“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It seems he has been responsible for several deaths!”

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that's no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's instructions!”

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people's deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body.”

Fudge looked as though someone had swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as though he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore.

“You-Know-Who... returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore...”

“As Minerva and Severus doubtless told you,” said Dumbledore, “we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins – went to free him from his father, and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you – you can't seriously believe that. You-Know-Who – back? Come now, come now ... certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who's orders – but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore...”

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort's rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.”

Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but shook his head, and said, “I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.”

Fudge's curious smile lingered.

He too glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore and said, “You are – er – prepared to take Harry's word on this, are you, Dumbledore?”

There was a moment of silence, which was broken by Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was bearing his teeth at Fudge.

“Certainly I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch's confession, and I've heard Harry's account of events. The two stories make sense. They explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins' disappearance last summer.”

Fudge was clutching his bowler hat in both hands tightly, looking mutinous. Dumbledore paused before continuing, “You are not to be convinced, I see. It is proof you require, and I will give it to you. If you would kindly come up to my office,” and with that he swept out of the room, radiating the indefinable sense of power Harry had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young Crouch.

The Minister hesitated for a moment, watching as Dumbledore disappeared down the corridor. Snape sent him a glare that was usually reserved only for his most detested of students (one with which Harry was far too accustomed), promptly hurrying Fudge after the Headmaster.

His protests echoed back into the Hospital Wing, only snatches of which could be distinguished – exclamations of “believe”, “lunatic”, and “preposterous” among them – before the last muffled sounds of his hurried footsteps finally ceased.

Professor McGonagall spared Harry a sympathetic glance, her lips as thin as he'd ever seen them, before turning and swiftly following the two Wizard's out of the Hospital Wing. Snape kept his leering gaze upon the professors back until she disappeared from view, seemingly deep in thought.

He lingered for a moment, unsure of whether to follow and instead turned to the present Weasleys (and Hermione) at Harry's bedside, whilst pointedly ignoring the huge black dog.

“Molly, a word, if you please?” asked Snape silkily, and at Mrs Weasley's nod, hastened out of the Hospital Wing in a flurry of billowing robes.

Harry watched the two leave as Mrs Weasley gave him a watery smile over her shoulder. They slipped out and allowed the door to close softly behind them, only their indistinct mumbles filtering into the room.

“What do you think that's about?” Harry asked quietly. Ron, Hermione and Bill all jumped. None of them had realised that he was awake. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“How long have you been up?” inquired Ron. A relieved smile was upon his face, and he quickly pulled a chair closer to Harry. Both Hermione and Bill did the same, neither knowing what to say.

“Long enough,” replied Harry shortly, “Fudge thinks I'm as mental as Skeeter's been making me out to be, doesn't he?” Sirius sniffed indignantly at the mention of the slandering Witch.

“Ironic, really,” said Ron, a small humourless grin upon his face. He said nothing more.

“Don't worry, Harry. Professor Dumbledore will have everything sorted, you'll see,” said Hermione some-what awkwardly. She patted his hand with hers for a moment in reassurance, and in a softer, more determined tone, said, “He won't take this lying down.”

Harry gave her a small smile. Nodding his head, he turned to see Mrs Weasley's re-entering the Hospital Wing. Snape was no where to be seen. She looked rather frazzled, but still managed to give them a slightly forced smile.

“I'm sorry, dear,” she said to Harry, “but I have to leave. Someone has to tell Arthur what's happened ...”

“I'll got to Dad,” said Bill, standing up and reaching for his cloak. “I'll go now.”

“Are you sure, Bill?” asked Mrs Weasley, uncertainly. Bill gave her a confident nod as he finished tying his cloak. “Alright then. Tell Arthur about Fudge. He knows what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness for Muggles that's held him back in the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.”

“Leave it to me,” said Bill.

“Oh, and tell him that Albus will be in contact with him shortly,” said Mrs Weasley. Bill nodded again, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder, and kissing his mother on the cheek before quickly striding from the room.

The remaining few sat in silence for a moment, before Mrs Weasley pattered to Harry's bedside and began fussing with the covers.

“And you should be asleep,” she said in a motherly fashion. “Hermione, Ron, off to bed with you, now.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Weasley abruptly stopped her fretting with Harry's quilt and placed her hands on her hips threateningly. Her youngest son snapped his mouth shut at her fierce glare. He moodily stood and began to trudge towards the door, Hermione in toe.

