Fic: At the Salute
Title: At the Salute
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour
Author: yet_endlike (aka scytheandroses
Rating: PG-13, likely.
Word Count: Around 4,000.
Spoiler Note: Deathly Hallows spoilers, guys. Yep. AKA: Turn back if you do not wish to be exposed to spoilery doom.
Warnings: Character death, a bit of language.
Summary: The end of Rufus Scrimgeour. *twitch*
Author's Note: ...yeah. Hearts to Rufus, and chapter seven was quite possibly one of the most kick-ass ever. And about the fic, right. Title, epigraph, and cut-text taken from Geoffrey Hill's Speech! Speech! Extended line regarding title is as follows: 'I make ACTION THIS DAY. And about time. / Carry this through in some order, armatured / At the salute. Even if it kills me.' Which has been a journal name for RP-Rufus, and may or may not be something I've been waiting to for a title title, aye. Also, this may be, er, in 'memory' of Moody almost as much as of Rufus. Because, seriously, they both needed more time and thought. Can only hope they're off having drinks in some vague afterlife of fictional sorts.
"Listen: I am-this
also is-broken."
-Speech! Speech!, Geoffrey Hill-
He is in control of himself, and for so much, Rufus Scrimgeour is glad. He has not lost sight of his goals, his drive, his self-command. After these months in office-months that feel like years, longer than any he has ever known-he must count this retention as some form of a victory.
Almost irritating-perhaps even distressing, though he wouldn’t consent to consider the term-that this should constitute a victory. It is the process of living only, surviving in this political world. What is there to celebrate in controlling the self? Such should be a given quantity, with efforts directed toward the control of others, the maintenance of a proper system. Control of the self becomes ingrained. That is, it should become as such, and Rufus knows very well that he has taught himself the lesson.
Not that he hasn’t had his… moments. Brief instances in which his temper has begun to flare, in which he has desired only to react. He hasn’t ever really moved beyond the feeling of these impulses. Always, however, he has caught himself, managed to keep from lashing out as he might very well desire. Best to channel such impulses into useful work. Make something constructive of yourself, progress rather than cause further damage. No matter what he can so often believe, offenders are rarely worth the trouble brought on by reaction. Control all drives of pride, react as a politician should: be careful.
These days, however, it has become difficult to feel entirely in control. Rufus grits his teeth at the thought, but he cannot fully deny its truth. Something has happened, some twisting to accompany this war. It should never have happened like this. He knew to expect it, to prepare and to defend against infiltration. Of course the Death Eaters would attempt to overtake the Ministry. It was a matter of course, just as defending against them should have been a matter of course. For a time, he-they, in some instances-had held intruders at bay. Rufus had been ready and willing to fight, had commanded others to defend and to strike, and their opponents had fallen back.
But something had gone wrong. There are too many now, closing in far too quickly. He has little hard evidence, but there can be no denying the growing feelings of discomfort (not paranoia, though; he will no more lay claim to that term than to distress). Faces have become increasingly strange; much as he tries, Rufus cannot keep track of every addition to the Ministry, and lately, figures have revolved too rapidly into new positions.
And he could swear-and does, aloud to himself and then to those few, marginally-trusted individuals-that there are those of higher rank who have fallen to obscene ways. No matter how well he holds his power, even the Minister cannot be easily rid of certain individuals. Not without some semblance proof, and in many cases, this is difficult to come by, even to create. And then, he cannot monitor every individual, note every change of behavior (though, here as well, Merlin knows he had tried). And so they began their infiltration.
A year, a few months more, is not time enough to keep them away. He hadn’t expected them to rise so quickly, nor with such strength. They had started simply enough, here and there, in some cases undetectable. And that had been the problem. No matter how many suspicious individuals they uncovered, others lurked. He had almost believed, perhaps had believed, that these would be one and all uprooted, yet here they remained, mocking all efforts and growing in force.
Rufus is beginning to understand a most unfortunate truth: they are overtaking the strength of the Ministry, replacing it with their own.
Still, he vows to destroy them, to see them banished. The Aurors, at least, remain with him, and there are others, many others (lord, never enough… but they must be counted as enough) who will fight for the Ministry. So long as they persevere, so long as he wills and they obey his will, all will be well.
A strain enough to fight the Death Eaters outside of the Ministry, let alone within. So much is true. Their forces have been stretched, their dedicated fighters continue to lose sleep (and, yes, ground, but never too much; they may yet regain the times), but to strive onward. They understand the stakes, will not give in.
No, no, they will prevail. They must.
Through an unexpected appearance, Gawain Robards hints at unfortunate news, though its specifics are veiled. He remains silent for a time, greeting with a nod, and the indication is of bad news to come. Rufus has seen this expression before, subtle but recognizable to those who know, who have spent enough time in conversation with the other.
