well.
It’s really over…
“I’m sorry we couldn’t protect you, you know? But it’s nice to see you’re fine, considering our last two Minister are dead” admitted Fudge hesitantly. “And of course, if you wish, I can send a team to change your family memories.”
Of course.
“I… I’ll think about it, thanks.”
He wanted to be involved with magic as little as possible, but at the same time he hated the idea of making things up to give his family a believable explanation.
“Well, don’t hesitate to ask if you’ll need something! You know were to find us.”
The two men stood up. They were about to shake hands again when the Prime Minister recalled a last, essential question.
“So… are you the Minister again?”
Fudge smiled sadly. “I highly doubt anybody we’ll ever want me covering that role again, to be honest. But don’t worry, you’ll be happy to know that the Wizengamot picked Kinsgley Shacklebolt as acting Minister of Magic. He’ll pass by one of these days.”
The Prime Minister felt relieved at the welcomed news. Even if at the end Shacklebolt failed to protect him, he remembered him with fondness, and he’d been very sorry when they’d made him spread his mugshot.
He smirked at the idea that he had had the new Minister of Magic as secretary of his outer office.
While Fudge disappeared among the green flames, the Prime Minister thought that perhaps, for the first time, he was going to be treated as peer by the other Minister.