“Night, Harry,” He called back, giving Harry a small wave. Harry returned it but was quickly cut short by the overpowering hug Hermione trapped him in. She then ran back to her place behind Ron, giving Harry a teary smile (which Ron promptly rolled his eyes at). Harry grinned at them.

“Goodnight, Harry,” said Hermione, before both she and Ron were impatiently ushered out of the ward by Mrs Weasley.

“And as for you ...” said Mrs Weasley pointedly to the enormous obsidian hound that sat defiantly next to the hospital bed. The dog glared at her.

“It's alright, Mrs Weasley,” said Harry hastily, “he can stay.”

The Weasley matriarch looked sceptical, but with a sigh consented to allow the “flee-ridden mutt” to stay in the ward, much to Harry's relief. She then trotted to his bedside table and stirred the goblet of tasteless potion before offering it to him.

“You're to drink all of it,” she said with a kind smile, “or Madam Pomfrey will have my head.”

Harry removed his glasses and placed them neatly on the table to his left. He then reached for the goblet Mrs Weasley offered, downing it in one. The edges of his vision floated within a drowsy haze for a moment. His limbs were heavy, encased with lead. He was soon numbed and senseless, finally succumbing to the blissful, dreamless sleep.

*

The next time he awoke it was to the sound of hissing voices and vehement footsteps of whichever occupants were in the ward. He did not move for a moment. The noises were going in and out of frequency, much like a badly tuned Muggle radio.

A headache was starting to pound in the forefront of his skull and a slight disorientation kept him where he was, safely pinned under the covers Mrs. Weasley had tucked securely around him.

A minute or two past without any lull in the heated argument that was currently raging around him. Their harsh whispers started to become clearer. He dared not open his eyes for fear that whoever it was would notice. He was curious to know what they were debating, especially now that his name had cropped up.

“... Potter ... stable ...” Harry lifted his head off the pillow slightly, freeing his right ear. The pounding in his head increased for moment.

He winced at the ache then brought his attention back to the loudly whispered conversation.

“Harry is as sane as you or I, Cornelius,” said a slightly disgruntled Albus Dumbledore, Harry would recognise his voice anywhere. “The scar on his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it pains him when Lord Voldemort is close by or feeling particularly murderous.”

Harry had been right. Fudge thought he was completely nutty. That bloody Rita Skeeter, Harry thought venomously. It wouldn't shock him to hear that she'd already had the Triwizard fiasco printed in the Daily Prophet for the morning's issue.

“You'll forgive me Dumbledore, but I've heard of curse scars acting as an alarm bell before ...” Fudge sounded no less stubborn.

“You fool!” another voice broke in, that of Professor McGonagall, “Cedric Diggory! Mr Crouch! No matter your opinion of curse scars, these deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!”

“I see no evidence to the contrary!” snarled Fudge. Harry couldn't believe it. He had always regarded Fudge as a stubborn, rather pompous wizard, but wholly kind despite it. Now all he heard was a short, angry little man, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable, ordered world – that Voldemort may have risen. “Only the word of a madman and a teenager that ... well -”

“I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry bellowed, startling everyone that had gathered at the end of his bed. He couldn't lie there and listen to it any longer, headache be damned. Fudge was being ridiculous!

They stared at him, Fudge, McGonagall, Snape, and Madam Pomfrey. All but Dumbledore, he was still regarding the Minister with a cool fury. Sirius nor Mrs. Wealsey (who he assumed had returned home), he noted, were present.

“I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -”

Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry looked at him, Snape's eyes flew back to Fudge.

“McNair – Avery – Nott – Crabbe – Goyle -” Harry continued.

“You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found their names in old reports of the trials! For heavens sake Dumbledore -”

“Then how do you explain Crouch?” Harry spat. “You can't deny that there must have been a reason!”

“He was a lunatic! There's nothing more to it!” Fudge shouted, stepping towards Harry's bed.

Snape also strode forward, directly in front of the Minister, blocking his advance towards Harry. He roughly lifted the sleeve of his left arm and shoved it at Fudge.

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It isn't as clear as it was earlier this evening, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the Mark burnt into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing each other, and as a means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate instantly at his side. It's been growing clearer all year. There's all the proof you need.”

Fudge hastily stepped back from Snape, as though he was brandishing his wand at him with an Unforgivable in mind. He was shaking his head.

