Crippled

It's over.

Even as he thought it, he knew it to be the truth.

Cornelius Fudge sat in his office at the Ministry of Magic, in the mahogany chair in front of the mahogany desk. He took another sip of the rum he had poured for himself, closed his eyes and sighed.

He'd always feared that this would happen, known somewhere in the back of his mind that life in wizarding Britain couldn't continue as placidly as it had for the last fifteen years. But he'd allowed himself to be happy, to try to ignore the thoughts of impending doom that pushed at the back of his brain. After all, what were the odds?

Not good enough, apparently.

They were coming for him, he knew it. He could only guess at how they'd go about getting rid of him. They wouldn't kill him, he was fairly certain. No, they needed to make it appear legitimate. They might try the Imperius curse. That frightened him, the idea of being a puppet. But he could beat that, eventually. Whatever the others at the ministry thought, he knew he was strong enough to break through the haze of desire that the curse caused. Unless they got to him early, and did something drastic before he broke free. He could imagine that. He shuddered. Being forced to hand over his post, his power, and being disposed of afterwards. That was their style. What a predicament.

Running was certainly not an option, as it would only simplify things for them. One fewer obstacle to deal with. Hiding was even less of an option; it was a useless and cowardly road to take. Fighting was definitely out of the question, for what could he do to counter such hatred and fear?

Cornelius stood up, and began pacing the office. It seemed the only sensible thing to do, under the circumstances. He was trapped, and though it was only a mental dilemma at present, he paced the room as if it were a prison cell. Past the door, the painting, the window, the bookshelf. Round and round, pausing occasionally for another sip of rum. The woman in the painting on the wall frowned at him, but offered no assistance. Cornelius wasn't surprised. She was remarkably unhelpful, given that she'd been in the minister's office for over one hundred years. He expected nothing from her any more.

In a normal situation of this gravity, he would have called on Albus, who always seemed to know the right thing to do. But that was out of the question, now. Albus' advice would be to stand and fight. As if there was a chance. Cornelius knew better. It was futile to try to avoid the inevitable; all one could do was to try to stay afloat as the waves of change grew taller, fiercer, and darker. Stand and fight indeed. He was no warrior. He wasn't made for it. And he knew it. But Albus didn't. And so, Cornelius pretended.

He didn't pretend he could fight, no, that wouldn't solve anything. He pretended there was no need to. He'd always been good at pretending. Pretending he didn't see the danger, didn't see the risk. Even in the face of a man radiating power and righteousness as Albus had been the day of You-Know-Who's apparent return, Cornelius hadn't broken. He knew how to pretend. It was simple really, it only required giving a small piece of himself to believe what was necessary; in this case, that there was no threat.

That piece of him, the one which clung to any feeble hope, had survived, if only just. It held fast to the small, faint glimmer of hope that whispered to him that there was nothing to worry about. He longed to believe its promise. However much he knew it to be illusion, he still dreamed it might be true. And so, he gave a part of himself away, a sacrifice, that it might become so.

It would be what killed him, he knew, what killed them all. With that piece missing, how could he order that plans be readied, defenses raised, and populations warned about the thread of the Dark Lord? There was no threat, a part of him cried, the part that would kill him. And while his soul was arguing, he remained inactive. That inactivity would be the damnation of all good people.

He knew it would. In his heart, he knew that, were he to give up that faint twinkle, he might be able to do something to stop the calamity before it even began. But how could he? That glimmer of hope was all he had, all that could keep him from drowning in his own failure. Perhaps others did not need hope like his, others stronger than he, others like Albus, Minerva, or Lucius. They could insist he shoulder their burden. They didn't know it would crush him, as surely as they could bear it. He needed his crutch of hope. It maddened him, that others could do without and be so much stronger than he. But he was a realist, entertaining no romantic notions that he could handle things on his own.

If he let it go, he would fall. By admitting there was a problem, he would be admitting that he had failed. And therein lay the dilemma. Cornelius hated failure. He hated it in his inferiors, in his peers, and most of all in himself. He could not afford to recognize it in himself, he knew, for it would destroy him in a burst of self-loathing and deprecation. Never mind what the others said, he could not be expected to do that. It was too much.

As he sat at the desk of his predecessors, he wondered what many of them had wondered, once upon a time. Why me? Cornelius felt horribly weak and alone. This situation did not call for him. Voldemort needed to be met by a hero, a god, someone who could cry out so all could hear that good would live another day. Not him. He was no hero, he was only a man. A man with nowhere to go, no options left. A cripple who needed to drop his crutch to be able to run for his life.

***

Three days later, he was deposed by a near-unanimous vote of no confidence. And though he blustered about it, he was secretly glad. Let someone else save the world.