A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts

On the first morning of the Easter holiday, Felix donned a set of deep purple robes. He gazed into the mirror for quite a while, realizing the color didn't suit him at all. Just a glance at Valen, chirping and mischievous, confirmed that.

He quietly made some adjustments, deepening the color of the robes. Finally, he smoothed the silver-lettered "W" embroidered on the left chest, making it somewhat presentable.

This attire was issued to him upon joining the Wizengamot, specifically for formal hearings.

Felix stepped out of his house and made his way to the Headmaster's office. Knocking on the door, he was taken aback at the sight of Dumbledore behind the desk—pale-faced, appearing weary, lines etching his face.

"Albus, you startled me," Felix said, his mind racing instantly.

Reflecting, he realized this change had been gradual, not immediately noticeable at first. In the past week, having not seen Dumbledore, the effects became stark.

"It's not easy to conceal things from Voldemort," Dumbledore said with a smile.

"True," Felix had to concede, "I'm just concerned our own people might get alarmed first..."

The two used the fireplace in the Headmaster's office to appear at the Ministry of Magic.

Approaching the golden doors at the end of the hall, they encountered Mad-Eye Moody and Professor Marchbanks waiting for the same lift.

"Been waiting for this day!" Professor Marchbanks exclaimed loudly, facing away as she spoke to Moody. "Some need uplifting; I've noticed a few getting pessimistic lately. Can't fathom why, things have improved so much since the last time."

Moody adjusted his ear, gruffly agreeing, "Right you are."

Felix slowed his pace, letting Dumbledore lead. "Dumbledore?" Professor Marchbanks shifted her attention away from Moody, examining Dumbledore closely. "You look dreadful! No surprise though, with the Dark Forces stirring outside and you, the head of the International Confederation of Wizards, must be quite bothered."

Dumbledore smiled in agreement.

Taking the lift to the ninth floor, navigating a dimly lit corridor, Felix glimpsed the mysterious affairs department's dark door at the end. Unspoken, they turned into the stairwell on the left side, descending to the tenth floor.

Voices echoed near the stairs.

"No need to rearrange the order," a displeased voice of Mrs. Bones stated. "If those people want to observe, let them linger a few days." Hearing footsteps, she looked up, smiling as they approached.

Kingsley nodded and moved in the opposite direction. The torches on the stone walls elongated his shadow, disappearing behind a heavy wooden door.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bones warmly greeted Dumbledore, leading them to their destination.

"Talking about other countries' Ministries?" Felix inquired.

"Yes," Mrs. Bones hummed, her tone lowered. "They're pressuring, I've got to show some resolve. But just like the International Confederation of Wizards' observers, they only have the right to observe, not to speak or vote."

"We're here."

She halted before a foreboding black door, turning the iron handle. Murmurs seeped out from within.

Approximately thirty people occupied the room. Felix squinted, spotting a familiar face. He approached. "Damocles?" Master potion-maker Damocles Belby looked up, initially surprised, then recognition dawned.

"Of course, you're also a member of the Wizengamot, but you've missed the previous gatherings," Belby noted.

Felix exchanged a few words with him. A few wizards seated on benches nearby greeted him while he settled next to Belby. The setting, however, wasn't conducive to socializing. Felix observed the solitary chair in the center, entwined with chains.

Looking around, Felix noticed the careful seat placements today.

The courtroom was enclosed with light-absorbing black stone, intentionally dim, fostering a somber atmosphere. The room was like a recessed amphitheater, benches cascading down on three sides, occupied by individuals dressed in the same deep purple robes as Felix—members of the Wizengamot.

Some journalists, holding quills and parchment, were discreet and cautious, speaking in hushed tones. Felix spotted Rita Skeeter among them.

He recognized people on three sides but not the last—the back of the black chair with chains, distinctly occupied by a group wearing formal attire, their badges and embroidery indicating various organizations. Felix knew them as the 'observers' from different countries' Ministries of Magic.

After another ten minutes, more people entered.