“What are you and your staff playing at Dumbledore?” Fudge hissed. “It seems to me you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilise everything we have worked for these thirteen years.”

“You will lose it all, whether you choose to believe us of Voldemort's return or not,” said Dumbledore calmly. “We must decide what to do with the time that has been given to us. There is precious little of it. We may still be able to save the situation if you take the necessary measures. You must begin tonight.”

Fudge took a step away from Dumbledore, too. He was shaking his head vigorously now, no longer meeting the Headmasters determined gaze.

“It can't – It's not possible, Dumbledore. He can't be – returned? Ludicrous,” said Fudge quietly. He didn't sound so sure of himself.

“Whether it is ludicrous or not, it has indeed come to pass, Cornelius. Do not be the one the wizarding world blames when the murders begin -” said Dumbledore coolly, pausing as Fudge snapped his gaze back to him. “Oh yes, they will begin. They will not be quarantined to tonight's events. It is a virtual certainty, Cornelius. Do not step aside and allow history to record you as the wizard who gave Voldemort his second chance to destroy the world we have worked so arduous to rebuild. Act now and be remembered as the greatest, and bravest, Minister for Magic we have ever known.”

“It's madness -” Fudge began, still shaking his head emphatically.

“Take the necessary precautions. Put aside your ideals of the so-called purity of blood. The last member of a pure-blood family, as old as any, has been destroyed by your Dementor. Look what he chose to do with his life. Do not be blinded to what is happening under your very nose,” said Dumbledore patiently, stepping towards the Minister insistently.

“What of my position, Dumbledore? If the Ministry held me responsible for a full-blown hysteria in the wizarding world – that's it – end of my career -” Fudge blustered.

“By the love of the office you hold, Cornelius!” Dumbledore's voice rose, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “You place too much importance on such tedious and insubstantial commodities. Give Lord Voldemort his chance and there will be no office for you to run, there will be no Ministry, and there will be no Minister. There will only be one Lord and his followers.”

“What do you propose I do? Go to the Ministry? Inform them of You-Know-Who's apparent re-emergence? And on what basis? The word of a madman and a teenager?” said Fudge, scowling in Harry's direction.

“That's exactly what you should do,” said Dumbledore. Fudge opened his mouth to interrupt but was silenced by the Headmasters raised hand. “A few will require evidence, undoubtedly.”

Dumbledore reached inside his robes and brought from its many folds a small stone basin, the very one, Harry recognised, he had discovered in the Headmasters office earlier in the year.

The ceaselessly swirling contents of the Pensieve glowed silver white, softly blanketing the dimly lit ward. Dumbledore then brought out his wand and touched the tip to his temple, gently pulling a long silver sliver that had attached itself to the end of it. He placed the memory carefully within the basin, stirring it into the gas-like liquid.

He presented the Pensieve to Fudge and said, “It is my account of Barty Crouch's confession. It should suffice the majority.”

Fudge took the basin gingerly, as though expecting something dark and menacing to leap from its glittering, luminous depths.

“You spoke of measures, Dumbledore. What did you have in mind?” asked Fudge uncertainly.

“Remove Azkaban from the control of the Dementors,” said Dumbledore. Fudge looked distraught but did not say anything. “You cannot leave Lord Voldemort's greatest supporters in the care of creatures that won't hesitate to join him as soon as he asks. They will not remain loyal to the Ministry. Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers.”

Fudge was beside himself but hesitantly nodded his head.

“Second – you must send envoys to the giants,” Dumbledore pressed on.

“The giants? You can't be serious, Dumbledore -” Fudge began furiously.

“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before the chance is lost,” the Headmaster continued, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone in the wizarding community can give them their rights and their freedom.”

“If anyone discovered I had approached the giants -” gasped Fudge.

“Oh, will you forget about yourself for a moment, for Merlin's sake!” screeched Professor McGonagall, her choler rising. “It is not about you and your blasted career. It is about securing the continuation of the society we have been striving to create for over a decade.”

“My dear woman -”

“Cornelius. Without the giants Voldemort will lose his most formidable of supporters. We will have the upper hand. We will have stopped him from gaining the kind of power he had thirteen years ago,” said Dumbledore, “we will win.”

“It is not a war -” began Fudge.

“Not yet,” Snape stepped in. “Rest assured, the Dark Lord has already begun his plans for the downfall of the wizarding community. The pieces are moving, Minister. He will play this game ruthlessly and those who do not oppose him will die at the hands of his pawns.”