There have been many unwelcome announcements of late, reports from outside and an increasing number of those from within. Even the Aurors have begun to have a rough time of it, as is evinced by the other, still more muted expression on Robards’ face; the man is worn. They all are, given this need for vigilance. Yet the reports given by Robards-on Death Eater sightings, strikes, announcements of injuries and missing persons-are generally delivered with still less sign of impact. This particular expression carries something of understanding, a knowledge of inevitable reaction from the one receiving the news. Well, then. Gawain has brought a particularly unfortunate sort of news.
Gawain hasn’t yet taken a seat, another sign that the announcement may come as something other than strictly business as usual. Almost intriguing, perhaps, and Rufus would certainly rather hear the news than remain uninformed, but he finds himself almost reluctant to prompt Robards into speech. No need for that, anyway. The man will speak when he is ready; fortunately enough, he is one of the few for whom Rufus reserves his own patience in listening.
Here it is. Robards now looking at him, the slightest shift of posture, an indication of speech. And Rufus cannot help but hear the words with clarity: “The body of Alastor Moody has been found, Minister.”
“Ah.”
There can be no disputing Robards’ meaning, here. It is death, all to recognizable in these times. Bloody…
No. Don’t think of it too closely, leave all implications for later concern. Never mind the man as fellow student, fellow Auror. Never mind disbelief that such a man should die (of course, each of them must, particularly during these times, but Moody had always seemed somehow to cheat death, to walk off in pain but very much alive) Don’t consider what has happened, the recent conversation with the man, the years before during which there was one individual always to be trusted. For fuck’s sake, just leave it be for now.
These thoughts continue, but he prompts Robards to speak further. The man obliges, neither watching Rufus too closely nor-or so Rufus believes-missing any sense of his reaction. All the more reason to remain closed in this matter, though he has come to trust Robards more than others of the Ministry (more than most anywhere, and the one who knew most may no longer be counted). As Minister, it is simply not advisable to show reaction one way or the other. Basic fact of the position.
It occurs to Rufus that his own time is very nearly through. -Never mind that. Never bloody mind.
Details, then, given as with any such report. Rufus hears because he must, turns his focus to analysis of the provided details (and, even as he hears and processes these, to the formulation of a new angle of tactic). Where the body was found, when, by whom (none of this matches quite properly, and Robards’ tone indicates briefly his own concern); reports related to the death, an occurrence very recent, of great concern in its own right. This, the overall situation, must be dealt with carefully. Sketch reports and details have been arriving through the night, with very little confirmed and almost no trustworthy witness. The first piece of physical evidence (this aside from traces of magic, reports of underage spells and alarms raised) regarding the altercation was the body of a known Death Eater, one Archimedes Straub; the second has become Moody.
“There are other details, Minister, that you may wish to hear.” Details that he must hear, from the sound of it, and rightly so. Something of the situation-even apart from its very simple fact, from what it has done-disturbs all sense of procedure. Rufus nods, and now Gawain does sit before the desk, exact. “There are-” His hesitation, as is the way with Gawain, speaks more of deliberation than uncertainty. “As we have discussed, Minister, I am becoming increasingly more concerned about certain Aurors.” Another pause, and the news that follows come as little surprise. “Auror Whyte had been instructed to remain in the office for the evening, owing to his recent injuries.” These, too, taken under uncertain circumstances.
“Minister, I believe that Auror Whyte must be removed from the force; temporarily, at least. We would do best to question him further.” Hard words for Robards, the man who wishes to think only the best of his Aurors; thank Merlin that he is also a man of practicality, not opposed to recognizing the unfortunate for what it is. Lord knows they could use more within the Ministry willing to face the current situation.
Agreement, statement that it had best happen quickly. The enemy will use any adverse technique possible; that they may have reached to control Aurors must be taken as a possibility. This will be done, then, and Robards is prompted to speak further. He must hear the details in full, and then they must deliberate, discuss possibilities of action.
He feels the pressure of their eyes at all times. The hallways have become hideously oppressive, bringing sensations of walls closing in, of men smiling in appearance, smirking in purpose. He cannot trust these ones, cannot trust the time to walk through these halls or, Merlin forbid, to leave them, to see his own house. As if that last mattered now, or ever; he is more in his element here than anywhere. So long as he remains, he is able to feel his control. To leave would be to forfeit, to invite their continued entry. No, he will remain and guard. There has been far too much to alarm, of late.
Auror Whyte had been placed under the Imperius Curse; it has been decided as almost certainly true, though the man was dead before they could bring him out of it. Courtesy of a negligent (lord, they can only hope it had been negligence; they are looking into this, too) guard’s wand, Whyte had cursed himself. Rather, as Rufus believed, as the sensible ones believe, he was murdered through the control of the perpetrator.
And how many others are there?
Better to plan. Better to avoid the eyes, eyes that cannot possibly penetrate the walls of his office. There plans are safest, there he speaks to the ones he most trusts. Rufus understands this turn of events to be unfortunate, but there is little to be done for it. Plan well, discuss rightly, and they will be gone soon. Yes. They must.
