Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

Rufus Scrimgeour’s sudden action was unsettling. No one was sure what he was planning.

More accurately, no one knew what the Minister for Magic was supposed to do.

Anyone in Scrimgeour’s shoes would likely be at a loss in the face of such a dire situation.

In Evan’s view, the Ministry of Magic and the existing order of the Wizarding world were already beyond saving. Leaving aside Voldemort’s overwhelming power, the Ministry itself had been corrupted by greedy, decaying officials and pure-blood fanatics. Without ridding itself of them, the Ministry had no chance of victory. Just think — Dolores Umbridge, who had committed so many absurd acts at Hogwarts, could still serve as Senior Undersecretary. What hope was there for such a Ministry?

Scrimgeour’s hope of single-handedly turning the tide was unrealistic.

Furthermore, it was unclear how many supporters he still had, and those he considered loyal were likely already under magical control.

Evan tossed and turned in bed, pondering for a long time, and concluded that the only possible salvation for the Ministry was to seek rebirth in destruction.

As for Scrimgeour himself, he probably no longer had much of a chance.

The next day, Bill and Fleur’s wedding went ahead as planned.

Mr. Weasley did not go to the Ministry, as he had to oversee the wedding, while Sirius and Lupin had left overnight.

At around five o’clock, Sirius relayed the latest news: the Ministry was deeply divided over Scrimgeour’s intentions, which was why no action had been taken. They had been discussing the possibility of an attack on Malfoy Manor and a decisive battle with Voldemort overnight. Judging by past experience, if the discussion dragged on, the matter would likely fall through.

Still, Sirius and the others would continue to keep a close watch on the Ministry’s situation. If nothing went wrong, they would attend the wedding that afternoon.

So, from the current perspective, there was nothing to worry about; it was just another farce.

After receiving Sirius’s letter, Mrs. Weasley seemed to cheer up a little, but soon another letter arrived by owl.

She read it alone in the kitchen. When she came back out, Evan noticed her eyes were red — she had clearly been crying.

No one said a word; everyone knew the letter was from Percy.

Ever since graduation, Percy’s relationship with everyone had deteriorated, almost beyond repair.

After breakfast, Evan, Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were arranged to stand outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Evan and Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and were now the doubles of two red-haired Muggle boys from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole. From whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm.

The plan was to introduce Evan and Harry as “Cousins Barmer and Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage them.

Around nine o’clock, the invited guests began to arrive.

They were all relatives of the Weasleys, and there were many of them. A Wizarding family with a thousand-year history was bound to have countless relations, near and far. It was like a great tree: the part above the ground might not seem large, but the roots below were tangled and far-reaching. The Weasleys were like this, and so too were the other pure-blood families.

Sometimes, these connections could play a surprising role.

If you thought that pure-blood Wizarding families were nothing more than a bunch of shabby wizards living in old houses passed down for generations, you would be gravely mistaken.

All five of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats.

Around half past nine, a host of white-robed waiters arrived along with a golden-jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree; a blue haze of pipe smoke could be seen issuing from the spot.

The entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet.

The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow.

“How are you feeling, Evan?” Harry asked, feeling uncomfortable.

The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was slightly fatter than him, and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day.

“Boiling — I’m about to faint!” said Evan. He was sweltering too, though at least the Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was not too fat. “How long do we have to stand here?”

“Until all the guests arrive, probably more than an hour yet. And these are just the morning guests. There will be more coming in the afternoon, so we have to welcome them here,” said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes. “This is terrible. When I get married, I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”

“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said George. “You all saw it. She cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him?”

“It’s better if he doesn’t come!” Fred continued. “By the way, where’s Sirius? Did Lupin come last night? What happened?”

“There’s some trouble at the Ministry,” said Evan. “Scrimgeour has gathered all the Aurors and wants to have a decisive battle with Voldemort!”

“What?!”

“Don’t panic — he only has the idea. No one supports him. The Ministry’s divided, and they’re still arguing. Most likely it’ll come to nothing.”

“The Ministry’s hopeless! I’ve never heard of a stupider battle plan! Discussing a surprise attack all night and half the morning. Do they really think the enemy—” George broke off abruptly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Oh blimey. Fred, brace yourself — here they come, look!”

Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one, out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard.

Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee.

Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.

“Excellent, I think I see a few Veela cousins,” said George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after them. …”

“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading the procession, he said, “Here — permettez-moi to assister vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside.

George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches, where he could be heard shouting his complaints loudly.

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