The Times Have Changed

Voldemort had been beaten into a miserable retreat by Dumbledore. That should have been cause for celebration.

But Fudge could not bring himself to feel happy at all.

"Voldemort's return," "Dumbledore's true strength," "the worst Triwizard Tournament," "an incompetent Ministry of Magic"...

His mind was crammed with countless possible headlines. The impact of that global broadcast had been far too damaging.

Domestic public opinion was hard to predict, but the international coverage would definitely be overwhelmingly negative.

And through that broadcast, Fudge had realized something he had long overlooked: the overwhelming power Dumbledore possessed.

Although Voldemort had only just regained his strength, he had indeed been beaten into a miserable retreat, even abandoning his fiercely loyal servant.

Fudge took a deep breath. After calming himself down, he narrowed his eyes at Vincent, who had his back to him after ending the broadcast.

This young man had been playing dumb while hiding his strength all along. It was time to put away those tricks he used to fool children.

In the world of adults, there was no right or wrong—only eternal interests.

"Mr. Wayne."

Vincent turned around. "What is it, Mr. Minister?"

Fudge displayed his signature hypocritical smile. "We will be dealing with the spies in the Ministry next. Do you have any suggestions?"

His attitude was gentle. It seemed that, after finding brute force ineffective, he had decided to try a softer approach.

Vincent kept a straight face. "My suggestion is that they receive the 'highest standard' of hospitality."

Fudge smiled, seemingly unconcerned by his attitude. "Thank you for your suggestion, Dolores—"

Umbridge hurried forward respectfully. "Yes, Minister?"

"Notify Scrimgeour and have him lead a team to Little Hangleton immediately." Fudge paused and glanced at Vincent, who was still expressionless. "Dolores, remain here and handle the matters concerning the Triwizard Tournament."

He then walked over to Madame Maxime. "I am terribly sorry, Madam. You must have been quite frightened."

He expertly delivered a string of empty pleasantries, then tentatively stated that the results of the competition would be announced after an investigation, and that a rematch was not out of the question.

Madame Maxime naturally knew he was merely making polite noises.

The fact that Harry and Draco had been taken hundreds of miles away already said plenty. With the Triwizard Cup disappearing alongside them, it seemed Beauxbatons would have to accept a disappointing defeat this year.

She said it was fine and that she did not care much about the results, but she was still somewhat annoyed inside.

Yet when she thought of Durmstrang's performance, her mood improved considerably.

Their former Death Eater headmaster had been controlled by the Imperius Curse, while their Champion had lost his mind because of the pink smoke. If they had not performed even worse, she would probably have stormed off long ago.

"Well then—" Fudge put on his black felt hat. "I should be heading to Little Hangleton. Madam, Vincent, I will need both of you to make time tomorrow to come to the Ministry and give statements."

Vincent would definitely go, but Madame Maxime's situation was somewhat questionable. Fudge was probably still hoping to try silencing her in the end.

With a Minister of Magic blinded by his lust for power, the British Wizarding World truly had terrible luck.

Before leaving, Fudge pulled Umbridge aside and said a few words to her. After that, Umbridge's attitude underwent a complete reversal.

She had bared her teeth at Vincent before, but now her face was full of flattery, and every word she spoke was ingratiating.

"Mr. Wayne, I offended you earlier. Please forgive me."

Vincent was thoroughly disgusted by the performance. He forced himself to wave it off, then returned to the stands with Madame Maxime.

The moment Umbridge watched the two of them leave, her expression changed. She clapped her hands sharply at the Ministry employees. "All right, hurry down there and clear out the maze."

Sigh—having a Senior Deputy Minister who was incompetent yet constantly gave orders really was a curse.

When Vincent returned to the stands, he naturally received a hero's welcome.

Although they could not hear what had been said below, Fudge and Umbridge's utterly miserable expressions alone told them that Vincent had restored the interrupted broadcast.

Students were simple, passionate, and easily fired up. Anyone who dared openly stand against the Ministry of Magic was a superhero in their eyes.

Yet amid the cheers ringing through the night sky, two people in the Champions' families' stands wore dark expressions.

Lucius tightly clutched his burning arm, while Narcissa's face was filled more with concern for him.

The pain of the Dark Mark had not lessened but intensified, indicating that Voldemort, who had seemingly fled in disgrace, was gradually recovering.

Had there been no broadcast just now, Lucius might very well have yielded to that power and returned.

But after watching the entire clash between the finest practitioners of light and dark magic, he not only felt heartfelt relief, but also began to loathe the Dark Mark on his arm.

Voldemort might have been the king of clinging to life, but they were not.

Dumbledore had been stabbed in the back by Barty Crouch and still managed to drive him away. If they went, they would only be killed in an instant.

Of those who had escaped the Death Eater trials back then, which one could not see the current situation clearly?

Even old Nott, a veteran Death Eater, had not returned. Only those madmen in Azkaban were probably absolutely loyal.

At that thought, Lucius's expression became even more complicated.

Caught between fear and pain, he felt a trace of hesitation.

The times had changed. This was no longer an era where shouting "pure-blood supremacy" would win the support of countless wizards. Pure-blood ideology was becoming less and less popular.

Look at the Wizarding World now. In their spare time, wizards either watched shows, scrolled through videos, or found a few card players for a round of Gwent.

After their daily lives had been filled with such abundant entertainment, how many wizards still cared about origins and bloodlines?

Lucius looked across the distance at Vincent, surrounded by students on the other side of the stands.

This young man was not even twenty yet. How could he possibly have considered the distant future?

But regardless, the Malfoy Family truly needed to make preparations.

Voldemort had fled in disgrace, while Dumbledore was already in his twilight years.

Offering help in desperate times would certainly earn no gratitude, while the other side had enormous conflicts with their own interests.

Just as Lucius's expression grew even darker, Scrimgeour arrived in Little Hangleton with the Aurors.

An hour ago, there had still been a graveyard here.

Now, all that remained was a stretch of ruins marked by countless traces of dangerous magic.

Draco had already awakened. He was cursing Peter Pettigrew, who had knocked him out, in an attempt to conceal the fear deep in his heart.

Harry held the Triwizard Cup, disguised as a Portkey, as he spoke with Dumbledore. When they noticed the Ministry's arrival, both fell silent.

Dumbledore walked forward with a smile. "Rufus, thank you for your hard work."

Scrimgeour and the Aurors all looked reverent. "Not at all, Mr. Dumbledore. You are the one who has worked the hardest."

After some polite exchanges, Fudge also arrived in Little Hangleton by Apparition.

A hypocritical smile hung on his face as he strode quickly toward Dumbledore.