The Visit

Cornelius Fudge was an old man. Well, actually, only in his fifties. He was balding, and his hair was white. He was also fat. When he was young, he’d tried all the diet plans. Nothing had worked.

When he was young, his hair had been brown. He wasn’t balding. He had been fat.

Plus he had been a politician. Working his way through the Ministry, gaining access to all the top areas...all the top secrets...he knew everything that was happening in the Ministry by the time he was twenty-five.

Cornelius sighed to himself. His glory days in the top areas seemed like such a long time ago...he had been so youthful...so full of energy.

And that energy was apparently gone. His approval rating was dropping. People hated him. Well, actually only sixty percent of England did; but that’s a twenty percent majority...more people appeared to be liking Severus Snape than him.

The tabloids had every single false story you could imagine printed. This past week, he had been romantically involved with You-Know-Who, a member of the You-Know-Who’s Inner Circle, been the love child of Albus Dumbledore and a woman you’d find on the street, attempted to kill Harry Potter, closed down Hogwarts, and had a wild night on the town.

None of this was true, but the public was stupid enough to think it was.

And the worst part was it had sent everyone’s least favorite Minister of Magic into a horrible depression. Constantly on his mind was the question: "Why do people hate me?"

It was a Monday, two weeks after Harry Potter’s fourth year at Hogwarts had ended. His decisively left-wing stance was interfering with Albus Dumbledore’s effort to find You-Know-Who. Dumbledore’s a right-wing War Hawk, just looking to start a war with the most dangerous THING alive, Fudge thought to himself as he entered his office.

There was a magnificent set of double doors leading into a set of rooms. In one room was where his top advisors met. Another was for his aides. This main room was a place for him to show off all his achievements–all political, not many in anything else–to the world. It was, "The Bragging Room" as he called it. All of these achievements were also confined to things he had achieved in the Ministry.

Sadly, the Ministry was the only place he had ever achieved anything. He was, simply put, a LOSER. A left-wing, liberal, politician, bureaucrat, wimp! A coward, a man always trying to please someone. A man too scared to take on You-Know-Who. The man who didn’t protect Hogwarts enough. Cornelius Fudge was his name. He was probably the worst Minister of all time, next to the guy who’d been Minister when–no, he was most definitely the worst.

Fudge walked past his secretary, not saying a word–his usual custom was to strike up a chat with her. He opened the large doors to his office and slammed them shut behind him. There were two guards at either side of his desk.

"You’re fired," he told them quickly. "Get out my office." The officers paused.

"Now!" The officers abruptly left his office. They left the door open.

His aides and his secretary stared at him like he was insane. What are they staring at me for? Queer folk, they are!

"Go work, or I’ll fire you all!" he said. They immediately left, working as nonchalantly as possible. The door was still open. Fudge hastily grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen.

LEAVE THE ME THE HELL ALONE!

He posted this wonderful message on his front door and kept to himself for the day. No one would need him; it wasn’t like You-Know-Who was in a body and was calling his greatest servants back. Well, actually he was...but Fudge didn’t care.

After all, You-Know-Who wasn’t strong enough. He knew that. He was right. No one else was.

* * * * *

The Minister’s secretary was an old woman named Bertha. Bertha Ballots. She had red hair and was very old. Actually, around eighty. And that’s really not that old in the magical world. (But still, you look old.)

And she’d served under Ministers as their secretary. Many a Minister she was secretary for. And no Minister was half as crazy as Cornelius Fudge.

So he’s scared...she thought. But who wouldn’t be? The greatest enemy of all time has apparently risen from the dead, and you’re in charge of the country he’s going after. It’d definitely be a bit tough. Plus the world hates you...well, sixty percent of it.

Bertha came to a very logical conclusion: the Minister of Magic needed help. And not help in the office, help in the sense that you were on a couch, whining and complaining about how much you hated your life to a complete stranger, who would simply nod and ask questions, take notes, give you medicine, tell you to come back again so you can start meeting on a regular basis with him, and then he’d charge it at a very expensive rate. It was that kind of help people tried to avoid.

* * * * *

Bertha Ballots–her old school nickname was "Butterfly" because she was obsessed with the creatures–decided to file a report on his sanity. Well, she was very sure he was sane...but he was certainly not acting like himself lately. Perhaps it was all the pressure on him with this whole You-Know-Who thing, or perhaps it was something else...but Bertha had no idea what it was.

