The Pureblood Coup

*


At the same time Voldemort tortured his prisoner, an important meeting happened to be taking place in London, hundreds of feet beneath the earth, in an underground passage at the Ministry of Magic. The meeting was of the cloak and dagger kind. It was to be a sharing of news between Britain’s top-notch aurors.

A man like that of an old lion with tawny hair and bushy eyebrows and keen-staring, yellow eyes sat at the head of his boardroom meeting, peering at his group through wire-rimmed spectacles. His face was heavily battle-scarred from years of service as an auror, and it gave him the much-needed impression of shrewd toughness. Nobody looked privy to exchanging news with Minister Scrimgeour on this night though. The witches and wizards sat around the table, all of them highly qualified Aurors who were all taking turns serving as Scrimgeour’s bodyguard. All except one man, one very young man, barley fresh out of Hogwarts.

Rufus Scrimgeour turned blank eyes onto this man in particular. And seeing the young wizard’s blazing red hair and alertness somehow revived the minister’s mood.

“Mr. Weasley…Is your quill poised to report the minutes?”

Percy’s eyes popped with enthusiasm under his horn-rimmed spectacles, and sounding almost obsequious as a house-elf said, “Yes, Minister.”

Scrimgeour smiled, slightly mellowed and murmured, “Good.” At least all was well on that particular duty. It was perhaps the only thing that had gone well for the ministry in months. The minister was no fool like former Minister Fudge. He knew without a doubt his power as minister was waning, and like Fudge, he was lame and ineffectual. Fudge had known this about himself too, but he still grasped desperately to survive the mayhem of Wizard politics during his last months in office. Rufus refused the desperate stance and instead let his post crash around his ears. What else could he do? And yes, the hardened Ex-auror was desperate for something to get passed during his tenure, so that at least one successful endeavor could leave a good mark upon his name.

Now he presided over his meeting. “Very well…we must start proper. Call to order.”

And moments later Percy started with the roll call, feeling most important. Once it was over they commented over the only auror who was absent.

“Where’s Tonks? – I valued her input,” said Scrimgeour. “She fraternizes with a werewolf named Remus Lupin,” and this was not said with derision. “Not a very bad thing really. I invited him here tonight. We could have used his knowledge.”

Eyes widened in disbelief that the minister could be so careless as to invite a werewolf, an outsider of the community into a private meeting concerning safety. Gawain Robards, the head of the Auror office, seated to the right of the Minister for Magic turned to him incredulously. “Nymphadora Tonks took off work tonight, Rufus. She said it was a personal matter. And – well…Couldn’t say no. She hasn’t used up any vacation days.”

One auror snorted and commented to his fellow beside him, “No doubt she’s using her time to get frisky with the werewolf. Filth!”

Some around the table shuddered at the thought of intimate contact with a werewolf, but most of them were not as prejudiced as the average witch or wizard.

But the minister wasn’t listening. And Percy was unfazed by this sudden revelation. Werewolves didn’t bother him. He’d heard Bill had gotten bitten by Greyback. Percy’s affection and fondness for his elder brother, (whom he had always secretely admired) would never change regardless of whether Bill was a werewolf now or not. And besides Percy was from an entire family of Blood-traitors.

Scrimgeour, chin in his hands stared mulishly into space. He was thinking of the argument he with Harry Potter just before sunset today. It hadn’t gone at all to his liking. Once again he was upbraided at expense of the Chosen One. Scrimgeour found all hope fast fading. There was no assurance to calm the public and keep morale up to make the population resist Lord Voldemort. But there was still other things he could do….

Before Scrimgeour could reveal plans, Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke up, his earring gleamed as the only shard of golden light in the dark room. “Minister, I think we should have er….a remembrance for our fallen comrade.”

“Yes,” conceded the Minister. “I suppose. Thank-you Kingsley.”

All eyes fixed upon Scimgeour expectantly. “Let us share a moment of silence for Alastor Moody. Killed in combat two weeks ago. Slain for certain and yet we cannot locate the body. We all– valued his service and unparalled ingenuity in fighting Dark Forces.”

The clock ticked ominously on. Scrimgeour sat staring at piles of Wizarding codes of law, memos, maps, etc. He was growing anxious yet again. To him, Moody’s death was an unpleasant reminder how everything was failing.

Reluctantly Scrimgeour set his glasses down. There were deep shadows gouged under his eyes. He had not slept peacefully for weeks.

Auror John Dawlish spoke up, clearing his throat. He was certain he had something very important to say. “The wider Wizarding world has been informed of the dangers. And we all know they finally believe he’s back.”

“Public awareness doesn’t bode well…” snapped a wizard with a thick mustache. “I prefer them in ignorance.”

