The Pureblood Coup

Sheherazade: We are finally at the coup, which is one of the parts I am really excited to write! I have so many details planned; I can’t wait until you see. And yes, the Veelas do play a little part later.

Everyone: This chapter title is a reference to Pink Floyd and the concept of fascism in the lyrics. Voldemort did indeed, set up a Fascist regime. Waiting for the Worms is from the album The Wall.


Chapter Two: Waiting For the Worms


Friday, August first, 1997 was a quiet morning. An unnatural mist pervading the atmosphere of the Wiltshire countryside caused by the Dementors. These horrible creatures that suck the souls of the living were now roaming Great Britain in the thousands. This fateful day would become infamous in magical history marking when the most terrible dark wizard of all time seized the Ministry of Magic in England.

Inside Malfoy Manor, three figures descended the Grand Staircase clad in plain, black robes passing busts of the Malfoy lineage, in which hundreds lined the walls up the high ceiling.

“I’ve arranged Travers to have us arrive through the Floo Network. The Department of Magical Transport we’ve tampered with already. But only since last evening has the network included Malfoy Manor.”

“Yes, my Lord. I knew about that already,” Bellatrix imperiously noted, strutting across the hallway.

The slit nostrils of Voldemort flared and he quipped, “I was speaking more to Rowle. You are after all, not as ignorant as he.”

The huge blonde Death Eater, Thorfinn Rowle who was one of the Death Eaters living at headquarters shrugged his shoulders, and pretended he did not mind the slight.

The three turned right and entered the Drawing Room of the ground floor. Beside the ornate table, the fire’s golden light illuminated everything present.

Bellatrix rushed over to the gilded mirror on the other side, checking her hair. Her black curls were coiled in a tight knot, traces of strands hanging off her neck.

Rowle meanwhile found a cauldron full of floo powder placed on a shelf next to a china cabinet. Inside the cabinet were hundreds of crystal bottles. The bottles were filled to the brim with blood. They were proof of the purity of the Malfoy’s magical eugenics, one bottle for each family member that ever existed.

“Good, Rowle. You are to enter the Ministry alone initially. It would be a dire miscalculation to have dozens of employees around. Make sure the Atrium is deserted as planned, and report back to me.”

Voldemort had arranged this with the top ministry officials (Yaxley, Selwyn, and Travers) who were also Death Eaters. It was now after nine o’clock, so the employees would be in their offices.

“Yes, my Lord,” Rowle grunted. He took the fistful of powder from the cauldron and stepped into the fire, but not without a freezing charm on the flames so they would not burn his skin.

Standing inside, he yelled in a guttering tone, “Ministry of Magic!”

The flames erupted to green and he was gone in a whirlwind of soot and ashes.

Bellatrix took several things out of the deep, inner pockets of her robes, as the vain vixen she is, looking for the magical hair-care gel to keep every hair in place later. A sac of money, the knife she would later kill Dobby the House-Elf with, and a canister filled with purple liquid was also in her robes with her wand.

A warning echoed in Voldemort’s demeanor, questioning “What is the purpose, of carrying a potion like this, Bella?”

Voldemort’s long forefinger indicated the canister of purple liquid.

“My Lord, It’s an antidote. Available in case…a pure-blood is poisoned by the filth,” she invented.

Voldemort shifted his weight impatiently, concentrating on Bellatrix fiercely.

“…There is not a single antidote that resembles that mixture. You are not being truthful, Bella. But there isn’t time to deal with your insubordination, or to test the contents.”

The strange thing was that Bellatrix did not look distressed by Voldemort’s censorship but more determined and what was stranger confused.

“I am a pure-blood, doing my part to preserve the supreme magical race, my Lord,” and she stuffed the items back into her pocket.

Voldemort was not listening. He was watching the fireplace for signs of Rowle returning.

A second past and there was the huge blonde Death Eater popping out of the Drawing Room fireplace, shaking his robes vigorously.

“All clear and ready to receive you, My Lord,” he confidently machinated. And in a whirl he took the extra floo powder he had on him from before and disappeared again.