When he does walk the hallways, it is with a bearing that he has long held. The Minister walks only with dignity and even a scarcely-veiled threat, a promise that all intruders will be rooted out, that punishment-proper, excessive-with be given them, and that Rufus will himself see this through. Yes, Rufus may feel uneasy around these ones, may prefer the office to their treacherous company, but he will not show any sign of over-concern, will not indulge in such simple means of escape.
And he maintains control. The public still knows nothing, must not know of the cracks within the Ministry or on the outside, must never be made aware of the damage’s full extent. They know only what they are told, and they follow very well; he holds them as he should. To let them know would bring only further reaction, a call for greater discord and a tearing that would rend the whole of the Ministry and its last chance-
Rufus berates himself for the thought, cursing silently. Foolish thought. They’ve time, no doubt. Such a thought is disgraceful, if understandable in its occurrence. It is the product of pressure, pressure and overwork. Nothing more than that.
Another matter to be dealt with. He glares disgustedly at that particular parchment and its details, silently curses the name of Albus Dumbledore even as he prepares to depart. This will be a quiet journey, taken alone. Very few worthy of trust, now, and he cannot afford to take Robards; the man must monitor the Aurors, watch for further disturbances. They cannot afford another.
He has informed Robards of his impending visit (no doubt others know, as well; they listen, they see, and with such a document as they will, they may too easily surmise). He has readied the objects-well-examined, thought they yield nothing, nothing, and it angers him that they should be so sealed, their meaning left to the devises of these impetuous children-and now adds the will itself to their number. Now remains only the task of finding the senior Weasley.
Lord, he doesn’t want to do this.
Not that he fears speaking with those ones, for fuck’s sake, no. He simply doesn’t need that particular irritation, the insubordination and blatant disrespect, disregard that is certain to come. The children are maddening in what they have been told and what they might be planning. There is something, always something suspicious to their actions, and he already has quite enough of suspicion to consider.
Still. The terms of the will must be fulfilled, and Rufus would much rather question the impertinent ones himself. There remains the chance that they might cooperate, share whatever information they might have found. Foolish children, yes, but they know something. Related to Dumbledore, most likely, and however detestable or foolish that man may have been, there can be no denying the fact that he seemed always curiously well informed. The will indicates some passage of a message to those benefiting from he will, and in speaking to these children, the answer may be discovered. Good or ill, it is worth the attempt at this information.
Worth the attempt, but unpleasant. And after the past few days-days of little or no sleep, of searching through file after file for information and of demanding still most news from Ministry members who may not even have been themselves-he isn’t entirely certain that he will be able to control his temper.
Fortunately, Rufus has discarded an old and self-enforced prohibition; he now allows himself to keep whiskey in the office. He doesn’t drink this regularly, but it is pleasant to have some vague sort of comfort on hand, something that may be used to calm, something ordinary and trustworthy. A drink now, maybe two, cannot harm; he learned years ago to operate smoothly, correctly, after a few drinks. He had given up the practice as one ill-befitting an upper-level Ministry member, but I seems more important now to keep himself calm by whatever means might present themselves. So long as he can operate properly-he can-there is no reason now to shun alcohol.
He takes a drink, sits in silence. And thoughts present themselves.
They’d had whiskey, the last time. Strange that they should have spoken at all, that after years of discord-a rift brought about by debate and genuine belief regarding the Unforgiveables above all, but also by other means, by differences in drive-they should have so easily spoken. Awkward at first, yes, upon Moody’s unannounced arrival and the time of reaching conversation, attempting to discover where the other stood and whether he could speak freely. Testing words, expressions, until they had realized that the long-buried camaraderie still existed, that they yet understood one another. That they could trust one another.
And so they had talked, discussed, and for the first time in weeks, something had gone well. It had still been what it always was, a feeling that one understood what the other intended, looking beneath the words themselves. No need then to review the years in between, but only to discuss, to voice concerns, and to vow that, yes, they would speak again.
Because certain matters had been left out, unresolved. Certain activities over the years, varied allegiances, and the reasons for these, reasons that Rufus could never fully comprehend, though he had come to be quite certain of their presence (entirely certain, given those also present in the altercation, given what he knew already of Moody’s past). They had parted ways with unspoken promise to speak of these matters later, to co-operate, and to…
No more.
Replacing the whiskey, he stands, straightens himself. Time to find Weasley, then.
The boy had no right.
No bloody right.
The office seems no safer than when he left it, oppressed as always on all sides, and now with recurrent echoes of the most maddening strains, the accusations. For fuck’s sake, speaking as if he understood, as if the occurrence might have been prevented. As if announcing the occurrence to the world would have done a damned bit of good, as if he-Rufus Scrimgeour, former Auror, current Minister of Magic-had wanted nothing more than to keep Moody from discovery, and as if publicizing the whole of the affair would have set all affairs right-
Damn that boy, damn those children. Their incomprehension, their unwillingness to aid the greater cause, and their particular accusation, that mistaken belief that had been so suddenly thrown into his face. Good Lord, the way it had been spoken-Vile, foul, a violation of what he understood and the boy had no right!