He spoke in a deadly soft voice. One that would make even Draco Malfoy run a mile in the opposite direction. The Potions Master continued dangerously, “innocents caught in the crossfire will be shown no mercy. Children, Muggles, young wizards, all incapable of defending themselves. All will perish. All subjected to the Unforgivables. And all will have their blood on your hands.”

The Minister of Magic deflated at these words. He turned his attention back to Dumbledore, the Pensieve firmly clutched in his hands, and said, “That's it then. You're giving me this burden ...” He sounded positively terrified at the prospect.

“I wouldn't dream of it, Cornelius. We must all unite to defeat this enemy. My services as, I'm sure, that of my colleagues, are at your disposal until such a time that Voldemort is defeated,” said Dumbledore assuredly.

“If Voldemort has indeed returned. I'll depart for London at once. We'll begin plans for the Dementors removal as soon as possible.”

He nodded to himself in reassurance, then turned and hastily shuffled out of the Hospital Wing. He paused at the door, before turning to Harry and returning to his bedside.

“Your winnings,” said Fudge, dropping a heavy pouch of rattling coins onto the bedside table, “One thousand galleons, as promised. There should have been a presentation ceremony but under the circumstances -”

He then continued towards the door, with only the departing words of, “I'll be in touch, Dumbledore.”

“Of course, Cornelius. Farewell,” replied Dumbledore.

The Minister's footsteps died away, and the Headmaster turned to Harry.

“I think more rest is in order, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore kindly, his eyes twinkling over his half-moon glasses once more. Harry could only nod mutely, headache returned with vengeance.

Madam Pomfrey quickly bustled into her office in search of the Dreamless Sleep potion Harry required. Harry couldn't help himself.

“Professor ...” began Harry slowly, “What else will we need to do? Recruiting the giants surely won't be enough -”

“Certainly, Harry. More is required,” said Dumbledore, “We must rely on our fellows to help us in this fight. Do not concern yourself for the time being. We may still have a few tricks up our sleeves yet.”

With that he gave Harry a gentle smile and a wink, shook hands with Snape and Professor McGonagall and swept out of the ward just as Madam Pomfrey returned with a goblet in hand.

Professor McGonagall gave him a nod as she too departed the Hospital Wing.

“Goodnight, Potter,” she said as she reached the doors.

“Professor,” Harry called after her. She paused at the door, glancing at him over her shoulder, “You don't perhaps know where my dog's ran off to? Only he was supposed to stay here -”

McGonagall didn't smile but he could have sworn her lips were slightly less pursed than before.

“Sorry, Potter. I don't know. I expect Mr. Filch will find him wandering the corridors before long,” said the Head of Gryffindor curtly. He swore he saw amusement in her eyes at his horrified expression. She continued, “I'll instruct Mr. Filch to return him to you ... unharmed,” she added, as an afterthought.

“Enough questions for tonight, Potter. Come along, now, drink up,” Madam Pomfrey persisted, waving the Dreamless Sleep potion under his nose. Snape stepped forward.

“I hate to delay Mr. Potter's recovery,” sneered Snape, “but I'd like a word with him before he is incapacitated.”

Oh no, Harry thought, mortified. What had he done now? Perhaps Snape was going to try and blame him for tonight's events. Or for thieving from his private stores. Of course that had been Crouch, but he was sure Snape would try to lay the blame on him somehow. Maybe he was going to be expelled. The death of another student was his fault. He had told Cedric to take the Cup with him. Or he could just be doing this to torture him. Or trying to get an opportunity to take house points away from Gryffindor. Or ...

“You can stop that ceaseless train of thought, Potter,” Snape's cold voice cut into his rampaging mind. “You should know,” he sneered, “that your godfather will not be returning.”

Harry snapped his gaze to the Potions Master, sitting up straighter in the bed and paying close attention to whatever Snape had to say.

“And no, he is not currently locked in Mr Filch's office with Mrs. Norris,” scoffed Snape, “he has been sent away on the Headmaster's behest.”

Snape turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the ward. The Potions Master seemed to feel this was a satisfactory explanation. It was not.

“Professor?” Harry called, “Professor! Sent away? To do what?”

Snape glared at him with all the loathing he could muster.

“That,” he said, “is none of your business, Potter.”

And he left.