Rufus Scrimgeour had been under considerable strain of late.
Eleven months ago, when Cornelius Fudge's government collapsed, Scrimgeour—then Head of the Auror Office—had been promoted to Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was a post second only to the Minister for Magic, making him, in effect, the number two figure in the British wizarding world.
At the time, many thought him destined for even higher things, perhaps the next Minister. Looking back, that promise now felt more like a curse.
To most, Scrimgeour had always been a sharp, hard man, the sort others compared to an old lion. Even his looks did him no favors with Dark wizards: tawny hair, heavy brows streaked with grey, and keen eyes glinting behind gold-rimmed spectacles.
He moved fast, drove hard, and had spent most of his career dragging Dark wizards to heel, achievements the Ministry could point to with some pride.
No one was applauding. The anger that had curdled during Fudge's last year had merely shifted targets. Now it sat with the Ministry.
Wizards and witches complained the response to the Dark Lord and his followers had been too slow. It was not, strictly speaking, Scrimgeour's fault or that of the current Ministry—though that did not stop people blaming him.
Worse, Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix had only sharpened the contrast.
Even Scrimgeour had to admit it: in the fight against the Dark Lord and his lot, Hogwarts and the Order had done a very great deal. Their leader, Albus Dumbledore, had died for it.
Their successes, however, made the Ministry look "inept."
Most of the Death Eaters taken in had been caught by the Order. The major crises of the last two years had been solved by Hogwarts and the Order. Even the Dark Lord himself had been struck down twice in two years by Hogwarts and the Order.
It was not good optics. The Ministry's dignity mattered. If the Ministry's authority went to pieces, the rest of the country would not be far behind.
So, after Dumbledore's funeral—after the Dark Lord and his followers had been beaten back, Scrimgeour had worked to tamp down Hogwarts' and the Order's prestige.
He had failed.
The source of it, maddeningly, was Hogwarts' new Headmaster. In a final, astonishing move, Dumbledore had named a not-yet-seventeen-year-old former Hogwarts student as Headmaster. More astonishing still, Hogwarts' staff had not meaningfully objected.
The boy was very adept at politics.
In the past two months he had turned out a polished, relentless campaign for the Order. Scrimgeour's plan fell apart. All anyone wanted to talk about now were Hogwarts and the Order—their efforts, their sacrifices. No one seemed to remember that, when it came to facing the Dark Lord head-on, the Ministry had been the main force.
Even Barnabas Cuffe of the Daily Prophet, once the Ministry's reliable mouthpiece, was now—via his old Head of House, Horace Slughorn, fluttering his lashes at Hogwarts' Headmaster. If they could not hold even the Prophet, the rout was complete.
Yesterday made it worse. The Prophet ran My Godfather, Sirius, and the Ministry was buried under an avalanche of Howlers. Scrimgeour himself was blasted twice in a single day. He spent the rest of it explaining to the public that the man who had ordered Sirius Black to Azkaban without trial, Barty Crouch Sr., a former DMLE Director—had been dead for over two years.
Scrimgeour was prepared to admit the Ministry had been hasty in the Black affair. But that was hardly a license to set upon the Ministry like wolves.
There might well be a plot in it, a campaign against the Ministry. He could feel the drift of it, and he could not turn the tide.
He sighed, took off his spectacles, and polished them carefully. Perhaps it was the mood that made even his lenses seem blurred these days.
"Rufus Scrimgeour." The voice came soft from the wall.
He slid his spectacles back on and scanned the portraits. "Everard," he said, face settling into its usual severity. "What is it?"
The Ministry's walls were lined with portraits of witches and wizards who had made great contributions over the centuries. Scrimgeour's deepest private ambition was to join them after death.
"I bring a message from Jon Hart, Headmaster of Hogwarts," Everard said, grave and clear. "He would like a word with you."
"Headmaster Hart wants to see me?" Scrimgeour's expression shifted.
In truth, he wanted very much to have words with the young Headmaster—about the last two months and the way the Ministry had been handled.
He kept his tone formal. "I've no objection, but I won't go to Hogwarts. I imagine I'm not welcome there."
He was the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Ministry's number two. He would keep his dignity.
"Hart thought you might say so," Everard replied mildly. "He asks you to meet him in a pub in Hogsmeade. Share a Butterbeer."
Scrimgeour considered, then nodded. "Very well. Tell Headmaster Hart I agree."
Everard's frame emptied as he went to carry the message.
Scrimgeour felt himself settle. If they were to meet properly, if there was to be negotiation,
If memory served, during a recent interrogation the boy had let slip an unusual connection with the Greengrass family.
That might be the opening.