Still he seethes, a rage inexpressible for lack of outlet. Not a bit of worthwhile information learned, and instead, that? For the love of--Merlin. And he had been driven to react, lashing out on a scale far smaller than what he would have most liked, yet still perhaps too large for his position. (Internally, he balks against this thought, refuses to agree, for the boy deserved as much and worse. The hero? No, never that, not so long as he refused to share information of use to the country, when he laughed at the very idea and the made such wretched remarks.) Best that the Minister not lose his temper as such, but after what had been said…
He desires a drink, but it would do him no good, and so he denies himself the comfort. He must calm himself, must… Must work, yes, review the reports that have arrived since his departure and understand how they fit. Focus the mind, the energy, elsewhere. Work through the night, if necessary-it is inevitable-but by all means, work, and find some semblance of calm. It wouldn’t do to express such anger outside of the office. They must not know.
Lord-Merlin-Gods damn you all…
For perhaps the first time in his life, Rufus doesn’t internally cringe at the sight of that object; he only stares. It nothing save cold, now, entirely removed. An object, yes, only an object. Yet, although he has never perceived it to be a part of the other man, it is the closest that remained-
No. No, damnit, no, he is not going to touch that. His hand wavers slightly, revealing a hesitance instantly regretted. Hesitating, he yet watches it, that cursed eye of the man who had been Alastor Moody. They shouldn’t have this.
Details. Note all, review the information known. Those who found the eye know something, perhaps even more than those who brought the body. He will look into this, will find something on these bastards and, in the final case, simply have them imprisoned. There is a way.
And now, at last, those details make way for matters of the present, and he begins to recognize the situation at hand, the other origin of his growing wariness. Something of those in the room, faces recognizable but perhaps unreal, disturbed, and their eyes, the way they watch-
Hell.
Thrown off-guard momentarily, he must have missed some sign, some shift of expression, for as they attack, he has only begun to place together the pieces. As he recognizes the attack, he moves to strike in response, acting instinctively at first and then with growing awareness. This spell here, that placed to there other, and there are two attackers, then three as another enters, and Rufus understands: there are more, there are altogether too many, and they have planned this too well to defy. Not when so many of their hideous brethren waiting on hand.
They intend to fully destroy the solitude of the office, the last site of surety. He isn’t about to give over willingly.
The attack continues, and he doesn’t flinch, nor laugh; only grits his teeth and fights. He feels his every motion, finds his mind fully immersed in the fight, knowing well how to function, to handle itself. He sees details now in flashes, discards them when unnecessary and makes use of those others. These are employees of the Ministry, they have been bought or placed under control; discard. Whatever they may have been, they are now threats. This one on the left, a presumed Auror, fears fire; make use of the knowledge, watch only briefly as he falters, falls back. Continue.
Both furious and calm, he feels moments lengthening themselves, giving time for reaction, allowing the most suitable response. One of their number falls, another falters, and though these do not give hope, they do lend satisfaction. Conquer what you are able, with the best use of your skill. Yes. Act. It is an awkward place to duel, but perhaps suitable, and he will fight to the last to maintain its inviolability.
On and on, through heightened consciousness, until a sudden crack brings blackness. Against this, there can be no struggle.
A final awareness, returning to a momentary sense of himself so that he perceives the situation, knows what has happened and what will come of this.
They have shouted at him, spoken to him, and have received only a short laugh, a few irritated remarks; nothing that they desired. Damned if he would say a thing, never mind what it was they asked. The duty of any Auror-and the duty of the Minister-is to remain silent in such times as these, times when escape has been blocked and death waits nearby, when the enemy has come to stay at last. The unthinkable has happened, and there is some sorrow in this thought…
But he cannot move to alter. Can scarcely breathe, now, and he understands that those sensations sparking here and there-as if of a pricking of the skin, a slightly nauseating twist-filter through as some part of an immense rage of pain. He feels that this has been in occurrence for several hours, perhaps even days (no, hours; he bears still an awareness of time, if somewhat warped, knows from training and experience where he is, what has occurred), and he knows that it is soon to end, feels it vaguely as he feels the pain.
Unfortunate that such action could only defend for so long, that this occurrence has come to pass. And there was so much to have said, much that in retrospect might have been examined… No. Foolishness. It happened simply as it had, according to his actions against the growing force, and he will not berate himself for the consequences. What use in remorse? What use, even, in recollection? There have been complications, matters of infuriation, and he has come to this end quite alone, to be discarded by the system that he knows so well. Never mind these, they matter little, here: Rufus is proud enough of his actions and decisions, of the methods that had defended. And well, he knows, he should be proud…
Whether anyone knows or will ever know, he has died well, as Minister of Magic and in control of himself.