All she knew was that her boss had told her off and hung up a sign saying, "LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!" and that was not normal behavior for the Minister of Magic.

So after filling out the report (It had questions such as "What is the subject’s name?"; "Who are you?"; "Has the subject shown any odd behavior?"; "Did the subject drink coffee?"; "Do you think You-Know-Who should be defeated?"; "Are you on any drugs or medication?" and the like.) she set it in the out box and prayed. One day the Minister of Magic would become happy. But that needed to happen fast. And only one person could make him happy...but she had no idea who it was.

* * * * *

That Tuesday, the Minister walked into his office suite after his breakfast. It was, rather oddly, empty. I thought I was late...

He opened the door to his office and discovered a man sitting behind his desk. His feet were propped up on the desk. Etched on his slimy face was an even slimier smile.

"Hi, Cornelius," said the ever so slimy Jack Béthune. He was the man who would take Fudge’s place in an emergency. Jack was a very arrogant man.

"Jack, get out my office," Cornelius ordered. "Or I’ll fire you."

"You’ve fired enough people already, my friend," Jack snapped back. "Oh, do sit down."

For the first time, Cornelius noticed that the front of his desk did not say "Cornelius Fudge–Minister of Magic."

It now said "Jack Béthune–Acting Minister of Magic."

"Excuse me," Cornelius said, clearing his throat, "but where is my name?"

"Oh, we’re excusing you for the next few days," Jack said, pulling something out of his pocket. "I’m Minister for the next week. You’ve been given a week’s vacation. Telling people to leave you the hell alone is something that can get me in your desk for a week." Jack handed the medical form to Cornelius.

"I’m not seeing a shrink," Cornelius stated after glancing over the medical form.

"You’re depressed, Cornelius. We all are. But a person is really depressed when they do what I mentioned a moment ago," Jack pointed out. He glanced down at his watch.

"By the way, Cornelius, it’s been requested you see a certain psychiatrist," Jack said with his slimy grin. He pulled a business card out of his leather wallet. (It was very thick, mind you.)

"Here, take this." Cornelius took the business card for Doctor Joe Jones. That dang right-wing idiot, Cornelius thought to himself. Oh, well, he’s the best...

"Goodbye, John," Cornelius said, getting up from his seat. Slime ball, he thought to himself.

* * * * *

Wednesday. Nine o’clock. AM. The office of Joe Jones was a nice place. It was decorated with dark green wallpaper. It also had leather furniture, which was always a plus.

Joe Jones was very tall, very skinny. Very politically active. He was with Dumbledore, wanting to take action now, building up a spy system and preparing for an attack.

Fudge, on the other hand, was waiting to You-Know-Who to strike first. There was pretty much a split in the Ministry. No matter how evil You-Know-Who was, to attack first would be immoral and could be a devastating loss. Plus they had no idea where You-Know-Who was.

On the other hand, waiting for an attack mean they would be completely caught off-guard. But if there was a military ready and waiting, they would not be hit as hard in a surprise attack.

Fudge favored a military. Dumbledore favored a group of volunteers, which would pretty much fight using guerrilla warfare, if they fought at all. Dumbledore knew all they had to do was attack You-Know-Who’s Inner Circle and tear it apart to win.

Actually, to be perfectly honest, Fudge really had no idea where he stood. It was far too complicated. He best showed this by not doing anything at all, which is what any perfectly good politician would do in a time like this.

"Hello, Cornelius," Doctor Jones greeted, interrupting Cornelius from his train of thought.

"Oh, hi," he said.

"I heard you got pretty ticked at the office. Typical of a man like you," Joe said. He hated Fudge with a passion, but it was his job to help this man. "Sorry ’bout that. I’m here to help, not to insult." God, I do not want to help this man get over his depression...

This is the last man I want to tell my problems to, thought Fudge. Oh, well...

"Sit down on the couch, lay down, I don’t give a darn," the doctor ordered. He covered his mouth. Fudge stood up and stared his shrink straight in the eye.

"How ’bout I sit in the chair and you on the couch?"

"How ’bout we do it how it’s supposed to be done?" asked Joe. "Let’s make this as easy as possible...I’m here to help."

"Okay," the Minister of Magic said calmly. He took a deep breath and stared down at the floor. "I’m ready to start."

Cornelius positioned himself on the leather green sofa. He was laying down, staring at the ceiling. The couch was far bigger than he was, as he was so short.

"So how are you doing, Cornelius?" asked Joe as if nothing had just happened.

