Rufus Scrimgeour sat behind his large oak desk in the Minister’s office, the soft glow of the lamplight flickering across the walls as the evening settled into night. A stack of reports lay neatly on his desk, but one in particular had captured his attention. His sharp eyes scanned the lines detailing the recent developments: the merging of Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew’s trials, Dumbledore’s unnervingly passive support, and Dolores Umbridge’s push for a retrial. The wizarding world was in flux—more so than most realized.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he folded his hands in front of his chin. The weight of the decisions before him pressed heavily on his mind. Rufus had never been one to shy away from difficult choices, but this... this was different. The stakes had never been higher.

The trial of Sirius Black was more than a legal matter; it was a political one. With Peter Pettigrew’s return from the dead, the implications had grown even murkier. Rufus knew the wizarding world was on the cusp of great change, and despite all his maneuvering, despite all his efforts to maintain control, there was a growing force that lay beyond his grasp.

And at the heart of it all was one boy. - Harry Potter.

The boy was only twelve. Just a child. And yet, he was already more famous than any wizard alive. His name, his story, his legacy had permeated every corner of the wizarding world. Everyone knew him. Everyone talked about him. But few truly understood him, Rufus included.

The thought unsettled him. Rufus had always prided himself on knowing the players in the game. But Harry... Harry was not someone he could manipulate, control, or predict. The boy was an anomaly, a wild card.

Rufus leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as he tried to piece together his thoughts. He had avoided this for so long—meeting the boy. It wasn’t out of a lack of opportunity; Rufus could have arranged to see him at any point over the past year. But he hadn’t. And that was because deep down, Rufus knew he was afraid.

Afraid of meeting the real protagonist of this story.

It wasn’t that Rufus was a coward—he had faced down dangerous wizards, Death Eaters, and political enemies without flinching. But this was different. This wasn’t a confrontation with an enemy. It was an encounter with something pure, something untainted by the corruption of power. Harry Potter, despite all the horrors he had faced in his short life, was still a child. Still innocent.

Rufus was not.

The Minister of Magic looked at his hands, calloused and lined from years of work, from fighting battles he wasn’t sure he’d ever win. He had spent his life navigating the complex and dangerous world of politics, always thinking two steps ahead, always preparing for the next threat. He had climbed the ranks of the Ministry with careful calculation, sacrificing more than he cared to admit to reach the top.

But Harry? Harry was different. He wasn’t playing a game. He didn’t care about power or politics or prestige. He was just a boy who had lost his parents, had been thrust into a world he barely understood, and was expected to save it.

Rufus grimaced. What would Harry see when they finally met? A wise and powerful Minister, or a man who had grown bitter and cynical from a lifetime of struggle? Would Harry, with his young, untainted eyes, see through him?

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The boy was only twelve, but his story was already one of legend. The Boy Who Lived. The one who had defeated Voldemort as a baby. The one destined to face the Dark Lord again. And Rufus, for all his power and influence, was just a man. A man who had spent his life making decisions that often blurred the lines between right and wrong.

He stood up suddenly, unable to sit still any longer. Pacing the length of his office, Rufus clenched and unclenched his fists as his mind raced. He hadn’t wanted to meet Harry because the boy represented everything he wasn’t—selfless, innocent, untouched by the darkness that seemed to envelop so much of the wizarding world.

And yet, Rufus needed to meet him. He knew that now. The war against Voldemort was escalating, and Harry, despite his age, was already a central figure in it all. Rufus couldn’t avoid him forever.

But it wasn’t just about the war. It was about Rufus himself. Meeting Harry would force him to confront something he had been avoiding for years—his own place in this story. Rufus had always seen himself as the protagonist, the hero who would lead the wizarding world through the darkness and into the light. But now, with every report he read, with every mention of Harry’s name, he realized that he was not the hero of this story.

Harry was.

Rufus stopped in front of the large window that overlooked the Ministry atrium. The hustle and bustle of witches and wizards below seemed so far removed from his thoughts. His reflection in the glass stared back at him, older, wearier than he had realized.

He had always known that Harry was the key to defeating Voldemort, but it wasn’t until now that he truly understood what that meant. Harry, at twelve years old, was already the center of everything. And Rufus, for all his power, was on the sidelines.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he turned back to his desk. He wasn’t afraid of Voldemort, or the Death Eaters, or any of the dark forces lurking in the shadows. But he was afraid of Harry. Afraid of what the boy represented. Afraid of what meeting him would reveal about himself.

He could picture it now—the moment he walked into Privet Drive, seeing the boy sitting there, unaware of the weight of the world on his shoulders. Rufus would have to look him in the eye and see, not a child, but the hero he could never be.

It was a sobering thought.

He glanced down at the parchment again, Harry’s name standing out amidst the sea of text. There was no avoiding it now. He would go to Privet Drive. He would meet the boy. And he would face the truth—about Harry, about himself, and about the future.

With a final, resolute breath, Rufus stood and grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair. He wouldn’t send an owl. He wouldn’t arrange an official visit. This was something he needed to do personally.

As he turned to leave, his hand lingered on the door handle for just a moment. For the first time in a long time, Rufus felt uncertain. Not about the war, not about Voldemort, but about himself.

What would he say to Harry? How could he, a man who had spent his life navigating the murky waters of politics, offer any kind of guidance to a boy who was destined for something so much greater than himself?

He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. He would figure that out when he got there. For now, he just needed to take the first step.

It was time. Time to meet Harry Potter.