Another Auror complained hawkishly, starting a row, “And what do you know, Dawlish? You got yourself Confunded a couple of weeks ago!”

There was a round of jeering laughter. Everybody except Dawlish and the minister joined in. Percy rather poorly concealed sniggering with a hand covering his mouth.

“Enough…We have little time for divisions amongst ourselves,” chided Scrimgeour.

Instantly it grew quiet again. Kingsley said throatily, “We shall protect the muggle minister? Will we not?”

Scrimgeour nodded assuredly. Privately he thought as long as I remain standing. That will be until Lord Voldemort brings in a puppet as is inevitable. And then, Scrimgeour would be out of a job, and the muggles would be on their own fending for themselves. The minister answered the query, “Yes, you may continue to do your best.”

For the last year, Kingsley was assigned to the muggle prime minister’s office at number 10 Downing Street. And inside this spacious stateroom, right above Scrimgeour’s head at this very moment, the muggle minister’s portrait stood hanging.

“There have been a lot of muggle disappearances in the last month,” muttered another Auror darkly. “Hundreds they say.”

Quietly the Aurors discussed this amongst themselves. There was even quite a few suspicious glances and calculating looks. “Killing” and “Torturing” and “Coercing the non-magic folk”. But they were all stymied. There was only one logical explanation for the sudden death toll.

“Death Eaters….Blood-thirsty lot. Out for fun, I’m afraid,” said Dawlish.

Scrimgeour agreed with Dawlish on this point. “Correct Dawlish. I have no doubt it has something to do with them. But it is proving impossible for us Aurors to catch them at it, this time around!”

Scrimgeour was remembering the First war. Those had been dark times, for uncertainty and great peril had reigned then. It was all coming back to him now. It was dark times all over again.

“They are savage criminals who should be given over to the dementors,” bellowed Kingsley. There were raised glasses and “hear hears” at this proclamation.

Another auror spat vengefully, hiding tears behind his eyes, “I’ll never forget what they did to my wife and daughter…I watched – bound in chains as they were slowly tortured…begging for death and then -finally taken out of misery. Gone. Dead!”

Everybody frowned in unison. “The international world must be aware….The Dark Lord will assuredly make it difficult for our people to leave the country. And we must warn the other witches and wizards around the world not to visit!” Kingsley warned.

Dawlish complained, “Yes, it will all be bad for business. The value of gold has dropped to a staggering low exchange with the other countries. And people are bullying the goblins to extend them credit, or else charge them less interest!”

“It is only a matter of time before Gringotts will be taken over along with the ministry,” added Scrimgeour direly.

Gawain Robards looked sharply at the minister. “You think you’ll be ousted from office, Rufus?”

“I am sure of it. The time is….soon. Look at what has happened to Pius Thickness…Have any of you noticed his strange behavior of late?”

“Someone placed him under the Imperius,” added one Auror.

“My guess is…. that trouble-maker, Yaxley. I don’t like him, don’t trust him,” said Kingsley.

Scrimgeour replied, “It is not a good sign that things resort to this. However, willing obedience always beats forced obedience. We are the stronger lot. We do not always use the Unforgiveables to get things done.

“The outbreak of violence, war is imminent…And in war, truth is always the first casualty. When the Dark Lord and his minions control the populace, there will be no more liberty left in England. Muggle-borns will be horribly oppressed and eventually weeded out. It is the Purebloods who are really to blame. They have hoarded and accumulated the gold for a thousand years whilst others suffer. And it is only the Purebloods who shall flourish. The Purebloods shall accumlate ever greater wealth. They will profit from the bloodshed, I am sure!"

Soon after that the meeting quietly ended. Within another hour, Scrimgeour was more alone than he was since the day started. Although, like always, his bodyguard were situated just outside his bedchamber. An ambush was definitely possible, and very much likely.

That night he had the most horrible dream. It was so vivid and contained such a harsh reality, that he believed it must be genuine as prophecy. But Rufus Scrimgeour knew he was no seer. The minister felt frightened of the unknown, the uncertainty of coming events…..

Somebody fumbling around in the dark. He realized it was himself he was observing, bumping up against furniture. He reached the hall outside his bedchamber. He became more lucid.

There was a silverly mirror, and before it the moon shone from the garret window. He felt drawn to the glowing mirror.

But what he was saw was more horrific than any image he’d ever seen of himself. His visage was stagnant as a skull’s. A lifeless corpse hung inside the mirror. Hanging? It didn’t make sense. How could it be? He wasn’t a warlock on trial for doing magic in the seventeenth century!

There was one of the sentries still standing guard, patrolling the halls. Scrimgeour ran in his dream desperately and grabbed the man’s sleeve. The man turned inexorably around.

“Where’s the minister?!” Said Scrimgeour himself.

