Incompetent Minister of Magic

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Fudge leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Barty Crouch Sr.'s downfall was complete, and his carefully crafted interrogation record was a delicious vindication. But his moment of triumph was shattered by Ethan's following words.

"In addition, Barty Crouch Jr. also explained some other things," Ethan said in a low voice, his gaze fixed on a point beyond Fudge's head.

Fudge's smirk evaporated, replaced by a flicker of unease. He leaned forward, his eyes searching Ethan's face. "What is it?"

"Voldemort has become immortal," Ethan revealed, his voice devoid of emotion.

The Minister seemed to shrink in his chair, the color draining from his face.

"Ethan, are you serious? How is that possible?" His voice trembled, a stark contrast to his earlier bravado.

Ethan knew Fudge's history of dismissing warnings about Voldemort's return. He could have used more time with theatrics. "I said before that Voldemort made a Horcruxe," he began, his tone patient but firm.

Fudge nodded rapidly, his eyes wide with a morbid fascination that Ethan found unsettling. "Yes, yes, I remember."

"I found out that Voldemort didn't just make one Horcrux; he used them to preserve his soul, which gave him near-immortality," Ethan explained, observing Fudge's reaction.

"More than one?" Fudge's voice cracked a hint of raw terror, replacing his morbid curiosity. The existence of one Horcrux was terrifying enough—the thought of multiple sent shivers down his spine.

"So, where is he…?" Fudge stammered, fear twisting his features. The jovial Minister who'd reveled in Barty Crouch Sr.'s downfall was a distant memory.

"I don't know, Minister. Barty Crouch Jr. was even willing to use the Obliviate charm on himself to protect his master's secret," Ethan said, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.

Fudge slumped back in his chair, despair clouding his eyes. He was utterly out of his depth. Here he was, the Minister of Magic, facing a threat he couldn't comprehend, let alone combat.

"But there is a sliver of good news, Minister," Ethan said, sensing Fudge's imminent breakdown. "Voldemort's current situation must be terrible."

A flicker of hope, faint but desperate, ignited in Fudge's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Voldemort was badly wounded by Harry Potter, and that injury almost killed him. So currently, he's in a state of life and death," Ethan explained, his words carefully measured.

The weight of his statement hung heavy in the air. While Voldemort's weakened state offered a reprieve, it did not guarantee lasting peace.

"The most critical question now," Ethan continued, his voice low and urgent, "is that many former Death Eaters are still in the Ministry of Magic. If they hear the news that Voldemort is not dead, what will they do?"

Fudge's face contorted in worry. The "former" Death Eaters were a thorn in his side. Their pure-blood lineage and the flimsy "Imperius Curse" excuses made it near impossible to hold them accountable. With Voldemort's return a possibility, those "reformed" individuals posed a significant threat.

"Ethan," Fudge said, his voice tight with anxiety. I need you to keep a close eye on these… individuals. If you notice any suspicious activity or whispers of allegiance, report it immediately."

"I understand, Minister," Ethan said, a glint of determination in his eyes. Monitoring the former Death Eaters was just one piece of the puzzle. With Voldemort's return a horrifying reality, Ethan's true plans, long shrouded in secrecy, were about to take shape.

Fudge's face contorted into a mask of worry as Ethan spoke of the lingering Death Eaters. Relief flickered for a brief moment when Ethan mentioned containing Barty Crouch Jr., but a calculating glint quickly replaced it. Instead of offering a ministry-wide initiative, Fudge said he'd handle the "former" Death Eaters. This subtle shift confirmed Ethan's suspicions. Fudge, the power-hungry politician, saw an opportunity to eliminate rivals and consolidate his control.

A barely perceptible smile played at the corner of Ethan's mouth. Fudge's paranoia was precisely the weapon he needed. "By the way, Minister," Ethan said casually, "to ensure Barty Crouch Jr. doesn't become a rallying point, I took… precautionary measures."

Fudge's eyes narrowed. "Precautionary measures? What exactly do you mean?" The bluster in his voice was tinged with a hint of unease.

Ethan shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Nothing permanent, Minister. Just a small… inconvenience."

Relief washed over Fudge's face, so transparent it was almost comical. He waved a dismissive hand. "See to it, then. As long as he's contained, I don't care what methods you employ."

Ethan's disappointment was sharp. Fudge, the self-serving politician, was more concerned with political maneuvering than eliminating the threat. He left Fudge to stew in his anxieties and went to Barty Crouch Sr.'s office.

A thorough search yielded nothing incriminating. Barty Crouch indeed seemed to have had no involvement with the Death Eaters. But amidst the mundane paperwork, he unearthed a goldmine – a thick stack of letters addressed to Barty Crouch.

A quick scan revealed a veritable who's who of pure-blood families, all eager to curry favor with the future Minister. A particularly oily letter from Lucius Malfoy stood out, followed by an unexpected one – Dolores Umbridge. A cruel smile twisted Ethan's lips. Umbridge, Fudge's closest confidante, whispering sweet nothings in one ear while trying to curry favor with Barty Crouch in the other. This was pure gold. Fudge wouldn't tolerate such betrayal, and the fallout would be delicious.

As he meticulously copied the letters, the office door creaked open.

"Come in," Ethan called out, surprised to have a visitor at this late hour.

The figure who entered was unexpected – Lucius Malfoy, impeccably dressed in black robes, his signature silver cane with the serpent's head glinting in the lamplight. The air crackled with a nervous energy that was ultimately out of character for the usually composed aristocrat.

"Mr. Ethan," Lucius said, his voice tight with barely concealed urgency. "I seem to have misplaced a few… letters in Barty Crouch's office. Perhaps you could see to their return?"

The urgency in Lucius's voice betrayed his usual aristocratic composure. It was clear - the content of those letters could spell serious trouble for him. The question was, why? Was it simply a matter of lost political capital, or was something more sinister hidden within those pages?