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour
Author: yet_endlike (aka scytheandroses
Rating: PG-13, likely.
Word Count: Around 4,000.
Spoiler Note: Deathly Hallows spoilers, guys. Yep. AKA: Turn back if you do not wish to be exposed to spoilery doom.
Warnings: Character death, a bit of language.
Summary: The end of Rufus Scrimgeour. *twitch*
Author's Note: ...yeah. Hearts to Rufus, and chapter seven was quite possibly one of the most kick-ass ever. And about the fic, right. Title, epigraph, and cut-text taken from Geoffrey Hill's Speech! Speech! Extended line regarding title is as follows: 'I make ACTION THIS DAY. And about time. / Carry this through in some order, armatured / At the salute. Even if it kills me.' Which has been a journal name for RP-Rufus, and may or may not be something I've been waiting to for a title title, aye. Also, this may be, er, in 'memory' of Moody almost as much as of Rufus. Because, seriously, they both needed more time and thought. Can only hope they're off having drinks in some vague afterlife of fictional sorts.
"Listen: I am-this
also is-broken."
-Speech! Speech!, Geoffrey Hill-
He is in control of himself, and for so much, Rufus Scrimgeour is glad. He has not lost sight of his goals, his drive, his self-command. After these months in office-months that feel like years, longer than any he has ever known-he must count this retention as some form of a victory.
Almost irritating-perhaps even distressing, though he wouldn’t consent to consider the term-that this should constitute a victory. It is the process of living only, surviving in this political world. What is there to celebrate in controlling the self? Such should be a given quantity, with efforts directed toward the control of others, the maintenance of a proper system. Control of the self becomes ingrained. That is, it should become as such, and Rufus knows very well that he has taught himself the lesson.
Not that he hasn’t had his… moments. Brief instances in which his temper has begun to flare, in which he has desired only to react. He hasn’t ever really moved beyond the feeling of these impulses. Always, however, he has caught himself, managed to keep from lashing out as he might very well desire. Best to channel such impulses into useful work. Make something constructive of yourself, progress rather than cause further damage. No matter what he can so often believe, offenders are rarely worth the trouble brought on by reaction. Control all drives of pride, react as a politician should: be careful.
These days, however, it has become difficult to feel entirely in control. Rufus grits his teeth at the thought, but he cannot fully deny its truth. Something has happened, some twisting to accompany this war. It should never have happened like this. He knew to expect it, to prepare and to defend against infiltration. Of course the Death Eaters would attempt to overtake the Ministry. It was a matter of course, just as defending against them should have been a matter of course. For a time, he-they, in some instances-had held intruders at bay. Rufus had been ready and willing to fight, had commanded others to defend and to strike, and their opponents had fallen back.
But something had gone wrong. There are too many now, closing in far too quickly. He has little hard evidence, but there can be no denying the growing feelings of discomfort (not paranoia, though; he will no more lay claim to that term than to distress). Faces have become increasingly strange; much as he tries, Rufus cannot keep track of every addition to the Ministry, and lately, figures have revolved too rapidly into new positions.
And he could swear-and does, aloud to himself and then to those few, marginally-trusted individuals-that there are those of higher rank who have fallen to obscene ways. No matter how well he holds his power, even the Minister cannot be easily rid of certain individuals. Not without some semblance proof, and in many cases, this is difficult to come by, even to create. And then, he cannot monitor every individual, note every change of behavior (though, here as well, Merlin knows he had tried). And so they began their infiltration.
A year, a few months more, is not time enough to keep them away. He hadn’t expected them to rise so quickly, nor with such strength. They had started simply enough, here and there, in some cases undetectable. And that had been the problem. No matter how many suspicious individuals they uncovered, others lurked. He had almost believed, perhaps had believed, that these would be one and all uprooted, yet here they remained, mocking all efforts and growing in force.
Rufus is beginning to understand a most unfortunate truth: they are overtaking the strength of the Ministry, replacing it with their own.
Still, he vows to destroy them, to see them banished. The Aurors, at least, remain with him, and there are others, many others (lord, never enough… but they must be counted as enough) who will fight for the Ministry. So long as they persevere, so long as he wills and they obey his will, all will be well.
A strain enough to fight the Death Eaters outside of the Ministry, let alone within. So much is true. Their forces have been stretched, their dedicated fighters continue to lose sleep (and, yes, ground, but never too much; they may yet regain the times), but to strive onward. They understand the stakes, will not give in.
No, no, they will prevail. They must.
Through an unexpected appearance, Gawain Robards hints at unfortunate news, though its specifics are veiled. He remains silent for a time, greeting with a nod, and the indication is of bad news to come. Rufus has seen this expression before, subtle but recognizable to those who know, who have spent enough time in conversation with the other.