"Knock knock."

The sound of a cane echoed in the chamber. Felix looked up to see a robust figure with bushy hair striding in—the cane tapping the floor. Rufus Scrimgeour.

He joined Mrs. Bones, exchanging a few quiet words before they both took their seats. "Let's begin," Scrimgeour's deep voice reverberated in the courtroom. After Mrs. Bones became Minister, he took over her position and now headed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

As was customary, he presided over this trial.

His words seemed a signal; as soon as he finished speaking, a door in the corner opened, and three people entered. Two towering guards escorted a diminutive man into the courtroom. He was so short that he seemed lifted in mid-air by the guards, tiptoeing incessantly.

The guards settled the small man into the central chair, standing guard on either side. The chains on the ground rose like a serpent, eliciting a frightened reaction from the man.

"Not needed for now," Scrimgeour stated, and the chains obediently lay flat. He began reading from a parchment in a low, emotionless tone, "Bart Hughes, Norwegian wizard, accused of smuggling contraband in his country and involved in two Muggle attacks. In February this year, you were involved in an attack on the British Ministry of Magic and were apprehended on the spot. Evidence is compelling—before the judgment, do you wish to refute these charges?"

The small man seemed dumbfounded, motionless in his chair. Felix could understand; most around him were hidden in the darkness, occasional torchlight offering sporadic glimpses—a sea of eyes fixed on his face, then vanishing.

The psychological pressure in the air was palpable.

After a few seconds, "If there's no objection—"

"W-wait!" The small man suddenly exclaimed, attempting to rise from his chair, only to be pushed back by the guards. The chains on the ground emitted a golden glow as the man recoiled, trying to seek Scrimgeour's position in the reflected firelight on the wall.

"I object! I-I've been hit by the Dementor's Kiss—"

Behind him, the observers from different countries began murmuring.

"Nonsense!" Scrimgeour bellowed, his lion's mane-like hair bristling. "The Ministry has set Anti-Intruder Cascades between the fireplaces and various floors; it washes away the effects of curses. If you were truly affected by the Dementor's Kiss, how do you explain being subdued by an Auror on the Ministry's doorstep?"

The small man opened his mouth but couldn't speak.

Scrimgeour raised his head and glanced around. "The facts are clear. Members of the jury, those who find him guilty, please raise your hands."

People on the benches raised their arms, illuminated by the flickering firelight, their extended arms conspicuous. The short man slumped weakly in his chair.

"The accusations stand. Barty Crouch, you are sentenced to ten years in Azkaban. Upon completion, the British Ministry of Magic will hand you over to the Norwegian Ministry, where you will continue to atone for your crimes committed in your homeland!"

"Boom!" The gavel fell heavily.

Barty Crouch was taken away, looking lost.

After brief murmurs, guards brought in several dark wizards, clearly part of the group that attacked the Ministry. Barely any time passed before they, like Barty Crouch, were pronounced guilty. The climax came near noon.

Two men, somewhat alike, were brought in.

"Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange," Scrimgeour's voice was low and angry. "Accomplices to Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch, in the first war's end, kidnapped a couple, using the Cruciatus Curse to extract information about the mysterious man. Heinous crimes, sentenced to life imprisonment. A year ago, escaped from Azkaban, then resumed as the mysterious man's lackeys and accomplices, suspected in multiple riots, and in February, ordered to attack Future World in Diagon Alley. Caught on the spot, evidence is conclusive."

The two men looked pale. The slightly plumper one tugged at his mouth, as if trying to speak, but only managed a tremulous murmur.

This time, Scrimgeour didn't ask the jury to vote. His yellow eyes held no warmth. "No doubt, ladies and gentlemen, these two will be sentenced to life imprisonment. Their names will rot with their bodies."

More people were brought in.

"Mulciber, Selwyn, Gage, Nott, your charges are the same as the Lestranges—escape, murder, and rebellion. By law, you are sentenced to life—"

"Wait, wait!" a voice interrupted.