“Bella, go before me,” Voldemort instructed blandly.

Bellatrix nodded and grabbed the glittering green powder from the cauldron. She stepped in gingerly and in a high-pitched boldness screamed, “Ministry of Magic!”

Voldemort waited a moment until she would have made it. His large hand like a pale spider gathered the powder in his palm.

“Ministry of Magic,” he whispered forcefully and he threw it into the flames at his feet.

In an instant he was guided through space, getting infinitesimally brief looks at other wizards and witches homes and businesses in Britain. They were the ones who still had the courage to be connected to the floo network.

Voldemort appeared out of one of the fireplaces at the end of the Atrium. His wand out, and with the tinisiet indication he scourgified his robes. He had always had a habit of perfect hygeine.

At the other end Bellatrix and Rowle waited with two other wizards. One was in magnificent golden embroidered robes. The other was Travers, his long hair framing his face.

As Lord Voldemort swiftly approached, they signaled with their left hand at a ninety degree angle, revealing their Dark Marks. They chanted, “Hail the Dark Lord.”

“We do not have the time for formalities, we shall save that for tomorrow evening. Are we mobilized then, Travers?”

“Scrimgeour is surrounded and will not be able to flee, my Lord. We blocked off anyone entering the Atrium since morning rush hour ended. Luckily, the Auror office has not had their suspicions raised, or they’d be down here.”

“Excellent…I want this to remain as low-key as possible. No Dark Mark is to be planted over the Ministry, this difference shall be compensated later with Scrimgeour’s corpse.”

Voldemort, his billowing robes swirling behind him strode feeling very much in his element. He knew this mission wasn’t going to fail.

“Scabior!” Voldemort addressed the Death Eater in golden, embroidered robes.

“My Lord?” he obediently answered.

Voldemort glanced at the Fountain of Magical Brethren, his eyes dilating with greed.

“Your job is to erect the statue and tablet with my regime’s motto. It is absolutely imperative for the image shown to the public to…justify my objectives.”

“Yes, My Lord” and Scabior skidded back to the fireplaces to get some of the henchmen who would later be named Snatchers.

The elf looking up adoringly at the witch and wizard with the centaur and the goblin looking unrealistically passive, were blasted into smithereens. Voldemort had cast the Deprimo spell on it, and now it would be the henchmen's job to clean the mess up as well.

As Voldemort, Bellatrix, Travers, and Rowle got closer to the lifts. Eric, the Security Guard was getting out of his seat, to see what had caused the explosion. He began to hyperventilate when he saw the unmistakable, mask-like face of Lord Voldemort.

“HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED IN THE MINISTRY!,” Eric cried his best hope of a warning, which fell on deaf ears to all but the receptionist and the supporters of the Dark Lord present.

Voldemort aimed his wand like a gun feeling an instinctual urge to kill. But it would be unreasonable and the coup must be as bloodless as possible, he thought to himself. So Voldemort controlled his anger. Instead, he put a confundus charm from the sidelines, and simultaneously Bellatrix placed a silencing charm on the security guard's throat.

A moment later, the golden grilles clanged open for one of the lifts, and they filed inside. Rowle pressed the button to go down.

“Level four: The Atrium. Going Down,” said the automated witch’s voice.

Suddenly there was a severe turbulence inside the lift. Voldemort was using wandless magic to make the grate jump to the lift he wanted. Voldemort levitated himself in the air, as if he was going to fly upright so as to avoid the jolting as it skipped levels. But his Death Eaters clung desperately to the bars and were pushed around, while Voldemort hovered unperturbed by the motion. Voldemort had done this not only to save time, but to ensure that none of the ministry officials on the other levels would see them.

The lift came to a half, as Voldemort slammed his hands down, steeling himself. It was like he was braking an automobile.

“Level One: Minister for Magic and Support Staff. The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day!”

The golden grilles clanged open and Voldemort got his feet to the floor, trailed by Bellatrix, Rowle, and Travers.