There have been many unwelcome announcements of late, reports from outside and an increasing number of those from within. Even the Aurors have begun to have a rough time of it, as is evinced by the other, still more muted expression on Robards’ face; the man is worn. They all are, given this need for vigilance. Yet the reports given by Robards-on Death Eater sightings, strikes, announcements of injuries and missing persons-are generally delivered with still less sign of impact. This particular expression carries something of understanding, a knowledge of inevitable reaction from the one receiving the news. Well, then. Gawain has brought a particularly unfortunate sort of news.
Gawain hasn’t yet taken a seat, another sign that the announcement may come as something other than strictly business as usual. Almost intriguing, perhaps, and Rufus would certainly rather hear the news than remain uninformed, but he finds himself almost reluctant to prompt Robards into speech. No need for that, anyway. The man will speak when he is ready; fortunately enough, he is one of the few for whom Rufus reserves his own patience in listening.
Here it is. Robards now looking at him, the slightest shift of posture, an indication of speech. And Rufus cannot help but hear the words with clarity: “The body of Alastor Moody has been found, Minister.”
“Ah.”
There can be no disputing Robards’ meaning, here. It is death, all to recognizable in these times. Bloody…
No. Don’t think of it too closely, leave all implications for later concern. Never mind the man as fellow student, fellow Auror. Never mind disbelief that such a man should die (of course, each of them must, particularly during these times, but Moody had always seemed somehow to cheat death, to walk off in pain but very much alive) Don’t consider what has happened, the recent conversation with the man, the years before during which there was one individual always to be trusted. For fuck’s sake, just leave it be for now.
These thoughts continue, but he prompts Robards to speak further. The man obliges, neither watching Rufus too closely nor-or so Rufus believes-missing any sense of his reaction. All the more reason to remain closed in this matter, though he has come to trust Robards more than others of the Ministry (more than most anywhere, and the one who knew most may no longer be counted). As Minister, it is simply not advisable to show reaction one way or the other. Basic fact of the position.
It occurs to Rufus that his own time is very nearly through. -Never mind that. Never bloody mind.
Details, then, given as with any such report. Rufus hears because he must, turns his focus to analysis of the provided details (and, even as he hears and processes these, to the formulation of a new angle of tactic). Where the body was found, when, by whom (none of this matches quite properly, and Robards’ tone indicates briefly his own concern); reports related to the death, an occurrence very recent, of great concern in its own right. This, the overall situation, must be dealt with carefully. Sketch reports and details have been arriving through the night, with very little confirmed and almost no trustworthy witness. The first piece of physical evidence (this aside from traces of magic, reports of underage spells and alarms raised) regarding the altercation was the body of a known Death Eater, one Archimedes Straub; the second has become Moody.
“There are other details, Minister, that you may wish to hear.” Details that he must hear, from the sound of it, and rightly so. Something of the situation-even apart from its very simple fact, from what it has done-disturbs all sense of procedure. Rufus nods, and now Gawain does sit before the desk, exact. “There are-” His hesitation, as is the way with Gawain, speaks more of deliberation than uncertainty. “As we have discussed, Minister, I am becoming increasingly more concerned about certain Aurors.” Another pause, and the news that follows come as little surprise. “Auror Whyte had been instructed to remain in the office for the evening, owing to his recent injuries.” These, too, taken under uncertain circumstances.
“Minister, I believe that Auror Whyte must be removed from the force; temporarily, at least. We would do best to question him further.” Hard words for Robards, the man who wishes to think only the best of his Aurors; thank Merlin that he is also a man of practicality, not opposed to recognizing the unfortunate for what it is. Lord knows they could use more within the Ministry willing to face the current situation.
Agreement, statement that it had best happen quickly. The enemy will use any adverse technique possible; that they may have reached to control Aurors must be taken as a possibility. This will be done, then, and Robards is prompted to speak further. He must hear the details in full, and then they must deliberate, discuss possibilities of action.
He feels the pressure of their eyes at all times. The hallways have become hideously oppressive, bringing sensations of walls closing in, of men smiling in appearance, smirking in purpose. He cannot trust these ones, cannot trust the time to walk through these halls or, Merlin forbid, to leave them, to see his own house. As if that last mattered now, or ever; he is more in his element here than anywhere. So long as he remains, he is able to feel his control. To leave would be to forfeit, to invite their continued entry. No, he will remain and guard. There has been far too much to alarm, of late.
Auror Whyte had been placed under the Imperius Curse; it has been decided as almost certainly true, though the man was dead before they could bring him out of it. Courtesy of a negligent (lord, they can only hope it had been negligence; they are looking into this, too) guard’s wand, Whyte had cursed himself. Rather, as Rufus believed, as the sensible ones believe, he was murdered through the control of the perpetrator.
And how many others are there?
Better to plan. Better to avoid the eyes, eyes that cannot possibly penetrate the walls of his office. There plans are safest, there he speaks to the ones he most trusts. Rufus understands this turn of events to be unfortunate, but there is little to be done for it. Plan well, discuss rightly, and they will be gone soon. Yes. They must.
