Chapter Text
The Dementors were angry. Cornelius Fudge knew that. He could see the evidence for himself, or just by reading the Prophet. It seemed that every article nowadays contained some mention of how they had rioted, leaving Azkaban and coming to terrorize here. There was no plausible explanation for why this had happened, but there was never anything good enough to satisfy, was there?
Fudge supposed that he had it better off than his Muggle counterpart, though. The poor man that he was about to visit was completely in the dark about everything that had happened since June. It was now mid-August and the Dementors had been on a riot for almost a month.
All because Sirius Black had been declared innocent. Very few people had thought that the Dementors would get as mad as they had; almost nobody had predicted that they would commence a full-out riot. A part of Fudge was even wishing that Black had been guilty all along, so that he wouldn't have to listen to the public clamouring for answers. Why had nobody found this out earlier? Who let an innocent man rot away in prison for 12 years? Although, he supposed, it wasn't really the public who was asking these questions; it was people who worked with him, members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the most part, witches who worked in the Azkaban Liason Office and knew first-hand the horrible conditions there. In his opinion, Fudge felt that those horrible conditions were justified: if you committed a crime worthy of an Azkaban sentence, you deserved to rot away.
This problem, all stemming from Black's freedom, was the center of Fudge's life nowadays. Everywhere he went it seemed he was confronted with people who wanted to know what had been done to prevent this happening again. Since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was dead, though, this should be a lone incident that wouldn't prejudice his reappointment by the Wizengamot for another term.
Of course, Fudge thought as he walked down the corridor, there would still be the minor problem of dealing with all the other things he had on his plate. The Minister for Magic was an influential position, and Fudge liked the power and prestige it gave him. But the job was a lot of work, which Fudge didn't like so much. Ideally, he would've been born into one of the rich pure-blood families so he could sit on his wealth and have prestige (and with prestige came leverage over ministerial policy).
But no. He had been born a half-blood, the son of two Ministry clerks who, while not impoverished, definitely did not live as well as young Cornelius had wanted. So he had determined to work his way to the top, through dedication and spending more hours at the office than anyone else. Eventually, his chance had come: in 1990 Millicent Bagnold had retired. This hadn't originally been an opportunity for him, as the Wizengamot had favoured Albus Dumbledore, even though the man had repeatedly said that wasn't after the Minister for Magic job. Fudge, for his part, knew that to be a lie, knew that the Hogwarts Headmaster was waiting in the wings for his chance to take over.
Fudge was still a little annoyed at the fact that he had been a compromise choice when the Wizengamot had deadlocked between Dumbledore's refusal, and two factions that were split between Amelia Bones and Lucius Malfoy. A compromise choice, after all the time he had spent trying to ingratiate himself into people's minds as a prime choice for Minister!
But he would show them, Fudge thought grimly as the sound of his steps pounded down the Ministry corridor. True, that hadn't happened in the first year or so of his time as Minister, as he had been initially overwhelmed by the flood of work and had, to his shame now, peppered Dumbledore with letters seeking advice. He had replied instantly, which reinforced Fudge's theory that Dumbledore was after his job. Why else would an owl get sent back, with a long answer, less than half an hour after it was sent out?
To the matter at hand, though. Currently Fudge was Minister for Magic and not Dumbledore, and besides Fudge was over the embarrassing six months of having to ask Dumbledore for advice about dealing with a simple werewolf problem, for crying out loud! Thank Merlin he had Dolores for that stuff. Dumbledore simply couldn't be trusted on that matter - the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts was a werewolf, and any attempts on Fudge's part to have him replaced were vigorously opposed.
Fudge on his part thought Dumbledore was a bit of a muggle-lover. They were completely backward and ignorant of magic. Some men, such as the oddball Arthur Weasley, for example, seemed to have a rather ridiculous interest in them. Fudge was on his way to update the Muggle Minister of.... Muggledom? He wasn't quite sure what to call his counterpart, but he knew that it was his least favourite part about his job. Oh, Prime Minister. That was it.
Finally, he reached the Atrium, and proceeded to one of the fireplaces to Floo, returning nods and muttered "Hello, Minister" greetings as he went. Taking a fistful of Floo Powder from the bag, he threw it in the fire, announced his destination, and climbed in.
Even though Fudge didn't really like the Muggle Prime Minister, he did like his office. It opulent without being too ornate, which made sense since the poor man was responsible to the public and couldn't exactly give an impression of being too luxurious. He stepped out onto an elegant carpet and brushed the ash off his robes as the Prime Minister stood up to greet him.
"Hello," the man said, extending a hand, which Fudge ignored. He was instantly reminded of the many reasons he didn't like this man: his futile attempt to hide his balding scalp, the silly way he dressed - usual Muggle style, his yellow teeth that showed every time he smiled (which was often)....
"What brings you here this time?" the Muggle Prime Minister asked. He didn't seem at all nervous or uncomfortable, as his predecessor had. In fact, his predecessor had sprung at Fudge with the first thing that had gotten into his hand: a ruler (which was what the man had said it was called). Fudge had lazily ignored it and repelled the attack with a casual Shield Charm, taken the ruler out of his grasp, and placed it back on the desk where it belonged.
"Numerous things," Fudge replied, hoping that the man wouldn't ask too many questions so that he could get this meeting over with and return to the Ministry for the working lunch he had scheduled with Lucius.
"Numerous things?" the man parroted.
"Yes. Numerous things." Fudge pressed on. "First, it turns out that Sirius Black is innocent after all." He still didn't want to believe it himself. "Apparently, the man was framed."
"Framed?" The Muggle Minister frowned. "How could he have been framed? You told me the story yourself last year. There was no way he was framed."