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Just go with what I say," Joe said. "And stop being so negative." What a loser, he thought to himself.

I’ll be negative if I want, Cornelius thought to himself.

"Nothing’s wrong," Cornelius replied. "I’m only–"

"Denial!" Joe yelled. "You’re in denial! No one writes ‘LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!’ on their office door while they’re feeling fine."

"Well, I did," Cornelius shot back. "Got a problem with that?"

"No, not at all..." Joe pulled his notepad from one of his desk drawers.

Cornelius Fudge: Session 1

Patient is in denial. Patient has a horrible temper. Patient is on a one-week vacation. (Some info provided by Ministry.) Patient is a retard. Posted "LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!" on his office door Monday. Is taking a one week vacation.

"So, Cornelius, why are you sad?" Joe asked after jotting down his notes.

"What do you mean?"

Joe underlined "denial" in his notes.

"You’re depressed; I can see it in your eyes. People who are depressed–"

"I AM NOT DEPRESSED!" Cornelius groaned. He was still on the couch.

"You can tell me," Joe said. He put the pad down and checked to make sure his tape recorder was working. It was.

"I’m just so stressed...people hate me–" I wonder why, Joe thought.–"I feel like a failure–" Oh, you are, Joe thought.–"I don’t know what to do about You-Know-Who–" Like any good politician, Joe thought.–"and I’m the worst Minister of all time." That you are, Joe thought to himself.

"Approval ratings are not everything, Minister Fudge," Joe said in a calm manner. He propped his feet on his chair.

"But approval rating are what the people think of me, and I want people to think I’m good!"

"You’re a great Minister," Joe lied. Not, he added to himself.

"Bull," replied Fudge. "You hate me. You know it. Everyone hates me. Even Dumbledore hates me."

"Your wife hates you, too?" Joe asked. Marriage problems could be bad...

"Yes, we’re having troubles. She wants a divorce," Fudge confessed. "She says I’m too stiff, even in bed."

That I did not need to hear, Joe thought to himself. "So you’re not a good lover? Well, they have clinics for that, you know..."

"I know," Fudge told his shrink. "And plus I’m regretting where I am. When I was young, I received an offer to join the Unspeakables. I rejected, opting for a high job in the Ministry. I’m sure joining the Unspeakables would have been much better than serving as Minister of Magic."

"Why don’t you quit then?" Joe asked. He couldn’t make this too political, couldn’t push for what he wanted.

"The Ministry would be in turmoil!" Fudge replied. As if it isn’t already, Joe thought to himself. "The last thing anyone would want to do is quit in these times of need!"

Darn, Joe thought to himself. He won’t quit...can’t bring politics into this...

Fudge pushed his way up from the couch. "You don’t happen to have any normal couches, do you?" he said, referring to the fact that it was mighty uncomfortable to lay down on a hard leather couch.

"A couch is a couch," Joe replied. He relished the fact that he was causing the Minister of Magic pain.

Fudge nodded and made his way back down on the couch. He tried to get comfortable, but that was–to say the least–futile.

This is the classic way to do it, so I guess I better do it this way, he thought to himself.

"Let’s take politics out of the equation," Joe said, taking off his shoes. His feet did not smell, which shocked the depressed Minister.

"My life is politics," Fudge replied.

"Well, are you stressed? You’ve got problems at work; everyone knows that. But what other things are on your mind?" Joe clarified. "A man’s job is not the only thing that drives him to depression."

"My wife...we’re growing distant...you see, her brother had been a Death Eater; and last year the Ministry had sent him to Azkaban...she’d kept his secret from me for such a long time...I never knew...never had a clue." Fudge could see the trial vividly now.

A line of witnesses had all confessed, one after the other, to Zechariah Terza’s guilt. Many of them were former Death Eaters who had made a deal with the Ministry: come forward and reveal who else was a Death Eater and get a pardon. This was a year ago, but many other times this deal had been made to a select few. It was secret.

The judge eyed the timid man sitting at a table. Zechariah had killed the judge’s only son after he had betrayed the Dark Lord twenty years ago.

The judge smiled. This was revenge. "I, the denoted representative of the Ministry of Magic, hereby proclaim Zechariah Terza guilty of all charges. Zechariah is sentenced to life in Azkaban.

"Dismissed!"

Fudge sat by himself, in the back of the room. He eyed Zechariah. Zechariah stared back at him. It was a look that asked something to his brother-in-law. "Why?" asked the look. "Why did you send me to this place? Why didn’t you cut me some slack? Why, Cornelius? Why couldn’t you just not do the right thing for once? Why can’t you not understand that this was in the past? Cornelius, why?"

