Dumbledore returning to the Ministry of Magic was as if he were returning ho, completely at ease.
Or rather, for soone like him, he could quickly take command of any place he went.
Fudge's expression wasn't pleasant.
Dumbledore was like a dieval pope; as long as he was around, Fudge, the Minister of Magic, would always be nothing more than a figurehead, never able to gain true respect!
Just like now, when Fudge proposed proceeding with the Quidditch World Cup as planned, many people present looked doubtful.
But as soon as Dumbledore spoke, their attitudes shifted imdiately, as if they didn't even see Fudge, the Minister of Magic, standing there!
Fudge really wanted to slam the table and loudly tell Dumbledore: I am the Minister of Magic!
But he didn't dare.
How could he openly defy the greatest wizard of their ti?
"You see, since Albus has said so, I believe you all won't have any further objections," Fudge said, forcing a wealthy and amiable expression, as though he and Dumbledore were the closest of allies.
However, he turned back to Dumbledore, now showing a troubled look on his face.
"Albus, please have a seat," Fudge said.
He stood up and offered his chair to Dumbledore, then showed a sorrowful expression and sincerely added, "Regarding the Triwizard Tournant, I think... it's best to cancel it. You know about Barty, don't you? He went to France and never ca back. Poor old chap..."
Old Barty Crouch had been killed after Voldemort's return, of course.
Neither Voldemort nor Barty Jr. would have spared him.
Dumbledore had already learned of this from Harry, but the officials at the Ministry of Magic still believed that Crouch had been assassinated by one of the Death Eaters he had sentenced long ago.
Although Barty Crouch Sr. had been deed ruthless and power-hungry for sentencing his own son, his tragic end still elicited so sympathy.
Even after so much ti had passed, his body had yet to be found, and many felt a certain sadness about it.
"Now, the Departnt of International Magical Cooperation is still being temporarily led by Dolores..." Fudge said, and as he ntioned this, a middle-aged woman dressed entirely in pink pursed her lips sweetly and gave a couple of fake coughs, as if sothing unpleasant were stuck in her throat.
She imdiately drew everyone's attention. Her garish outfit stood out, clashing starkly with the predominantly black, white, and grey tones of the magical world.
Dumbledore glanced at her, his expression calm.
"Hello, Madam Umbridge."
"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," Umbridge replied, her voice high-pitched and grating. Even those who had worked with her for a while, like Scrimgeour, couldn't help but frown in irritation.
Dumbledore, however, remained gracious. He smiled kindly and looked at Umbridge with his usual warm deanor.
"Regarding the Triwizard Tournant, I am truly regretful," Umbridge began, her unpleasant eyes gleaming with malice. "But at this point, we must prioritize safety, so it would be best to cancel it."
"That would be quite unfortunate," Dumbledore said, appearing troubled, though he had already devised a plan.
He knew what Fudge wanted, and as for Umbridge, she was rely a mouthpiece for the Minister.
"You see, the Triwizard Tournant was sothing we proposed. We've already reached agreents with Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and they've been preparing for months. If we cancel it now, who knows what the International Confederation of Wizards will think of us? I'm afraid they might consider the British Ministry of Magic indecisive, incompetent, and ineffective."
Both Fudge and Umbridge's faces imdiately stiffened.
"On the other hand, if the Triwizard Tournant is a success, the Ministry's reputation will rise. Cornelius, we both know our Quidditch team's performance hasn't been particularly impressive in recent years. I believe people would be thrilled to see a rousing victory after enduring those losses."
"Do you have confidence in winning? Even with Ilvermorny participating in the Triwizard Tournant?" Fudge couldn't help but ask.
"I have always had confidence in the students of Hogwarts," Dumbledore nodded.
It was clear that Fudge was tempted by the idea.
Compared to the Quidditch World Cup, held every four years, the revival of the Triwizard Tournant, which had been discontinued for centuries, was far more attention-grabbing.
When the history of the British magical world was written, Cornelius Fudge's na wouldn't just be rembered for his term in office. Instead, it would say:
Cornelius Oswald Fudge, who took office as Minister for Magic in 1990, was instruntal in the revival of the ancient tradition of the Triwizard Tournant, working alongside Albus Dumbledore to lead Hogwarts to victory!
"That would be wonderful—Ahem, alright," Fudge nodded. "I think you're right, Albus. But I hope Hogwarts wins."
"That is our shared hope," Dumbledore agreed. He stood, ready to leave, but just as he was about to step out the door, he paused, as if rembering sothing.
"Oh, by the way, the letter ntioned that before the World Cup begins, the Arican Magical Congress will send representatives to the Ministry for negotiations. The exact date will be confird later."
With that, Dumbledore finally left the room.
At the sa ti.
Cyrus traveled to the Arican Magical Congress to prepare for the upcoming Triwizard Tournant.
Arican wizards were quite different from their British counterparts. In Britain, wizards lived in isolation, with most residing in remote countryside areas. Only a small portion lived in secluded small towns where they coexisted with Muggles.
Even then, they took great care to prevent Muggles from approaching their hos, avoiding contact at all costs.
In contrast, most Arican wizards lived in cities. The Magical Congress of the United States itself was located inside the Woolworth Building in New York City.
No one could tell if the sharply dressed individuals, hurrying into the Woolworth Building with briefcases in hand, were high-ranking governnt officials or simply wizards.
Today, Cyrus wasn't wearing wizarding robes; instead, he had donned a sleek suit.
His tall elegant fra and handso features drew attention, but his slightly arrogant expression kept people at a distance. It was as if he were the sun itself, radiating heat that would burn anyone who dared to co too close.
The entrance to the Woolworth Building was bustling with people, most of them middle-aged or older, in their forties or fifties. Soone as young as Cyrus was a rare sight.
Yet, no one seed to find his presence out of place. It was as if his natural air of nobility marked him as soone who naturally belonged in a place of power.
The doors to the building were enchanted, allowing only wizards to pass through into a separate space that led to the Arican Magical Congress.
Cyrus muttered a spell, and what appeared to be an ordinary door transford into one adorned with owl sculptures. Of course, this magic didn't always work perfectly.
Occasionally, a Muggle—or "No-Maj," as they were called in Arica—would accidentally stumble into the Magical Congress. In such cases, wizards would simply cast an Obliviate spell to erase their mory before sending them on their way.
As soon as Cyrus entered, he was greeted by a vast and expansive plaza.
At the center of the plaza stood a gray, hollowed-out tower.
The tower wasn't very tall, but every morning when the sun rose, sunlight would pour through the glass windows of the Woolworth Building, passing through the hollow spaces of the tower, creating the appearance of a sacred pathway leading to the heavens.
Golden sunlight stread through Cyrus's hair, making him look as if he were glowing.
The witch at the reception desk for visitors froze for a mont, clearly caught off guard. After a while, she finally composed herself and addressed Cyrus, "Sir, visitors are required to register their wands."
Cyrus handed over his wand.
The receptionist picked up the wand and examined it, imdiately frowning. 'Hmm?'
__________
12 Advance Chapters—
Reviews
All reviews (0)