"Actually," Fudge said, "there is." He felt like a Hogwarts professor telling a first-year class how to hold a wand. "A few of us - witches and wizards, that is - are capable of turning into animals. One of Black's former friends, a man named Peter Pettigrew, was able to do this. So that night, when Black confronted Pettigrew, Pettigrew exploded the street, killed everyone, turned into a rat, and escaped into the sewer."
"In June Pettigrew was caught, proven to be an Animagus, and put on trial for his actions. He was found guilty and received the Dementor's Kiss as a result. Black was exonerated and is now a free man." Unfortunately for the rest of our world, Fudge thought in his head.
"So what does this mean?" the Muggle Prime Minister asked. Fudge silently cursed the man for asking too many questions and notjust keeping quiet and paying attention like he was supposed to. Stupid Muggle.
"Well, the Dementors, who guard Azkaban - which is our prison - weren't too happy about the fact that Black had been let go. Last year, when we were desperate to find him, believing that he was about to go kill Harry Potter, we gave the Dementors permission to give him the Kiss if they found him. Apparently, they interpreted that as a promise to let them give Black the kiss no matter what. Once we announced that he was innocent and therefore untouchable they rioted, leaving Azkaban and coming over here to terrorize everyone." Fudge thought it best not to mention the cries of outrage from various groups who thought that he had handled the whole thing abominably and should be replaced. Ultimately, the decision there rested with the Wizengamot, which he thankfully controlled.
"So these Dementoids - or whatever the hell they're called - are they the cause of everyone being found in comas everywhere?" the Muggle Prime Minister demanded. He grabbed a newspaper off his desk and brandished it in Fudge's face. Leaning back, Fudge was able to see that it said "Hundreds found in mysterious comas all over Britain".
"Probably," Fudge said, thinking fast. The other man probably didn't need to know about the exact consequences of a Dementor's Kiss. It wasn't important and, furthermore, it would just scare him. So he changed the subject.
"Now, with the Dementors out of Azakaban, that leaves security there much weaker, so I'm going to-"
"Don't you have guards?" the Muggle Prime Minister interrupted. "And what happened to the talk of comas? How am I going explain this to the newspapers? I have people to represent, people that I need to inform! I can't let everybody know what's going on if I don't know what's going on myself! Minister, I have an important speech to make in the House of Commons tomorrow that-"
Fudge cut him off. "That is not my concern," he said coldly. This meeting was going just as he had thought it would. Lucius had been right; these Muggles were ignorant, with their petty squabbles and silly problems that didn't matter at all. The Muggle Prime Minister, as Fudge understood his counterpart's position, was chosen by the majority of the people. Now, Fudge thought to himself, if the stupid Muggles chose the Prime Ministers then that explained the quality (or lack thereof) of the men he had to meet with.
"Now," he continued, "to return to what we were talking about earlier, because the Dementors have left Azkaban our security there is much weaker. We depended on them a great deal for security and keeping the prisoners under control. With them gone, there are probably going to be riots and potentially even escapes. In order to prevent that, the Ministry is proposing to bring in dragons and station them around different parts of the country, as well as at Azkaban itself."
"And by proposing you mean..." the Muggle Prime Minister trailed off.
Fudge interrupted him even before he had finished talking.
"By proposing we mean that we are going to do it, no matter what you say," he informed his counterpart. "Telling you is just a courtesy." Fudge felt powerful, in control. The advice Lucius had given him earlier about how to talk to Muggles had so far proven to be very helpful. Remain in control. Dictate terms. Don't let them get the upper hand. After all, wizards were clearly better. What would he do without Lucius? Even though a part of him resented the man for intruding on his territory as Minister for Magic, a larger part of him was grateful to him. His suggestions - and they were only suggestions, nothing forceful or anything - were well-thought-out, made sense, and worked perfectly when enacted into law.
The Muggle Prime Minister was very shocked by this. He leaned back in his chair and glared angrily at Fudge without saying anything, his jaw clenched tight.
"Is this what you came here for?" he demanded angrily. "To be courteous and tell me that you're going to be bringing fucking dragons into my country, even though there's nothing I can do about it? Is this your idea of courtesy?" He slammed his fist on his desk and stood up quickly, gazing down at Fudge as he breathed in heavily. "What if one of these dragons eats somebody? I won't be able to tell their worried family what happened to their husband, wife, son, daughter, mother, father. How am I supposed to be able to explain anything? I know you don't care anymore. You used to. Cornelius, you've changed."
"Times have changed," Fudge said gruffly as he too stood up. Despite the fact that he had drawn himself up to his full height he was still a great deal shorter than the other man, which bothered him greatly. "Goodbye." He turned imperiously, threw a reserve of Floo Powder on the fire, and returned to the Ministry.
Upon returning to his office, he found Lucius Malfoy waiting patiently for him outside. Usually, patiently wasn't a word he would associate with Lucius. However, the man was calm and at ease as he waited for Fudge.
"Cornelius," he called softly from where he leaned against the corridor wall, "how did it go?"
"Okay," Fudge admitted. "He blew up at me. Said that he would have to deal with the consequences of the dragons, and not me."
Lucius muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Filthy Muggle" and gripped the handle of his walking stick tighter. Exhaling, he said slowly, "How about we go get a drink? We can discuss this proposed anti-werewolf legislation there."
"I don't know," Fudge said slowly, "I don't want to be away from work...."
"It's lunchtime," Lucius reminded him softly. "Everybody's away from work. Come on, let's go." He jerked his head in the direction of the exit to the pubs and, once he was sure Fudge was beside him, started walking.