Scrimgeour returned to the entrance of the Ministry Atrium.
The Ministry of Magic was still brightly lit late at night. Several staff members on duty were walking through the hall, and they stopped in fright when they saw Scrimgeour's blood-covered face.
"Director!" a young witch exclaimed.
"I'm fine," Scrimgeour said coldly, never breaking stride.
He strode toward the lift, its metal grille clanging shut behind him.
The lift slowly rose.
He stared at the changing floor numbers, unable to shake the image of that vertically slit pupil from his mind.
With a ding, the lift stopped on the floor housing the Minister's Office.
Two Aurors stood in the corridor. Both looked shocked at the sight of Scrimgeour.
"Director, your eyes-"
"Move," Scrimgeour said.
He headed straight for the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.
He pushed the door open and walked in, but he seemed to have come at a bad time.
The air in the Minister's Office seemed frozen. Fudge sat behind his desk, his face flushed crimson and his forehead covered in beads of sweat.
Dumbledore stood in the middle of the room.
His back was to the door, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the floor.
His hands were clasped behind his back, and his posture looked relaxed, yet the oppressive atmosphere throughout the room made it hard to breathe.
"...I'll say it again, Cornelius." Dumbledore's voice was quiet. "The Ministry of Magic can have a different minister. You have never been indispensable to this position."
Fudge's lips trembled. "I... I only wanted..."
"You wanted to capture Voldemort before I did." Dumbledore turned around, his blue eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles utterly cold. "You wanted to prove you were more capable than me."
At the name "Voldemort," Fudge shuddered.
"Had you succeeded, I would have said nothing against it. On the contrary, I would have praised you sincerely."
"But you failed," Dumbledore said. "Your haste alerted Voldemort and allowed him to escape."
"Now Quirrell is dead, the whereabouts of Voldemort's remnant soul are unknown, and a powerful wizard of unknown identity is operating in the shadows."
Dumbledore took a step forward.
Fudge instinctively shrank back.
"Anyone can be Minister for Magic, Cornelius." Dumbledore lowered his voice. "But it must never be someone who holds us back."
The office was so quiet that the crackling of logs in the fireplace could be heard.
Just then, Scrimgeour cleared his throat.
Dumbledore and Fudge turned their heads at the same time.
"Scrimgeour!" Fudge straightened abruptly, as though clutching at a lifeline. "You're back! How did it go? Where's Quirrell? Where's You-Know-Who?"
Scrimgeour walked into the room and stood beside Dumbledore.
He briefly recounted everything that had happened on the beach:
From his use of the Time-Turner to travel back, to seeing You-Know-Who threaten the fisherman, to the appearance of the strange wizard in a trench coat, and finally to that vertically slit pupil and the shattering of the Time-Turner.
"...That's what happened." He finished recounting his entire earlier experience in one go.
Dumbledore stared at Scrimgeour, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his Half-moon Spectacles.
"You said you saw a vertically slit pupil?" Dumbledore asked slowly.
"Yes." Scrimgeour nodded. "A vertically slit pupil filled with divinity. He... he seemed to see right through me and kicked me straight back to my original time and space. The Time-Turner shattered too."
Dumbledore nodded. "Please put your memory into the Pensieve. I'd like to take a look inside."
Scrimgeour nodded and walked to the corner of the room, where a stone Pensieve stood, its rim engraved with intricate runes.
He drew his wand and pressed its tip to his temple, slowly drawing out a strand of silvery-white memory.
Scrimgeour dropped the memory into the Pensieve. The silvery-white substance slowly swirled inside like a disturbed nebula.
Dumbledore walked over to the Pensieve, bent down, and plunged his head into it.
Silence fell over the office again.
After about a minute, Dumbledore straightened, looking somewhat puzzled.
"Well?" Fudge asked eagerly.
Dumbledore shook his head.
"In your memory, Rufus," he said, looking at Scrimgeour, "I only saw you crouching behind a sand dune and spotting You-Know-Who. Then... you were back in that fishing tackle shop."
Scrimgeour frowned deeply. "What?"
"I did not see that vertically slit pupil," Dumbledore said. "Nor did I see the wizard in the trench coat."
"There was a gap in your memory at that moment. It skipped straight to you waking up with the shattered Time-Turner in your hand."