When he does walk the hallways, it is with a bearing that he has long held. The Minister walks only with dignity and even a scarcely-veiled threat, a promise that all intruders will be rooted out, that punishment-proper, excessive-with be given them, and that Rufus will himself see this through. Yes, Rufus may feel uneasy around these ones, may prefer the office to their treacherous company, but he will not show any sign of over-concern, will not indulge in such simple means of escape.
And he maintains control. The public still knows nothing, must not know of the cracks within the Ministry or on the outside, must never be made aware of the damage’s full extent. They know only what they are told, and they follow very well; he holds them as he should. To let them know would bring only further reaction, a call for greater discord and a tearing that would rend the whole of the Ministry and its last chance-
Rufus berates himself for the thought, cursing silently. Foolish thought. They’ve time, no doubt. Such a thought is disgraceful, if understandable in its occurrence. It is the product of pressure, pressure and overwork. Nothing more than that.
Another matter to be dealt with. He glares disgustedly at that particular parchment and its details, silently curses the name of Albus Dumbledore even as he prepares to depart. This will be a quiet journey, taken alone. Very few worthy of trust, now, and he cannot afford to take Robards; the man must monitor the Aurors, watch for further disturbances. They cannot afford another.
He has informed Robards of his impending visit (no doubt others know, as well; they listen, they see, and with such a document as they will, they may too easily surmise). He has readied the objects-well-examined, thought they yield nothing, nothing, and it angers him that they should be so sealed, their meaning left to the devises of these impetuous children-and now adds the will itself to their number. Now remains only the task of finding the senior Weasley.
Lord, he doesn’t want to do this.
Not that he fears speaking with those ones, for fuck’s sake, no. He simply doesn’t need that particular irritation, the insubordination and blatant disrespect, disregard that is certain to come. The children are maddening in what they have been told and what they might be planning. There is something, always something suspicious to their actions, and he already has quite enough of suspicion to consider.
Still. The terms of the will must be fulfilled, and Rufus would much rather question the impertinent ones himself. There remains the chance that they might cooperate, share whatever information they might have found. Foolish children, yes, but they know something. Related to Dumbledore, most likely, and however detestable or foolish that man may have been, there can be no denying the fact that he seemed always curiously well informed. The will indicates some passage of a message to those benefiting from he will, and in speaking to these children, the answer may be discovered. Good or ill, it is worth the attempt at this information.
Worth the attempt, but unpleasant. And after the past few days-days of little or no sleep, of searching through file after file for information and of demanding still most news from Ministry members who may not even have been themselves-he isn’t entirely certain that he will be able to control his temper.
Fortunately, Rufus has discarded an old and self-enforced prohibition; he now allows himself to keep whiskey in the office. He doesn’t drink this regularly, but it is pleasant to have some vague sort of comfort on hand, something that may be used to calm, something ordinary and trustworthy. A drink now, maybe two, cannot harm; he learned years ago to operate smoothly, correctly, after a few drinks. He had given up the practice as one ill-befitting an upper-level Ministry member, but I seems more important now to keep himself calm by whatever means might present themselves. So long as he can operate properly-he can-there is no reason now to shun alcohol.
He takes a drink, sits in silence. And thoughts present themselves.
They’d had whiskey, the last time. Strange that they should have spoken at all, that after years of discord-a rift brought about by debate and genuine belief regarding the Unforgiveables above all, but also by other means, by differences in drive-they should have so easily spoken. Awkward at first, yes, upon Moody’s unannounced arrival and the time of reaching conversation, attempting to discover where the other stood and whether he could speak freely. Testing words, expressions, until they had realized that the long-buried camaraderie still existed, that they yet understood one another. That they could trust one another.
And so they had talked, discussed, and for the first time in weeks, something had gone well. It had still been what it always was, a feeling that one understood what the other intended, looking beneath the words themselves. No need then to review the years in between, but only to discuss, to voice concerns, and to vow that, yes, they would speak again.
Because certain matters had been left out, unresolved. Certain activities over the years, varied allegiances, and the reasons for these, reasons that Rufus could never fully comprehend, though he had come to be quite certain of their presence (entirely certain, given those also present in the altercation, given what he knew already of Moody’s past). They had parted ways with unspoken promise to speak of these matters later, to co-operate, and to…
No more.
Replacing the whiskey, he stands, straightens himself. Time to find Weasley, then.
The boy had no right.
No bloody right.
The office seems no safer than when he left it, oppressed as always on all sides, and now with recurrent echoes of the most maddening strains, the accusations. For fuck’s sake, speaking as if he understood, as if the occurrence might have been prevented. As if announcing the occurrence to the world would have done a damned bit of good, as if he-Rufus Scrimgeour, former Auror, current Minister of Magic-had wanted nothing more than to keep Moody from discovery, and as if publicizing the whole of the affair would have set all affairs right-
Damn that boy, damn those children. Their incomprehension, their unwillingness to aid the greater cause, and their particular accusation, that mistaken belief that had been so suddenly thrown into his face. Good Lord, the way it had been spoken-Vile, foul, a violation of what he understood and the boy had no right!
