In Scrimgeour's home, Penelope, restored to human form, gave Scrimgeour a cold glance and stepped on the hand holding his wand with her riding boot. Her black hair shone darkly, making the witch's fair face look almost deathly pale.
Scrimgeour felt the winter floor's bone-piercing chill, but his body was as rigid as a stone statue. The searing pain from his hand only made his heart colder. Furious and alarmed, he rolled his eyes to stare at the female Auror, his mind racing as he tried to work out her ultimate goal.
And as he looked at the murderous intent in her eyes, Scrimgeour suddenly realized—if this was Allen Harris's order...
Feeling the riding boot on his hand press down harder, Scrimgeour, muffled by agony, could only endure it by force. Rage swept through him like a storm. He swore inwardly that if he escaped this crisis, he would expose the hypocritical, cunning, vicious true face of the Harrises and fight them to the end, instead of clinging to any more wishful thinking.
Crack.
The bones in Scrimgeour's hand were crushed to pieces along with his wand.
Those shameless bastards—I fell right into their trap! Scrimgeour could not cry out in pain, but that was what he thought. He realized Allen Harris had never intended to let him go at all. Instead, he had lured him into reaching a reconciliation under the witness of Dumbledore and Bones. Now, if he was killed, Dumbledore and the others would instead become Harris's witnesses of innocence.
"Bastard! Look at that shriveled old face of yours. Do you know how long you made me wait here?!" Penelope cursed. Her boot lifted from the mangled lump of flesh and kicked out again with a thud. "That's for getting in the Harrises' way!"
Scrimgeour's rigid body