Scrimgeour raised a hand and touched his still-aching eyes.
"That vertically slit pupil..." he said quietly. "He didn't want to be seen."
"Perhaps." Dumbledore nodded. "Your memory may be protected by some ancient magic, or that section may have been erased outright. Even I cannot look into it."
Scrimgeour pondered for a moment.
"Even now, I can only recall the outline of that vertically slit pupil," he said. "Perhaps we need someone from the Department of Mysteries to take a look. They've done more research into time and souls."
"I'll arrange it," Dumbledore said.
Just then, the office door was flung open.
A young wizard stumbled in, clutching a piece of parchment.
"M-Minister!" he said breathlessly. "There's news from St. Mungo's Hospital! That Muggle! Most of his memories have been restored!"
Fudge leapt to his feet. "What?!"
"But there's still a small portion they can't restore at all!" the young wizard said rapidly. "The healers say they don't dare force it, for fear of turning the Muggle into an idiot."
Fudge looked at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore and Scrimgeour exchanged a glance.
"Then let's go and look at that Muggle's memories," Dumbledore said.
"I'm coming too," Scrimgeour said immediately.
Fudge opened his mouth, seemingly about to say he would come too, but swallowed his words when he saw Dumbledore's gaze.
"You will remain here, Cornelius." Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument. "Collect your thoughts and deal with the aftermath at the Ministry of Magic."
Fudge's face twitched. In the end, he nodded weakly.
Dumbledore and Scrimgeour turned and left the office.
They walked down the corridor to the Floo Network fireplace.
"St. Mungo's Hospital, waiting room." Dumbledore scattered a handful of Floo Powder, and green flames rose.
Scrimgeour followed close behind.
St. Mungo's Hospital was in central London, its exterior disguised as an old department store.
Inside, however, it was spacious and bright, filled with the mingled scents of herbs and disinfectant.
Quite a few people were already standing in the fifth-floor corridor of the Spell Damage Department.
McGonagall leaned against the wall, Snape stood in a corner, and Flitwick sat on a tall stool.
There were also several veteran members of the Order of the Phoenix.
Emmeline Vance leaned by the window, while Dedalus Diggle was speaking quietly with a healer.
Everyone looked up when Dumbledore emerged from the fireplace.
"Albus." McGonagall came forward. "How are things?"
"Complicated," Dumbledore said briefly.
He nodded to everyone in greeting.
Scrimgeour stepped out of the fireplace and raised his eyebrows slightly at the gathering in the corridor.
"Where is the Muggle?" Dumbledore asked.
"This way." A healer wearing a green badge hurried to lead them. "We've put him in a private ward. He's still unconscious, but his vital signs are stable."
Everyone followed the healer along the corridor to a quiet ward.
The fisherman lay in bed beneath a spotless white sheet, breathing steadily, looking as though he were simply asleep.
But his brow was slightly furrowed, as if he were experiencing something unsettling in his dreams.
Dumbledore approached the bed and looked down at the fisherman.
He extended the Elder Wand in his hand and gently touched it to the fisherman's temple.
"Don't worry," he said softly, as though speaking to the fisherman, yet also as though talking to himself. "We won't hurt you."
He gave a gentle flick of his wrist.
A strand of silvery-white memory was drawn from the fisherman's temple. Dumbledore carefully guided it toward the center of the ward.
A larger Pensieve had already been placed there, one St. Mungo's Hospital used to diagnose patients with spell damage.
The silvery-white memory fell into the basin and slowly swirled, giving off a faint light.
Dumbledore straightened and looked around.
"Let us all take a look." Dumbledore's voice carried an irresistible force. "Let us see just who defeated Quirrell."
He approached the Pensieve and reached into the silvery-white substance.
McGonagall followed immediately, reaching her hand in, then Snape, Flitwick, Scrimgeour, and the other Order of the Phoenix members.
One after another, they all entered the fisherman's memory.
They felt as though they had passed through a thin, icy mist.
Then they were standing on the beach, the salty, damp night breeze brushing everyone's faces.
Moonlight spilled across the shimmering sea, and several small fishing boats lay anchored in the distance.
They saw a strange man in a black cloak standing beside a boat, speaking to the fisherman.
The strange man turned, and the moonlight illuminated his deathly pale face, scarlet eyes, and narrow nostrils.