Fudge exited the courtroom, his head hung in shame.

"I see, Cornelius. And why did you let your brother-in-law die? Why did you allow him to be sent to Azkaban?" Joe asked. "It’s human nature to cut a loved one a little slack. Why?"

Why? Fudge asked himself. Had he been afraid?

"I thought it was the right thing to do..." Fudge answered. "My wife had no say on it. She hadn’t told me anything...this man deserved it..."

Hypocrite, the shrink thought. Suddenly, he said the word aloud. Yes, the "hypocrite" word.

Cornelius Fudge jumped from his seat.

"Are you calling me a hypocrite?" he asked the shrink.

"By definition, Minister Fudge, you are a hypocrite."

"Shut your trap," Fudge ordered, "or by the power vested in me as Minister of Magic, I’ll–" Fudge stopped himself in mid-sentence, apparently as loss as to what he’d say.

"And that’s another one of your problems, Fudge. You’re off making empty threats and–"

The psychiatrist never finished. Fudge kicked Joe in the shin and was immediately punched in the mouth.

I knew this would ultimately end up in violence, Joe thought. Why did I have to call him a hypocrite?

Fudge grabbed one of the oh-so-convenient metal chairs propped against the wall–why it was there is a very long and boring story–but what Fudge did was no uncommon in today’s entertainment.

It was a very simple act of hitting the chair against the side of one’s head, causing the person who was hit a great headache.

Joe was on the ground. But suddenly, his hand reached out and tripped Cornelius, sending the Minister of Magic to the floor.

The last time someone had attacked the Minister of Magic and engaged in hand-to-hand combat with him is unknown. But it wasn’t as intense (or as dumb) as the battle raging on in the psychiatrist’s office.

I hope no one walks in on this, the shrink thought to himself. And no one walked in on him as he landed a punch on the Minister. The Minister seemed to have lost a tooth.

The Minister yelled a curse and swore never to see a psychiatrist again.

He was still horribly depressed.

He slammed the door behind him, cursed at every person who talked to him, and went straight to his office.

* * * * *

Upon arriving, he gave his secretary the finger–she was wondering what he was doing so early from his vacation–and went straight to Béthune’s office.

"Béthune!" he yelled, opening the door. "Joe Jones attacked me, God dang it!"

Joe smiled. Despicable thing, Cornelius thought to himself.

"So I’ve heard. And Minister Fudge, apparently you attacked him first." Jack smiled and propped his feet on his desk. He pressed a small button on his desk, which was very reminiscent of an evil character in a comic book doing the same action.

"I need a security team here," he said. "Now!"

Instants later, four men who did not look like security guards–more like doctors, if you must–carried a whining Fudge out the office. A needle was injected in the rear of the Minister.

That was the last thing he could remember.

* * * * *

Fudge woke up to find himself in a room. It was white. It had padded walls.

Fudge’s arms were in front of his chest. He couldn’t move them.

"Oh, great," he said out loud. He kicked the air and jumped against the wall, collapsing and falling to the ground.

Crying. It was all very tough for the Minister, who had thought he was sane. But here he was, stuck in an asylum for the mentally ill.

All because he was depressed. It shouldn’t be like this, he told himself. I shouldn’t–

And Fudge immediately woke up, in a very large bed, in his very large house. It had all been a dream.

* * * * *

The next day, Fudge smiled on his way to work. He stepped into his double doors and even smiled to Jack, who was probably thinking of how he could get Fudge out of the Minister’s office.

"Morning, Jack!" Cornelius greeted, smiling. Jack was shocked.

"Hi, Cornelius...look, I’m busy...can’t talk, you see...lots of planning to do..." Jack replied. Certainly looks happy today...

Cornelius greeted his secretary, pulling out a red rose and a vase from his briefcase.

"Here you go," he said. "Have a nice day!" Note to self, Cornelius thought, give everyone a raise.

* * * * *

Jack Béthune thought quickly. He had to get Fudge out of that office. So his slimy mind–slimier than the one in his dream–formulated a plan.

He pulled a medical form out of his drawer. Fudge was just too happy today...

* * * * *

Four hours later, Jack Béthune received his medical form back. All approved.

Cornelius Everett Fudge had a one week vacation. And a nice little visit to the shrink...

And Jack Béthune was Minister of Magic.

But only for a week.