The man looked at him strangely, as if he didn’t recognize him. It was shocking he didn’t know who he was talking to! “Gone,” the man grunted. “Resigned from office.”

The sentry turned carelessly away. Scrimgeour screamed, “Resigned! No! I’m here! I-I I'll never resign!”

But the wizard hadn’t heard him. Scrimgeour realized nobody could recognize him. Here he was a ghost. And worse, it seemed by that mirror, it was telling him he was dead! But how on earth could he have resigned if he was already dead?

He returned to the mirror to gaze once again upon the lifeless corpse hanging inside the glass. And then he bolted awake. He was sweating, beads running down his high forehead and slipping to his cheeks.

He felt feverish and chilled. The chill of death was upon him. It crept through his veins like a potion, a poison that tainted him and seeped into the bones. In terror his eyes bulged and his hands flew to his face, and he pulled at the tips of his tawney hair.

Here he was alone in bed. No wife to comfort him. And he knew it now: Voldemort would come and kill him. It would be soon, the dream was telling him the truth.

Panting like he’d run a race, Scrimgeour rested back against the plump pillows. Scrimgeour remained alone, listening and watching the darkness. He had always been alone and this suited him perfect. His had been a hard life, certainly not a fair one. But from hard lessons, he learned to be tough….a nightmare would not get the best of his spirit. For a long time though, he stared into the darkness….


*


Lucius and Narcissa managed to arrive safely back into their bedroom, without Bellatrix or any of the other inhabitants bothering them, although she followed all the way acting like a guard escorting them back in, which is ironic given it is their own home.

Finally, they got back into their much less impressive bedchamber than the one Voldemort had taken up. Narcissa lit some pungent incense with her wand that was located around the room, and dimmed the lights, hoping to get some leisure time this evening. Lucius paced around angrily and then grabbed a fistful of glittering green floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. He knelt on the ground and submerged his head into the emerald flames.

“Nott’s Estate,” he exclaimed.

Narcissa could not see her husband’s face, but she could still hear him yelling, “Draco! Your little playtime excursion is over. Get home immediately.”

Narcissa took her robes off and put on a provocative nighttime robe that went in a v-slit all the way down from her underwear to her ankles. Then she went into bed, picking up the latest edition of Witch Weekly.

“I will tell your son to leave, if I can find him, Lucius,” answered Theodore’s father, who is of course, a fellow Death Eater.

Nott turned to leave, when Lucius yelled back, “Wait a moment! There is something else you need to know.”

“Yes?” Nott drawled dryly.

“The Dark Lord has planned a celebration after the coup. This Saturday night at his summoning. Make sure to tell everyone in the ranks, Nott….And for each to make portkeys to my manor as family and friends are wanted.”

The elderly, widowed Death Eater sneered, “Why should I be the one to be delegated this responsibility?”

“Because the Dark Lord bloody ordered you to!,” Lucius lied impulsively.

“Then I shall do it at once…Goodnight to you Lucius and I know where to find Theodore and Draco…They’ll be in my library.” It had not been Draco’s idea to do spend time in a library, but Theodore Nott was a studious loner.

Lucius removed his head from the emerald fire and whirled around. He went over to the bay window and saw an interesting sight…Across from their bedroom was the tower where five Veela witches were captive as sex slaves. Pilosto, the main house-elf could be seen closing the door of the tower. Piercing screams traveled from up the tower and into the open window of their bedroom. The elf, Pilosto clad in overalls, bobbed away with a lantern, finished feeding them for the night. Lucius closed the window, and wrenched the curtains shut, turning away from the terrible scene.

Narcissa was still flipping through Witch Weekly, whilst Lucius went to the wardrobe putting his robes away and stripping down to wearing black silk briefs. He climbed into the high four poster bed, and with his new wand, after two tries got the lights to almost total darkness. Without a word to his wife, who then threw her magazine down.

“Lucius why are you allowing Nott to invite the guests for us?” she whispered earnestly.

“I’m not in the mood to discuss it, Narcissa. But I’ll tell you that I’m not doing it when the Dark Lord isn’t permitting me to go to the ministry tomorrow to aid in the overthrow of Scrimgeour.”
“W-why isn’t he allowing you, Lucius?” Narcissa nervously asked.

“He told me my interests are solely for my own end, and not to accomplish his objectives. That I would only get in the way,” Lucius seethed bitterly.

“Oh Lucius! Can’t we just forget him for a moment? I want to go to sleep and imagine a place where he does not exist. But instead I’m having nightmares.”

Lucius did not answer for awhile, but then he thought of how Voldemort was going to take his wife to bed in just two short days. He pulled Narcissa, rolling her over by the waist.

NOTE: Okay...I am finally done with the night before the coup...now the next scene will be a scene inside the ministry, I'm planning.