Several stifled gasps rose from the group.
"You-Know-Who..." someone whispered.
Although everyone knew this was only a memory, seeing that face with their own eyes still sent a chill rising from the soles of their feet.
The memory continued, and the fisherman refused the black-robed man's demand.
The black-robed man raised his wand, and an emerald light began gathering at its tip.
The Killing Curse.
Several Order of the Phoenix members instinctively reached for their wands, even though they knew it was pointless.
Just as the green light was about to shoot out-
A beam of dark red light shot in from the side!
The two beams collided in midair with a piercing bang.
The green light was knocked forcibly off course, grazing past the fisherman's ear and blasting a charred hole in the cabin behind him.
The fisherman collapsed to the ground in fright.
Everyone whipped their heads around toward the source of the red light.
Beneath the moonlight, a figure slowly approached.
He wore a long black trench coat, its hem flapping in the sea breeze.
His figure was slender and his pace unhurried, giving an impression of composure.
But when he drew closer, everyone froze.
A layer of mist seemed to shroud the man's face.
His features were indistinct, as though an eraser had rubbed out the crucial details, leaving only a rough human silhouette.
"It seems," Dumbledore's voice rang out within the memory, carrying a trace of regret, "this is the small portion of the memory that could not be restored."
"He erased every piece of information about his appearance," Scrimgeour said, a hint of admiration in his tone. "His magical mastery is considerable."
The memory continued to play.
After the man in the trench coat told the fisherman to flee, only he and You-Know-Who remained on the beach.
What happened next made everyone hold their breath.
Quirrell regained control of his body, and the two began to fight.
Red light, blue light, golden light... spells of every kind poured from their wands like a torrential downpour.
The man in the trench coat cast spells at tremendous speed, with almost no pauses. Spell after spell formed an impenetrable net of firepower.
Quirrell, a former top student of Ravenclaw and an expert in Defence Against Dark Magic, was utterly overwhelmed.
"Merlin's beard..." Flitwick could not help murmuring, shock in his voice. "That casting rhythm..."
Quirrell attempted to fight back, firing a nonverbal Killing Curse.
But the man in the trench coat seemed to have anticipated it, sidestepping half a beat early, and the green light missed again.
Then the man in the trench coat answered with a precise Disarming Charm.
The red light struck Quirrell's wrist, and his wand flew from his hand.
Immediately afterward, the force of the Disarming Charm knocked Quirrell to his knees.
The battle was over.
From beginning to end, the man in the trench coat had given Quirrell no chance at all.
He had defeated an elite wizard possessed by Voldemort with near ease.
"He looks... very young," Emmeline Vance murmured.
She had voiced everyone's thoughts. Judging by his build, this mysterious powerhouse was no older than twenty-five.
"How is that possible..." Dedalus Diggle's eyes widened. "How could a young man have that level of combat experience?"
The memory continued.
Quirrell knelt on the ground and looked up at the man in the trench coat.
Quirrell seemed to say a few words, then suddenly lunged forward, driving his neck onto the tip of the wand in the trench-coated man's hand.
"He chose to end his own life..." Flitwick said quietly, his expression complicated. "Quirrell... in the end, he actually..."
Quirrell's body fell onto the beach. A moment later, a cloud of black mist surged from the back of his head.
That deathly pale face emerged, roared at the man in the trench coat, then swiftly dissipated into the night sky.
At that point, the memory went dark.
Everyone stood in the darkness without saying a word, stunned by everything they had just seen.
After a long while, Dumbledore waved his hand.
The scene around them began to run backward, as though someone had pressed rewind.
They returned once more to the moment the battle began.
Dumbledore rewound the memory and replayed the part where the two fought.
As they watched, their expressions shifted from shock to solemnity.
"He saw right through Quirrell's style of magic, as though... as though he'd fought Quirrell countless times before."
"His experience in magical combat must be incredibly extensive. I find it hard to imagine he's so young!"
"An unbelievable fighting style. He kept his opponent suppressed from beginning to end!"
"With strength like that, who could be sure of beating him?"
Everyone exchanged glances, then turned their eyes to Dumbledore together.
But Dumbledore paid no attention to what the others were saying. He stared at the man in the trench coat and murmured, as though asking a question:
"...A champion of justice for fun?"