Scrimgeour's gavel halted mid-air. "Selwyn? Do you wish to defend yourself or seek forgiveness? After committing such evil deeds?"

"I... I admit, I'm guilty!" Selwyn licked his lips, stammering. "But I hope the jury can give me another chance—I know some names—" Suddenly, the tall man beside him lunged, "You traitor!" "Guards! Hold him back, hold Gage back," Scrimgeour roared.

Selwyn cowered in his chair, shrilly saying, "I'll be a witness!"

"Selwyn!" Gage struggled, yelling, "You dare betray the Dark Lord? You think this is the end? We're only kept away for a while, he's still out there!"

"Take them away! Take them away!" Scrimgeour yelled. The guards complied, leaving only Selwyn.

"Do you have anything to say?" Scrimgeour asked coldly.

"I—" Selwyn's face turned pale. Clearly, Gage's threats before leaving were effective. His breathing was rapid. "Will you protect me? Will you?"

"That depends on the weight of your evidence," Mrs. Bones said seriously. "Our knowledge exceeds your imagination."

Selwyn pursed his lips. "I understand... I know someone, Umbridge, Dolores Umbridge."

"She was arrested on the same day as you and is currently under treatment. And we know you introduced her to the mysterious man."

Selwyn widened his eyes, his body shifting. "No, not—"

"Not?" Scrimgeour sharply said. "We have concrete evidence! You approached her as a relative, promising her the Minister of Magic position!"

"Impossible!" Selwyn panicked, his gaze shifting. "How could you know?" Realization flickered in his eyes. "I see, you must have another spy! Who is it?"

People murmured. They, including journalists and observers, turned to Mrs. Bones and Scrimgeour, but both remained emotionless. This statement successfully drew everyone's attention. Had the Ministry secretly planted spies long ago? Who could it be?

Finally. Felix thought.

Scrimgeour didn't answer him. The trial continued.

"I know two more!" Selwyn gritted his teeth. "Avery! Avery is a Death Eater, and his nephew, Chester."

"They've already been arrested. If this is all—"

"Wait!" Selwyn's gaze struggled. He knew many more, but now he had to produce weighty names. "Snape! Severus Snape!"

"He's not under discussion; Albus Dumbledore vouched for him."

"No, you've been deceived by him, I assure—"

"Assure? With your reputation?" Scrimgeour's mouth curled with mockery and scorn.

Despair flashed across Selwyn's face.

In his mind, Snape was undoubtedly a true Death Eater—because despite significant suspicions, Snape gained the Dark Lord's trust. It almost indicated one thing: he was more trustworthy than any other Death Eater.

Only Death Eaters truly knew how dreadful the Dark Lord was. Selwyn wouldn't have betrayed unless the Dark Lord displayed repeated ruthlessness towards his followers.

He stared at Scrimgeour, feeling him a complete fool. But he had no choice; he had fewer cards in hand now.

"Malfoy! Lucius Malfoy! He's a Death Eater too!" he shouted recklessly.

Disgust and contempt mingled in Scrimgeour's yellow eyes. He sneered, "You have bad luck. Someone else vouched for him—Felix Hepworth."

Everyone looked at Felix, who calmly returned the gaze.

Selwyn's expression shifted between shock, realization, and disbelief. So that's it. He exclaimed, "He's the spy!?"

It all made sense... the Ministry's confidence in their information source meant the spy had a high position among Death Eaters. He ran through a string of names in his mind, but he never expected it would be Malfoy.

Not just him; most people present hadn't expected it.

Invited journalists were thrilled, their hearts pounding. Rita Skeeter's eyes sparkled, her quill moving in a blur. A big story, an absolute bombshell! The head of the Malfoy family was first confirmed as a Death Eater, then there was a twist—he was actually a spy.

And this spy was most likely developed by Felix Hepworth, making the influential Malfoy a spy... Skeeter trembled with excitement, imagining the depth of this revelation.

The mysterious person would be furious. She wrote, pondering.

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