Still he seethes, a rage inexpressible for lack of outlet. Not a bit of worthwhile information learned, and instead, that? For the love of--Merlin. And he had been driven to react, lashing out on a scale far smaller than what he would have most liked, yet still perhaps too large for his position. (Internally, he balks against this thought, refuses to agree, for the boy deserved as much and worse. The hero? No, never that, not so long as he refused to share information of use to the country, when he laughed at the very idea and the made such wretched remarks.) Best that the Minister not lose his temper as such, but after what had been said…
He desires a drink, but it would do him no good, and so he denies himself the comfort. He must calm himself, must… Must work, yes, review the reports that have arrived since his departure and understand how they fit. Focus the mind, the energy, elsewhere. Work through the night, if necessary-it is inevitable-but by all means, work, and find some semblance of calm. It wouldn’t do to express such anger outside of the office. They must not know.
Lord-Merlin-Gods damn you all…
For perhaps the first time in his life, Rufus doesn’t internally cringe at the sight of that object; he only stares. It nothing save cold, now, entirely removed. An object, yes, only an object. Yet, although he has never perceived it to be a part of the other man, it is the closest that remained-
No. No, damnit, no, he is not going to touch that. His hand wavers slightly, revealing a hesitance instantly regretted. Hesitating, he yet watches it, that cursed eye of the man who had been Alastor Moody. They shouldn’t have this.
Details. Note all, review the information known. Those who found the eye know something, perhaps even more than those who brought the body. He will look into this, will find something on these bastards and, in the final case, simply have them imprisoned. There is a way.
And now, at last, those details make way for matters of the present, and he begins to recognize the situation at hand, the other origin of his growing wariness. Something of those in the room, faces recognizable but perhaps unreal, disturbed, and their eyes, the way they watch-
Hell.
Thrown off-guard momentarily, he must have missed some sign, some shift of expression, for as they attack, he has only begun to place together the pieces. As he recognizes the attack, he moves to strike in response, acting instinctively at first and then with growing awareness. This spell here, that placed to there other, and there are two attackers, then three as another enters, and Rufus understands: there are more, there are altogether too many, and they have planned this too well to defy. Not when so many of their hideous brethren waiting on hand.
They intend to fully destroy the solitude of the office, the last site of surety. He isn’t about to give over willingly.
The attack continues, and he doesn’t flinch, nor laugh; only grits his teeth and fights. He feels his every motion, finds his mind fully immersed in the fight, knowing well how to function, to handle itself. He sees details now in flashes, discards them when unnecessary and makes use of those others. These are employees of the Ministry, they have been bought or placed under control; discard. Whatever they may have been, they are now threats. This one on the left, a presumed Auror, fears fire; make use of the knowledge, watch only briefly as he falters, falls back. Continue.
Both furious and calm, he feels moments lengthening themselves, giving time for reaction, allowing the most suitable response. One of their number falls, another falters, and though these do not give hope, they do lend satisfaction. Conquer what you are able, with the best use of your skill. Yes. Act. It is an awkward place to duel, but perhaps suitable, and he will fight to the last to maintain its inviolability.
On and on, through heightened consciousness, until a sudden crack brings blackness. Against this, there can be no struggle.
A final awareness, returning to a momentary sense of himself so that he perceives the situation, knows what has happened and what will come of this.
They have shouted at him, spoken to him, and have received only a short laugh, a few irritated remarks; nothing that they desired. Damned if he would say a thing, never mind what it was they asked. The duty of any Auror-and the duty of the Minister-is to remain silent in such times as these, times when escape has been blocked and death waits nearby, when the enemy has come to stay at last. The unthinkable has happened, and there is some sorrow in this thought…
But he cannot move to alter. Can scarcely breathe, now, and he understands that those sensations sparking here and there-as if of a pricking of the skin, a slightly nauseating twist-filter through as some part of an immense rage of pain. He feels that this has been in occurrence for several hours, perhaps even days (no, hours; he bears still an awareness of time, if somewhat warped, knows from training and experience where he is, what has occurred), and he knows that it is soon to end, feels it vaguely as he feels the pain.
Unfortunate that such action could only defend for so long, that this occurrence has come to pass. And there was so much to have said, much that in retrospect might have been examined… No. Foolishness. It happened simply as it had, according to his actions against the growing force, and he will not berate himself for the consequences. What use in remorse? What use, even, in recollection? There have been complications, matters of infuriation, and he has come to this end quite alone, to be discarded by the system that he knows so well. Never mind these, they matter little, here: Rufus is proud enough of his actions and decisions, of the methods that had defended. And well, he knows, he should be proud…
Whether anyone knows or will ever know, he has died well, as Minister of Magic and in control of himself.