Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to the talented J.K. Rowling, not me. Now to the story…
Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, sat in his office at the Ministry of Magic, the fingers on his right hand twitching uncontrollably as he tried to read the newly proposed Muggle-Born Treatment law from Dolores Umbridge, a woman whom he personally disliked as much as most every other person in the wizarding community did. However, after several failed attempts at deciphering subsection seven, line four, which was written with sloppy penmanship that definitely wasn't Dolores' in a peculiar deep red ink that eerily reminded him of blood, he gave up, crumpling the law and tossing it in the rubbish bin across the room which called out "Nice shot! Two points!" upon the arrival of the paper projectile.
He slumped in his black leather-padded chair, his head resting in his hands and his mane of hair falling over his prematurely-lined face. Why did I ever want to be Minster of Magic? he thought to himself grimly. The paranoia was horrendous, so much that he sometimes wished it would just be over, that the Death Eaters would just get him so he wouldn't have to worry anymore about the problems of every single goddamn wizard who worked for him nor listen to the incessant and irregular beating of his worn heart. His eyes kept flickering back and forth between the door of his office and the fireplace, now even more than it had when he had first been appointed after Cornelius Fudge's dismissal, and the reason was obvious: The Ministry had been infiltrated; even he could not deny that any loner, but it didn't make things much easier. No, instead it had placed even more responsibility on his shoulders, adding on to his daily load and tripling the paranoia he had.
I'm even paranoid in my own office! he though feverishly. It should have been quite the contrary: his personal quarters were protected beyond belief. Numerous protection spells had been placed on the wooden doors and oak-paneled walls by Gringotts goblins for a hefty fee he had paid for himself, two highly qualified wizards from the Office of Magical Law Enforcement guarded it from the outside, he had ordered the Floo Networking Crew to watch and stop any attempts of entry through the ornate fireplace against the wall, and, if against all odds someone gained entrance to the room, the familiar painting of the Message Courier, a man dressed in an outdated grey curly wig with an annoyingly high-pitched voice who normally resided with the Muggle English Prime Minister, could instantly alert Ministry officials of the breach in security through the neighboring portraits hung throughout the Ministry of Magic.
Yet I still feel uneasy… Of course, it wasn't hard to feel that way. The office was dark and depressing as it was and hardly any magic could change that. It was completely dark except for a single lit candle on his desk (the fire in the grate had been extinguished to discourage others from entering), and the bewitched false window that normally displayed a sunshiny view of the countryside had glitched to a dull grey sky overcast with clouds and a faint mist that reminded Scrimgeour of the dementors of Azkaban.
"Note to self:" he said aloud to the upright quill positioned on a small notepad in the corner of the desk. "Get Cattermole to fix the window ASAP." The quill eagerly scribbled for him, completely oblivious to its master's uneasiness.
Scrimgour looked back at his desk forlornly, one drawer in particular holding his attention longer than the others. Now's not a bad time to review the list, he thought to himself, though with a bit of hesitation. It was a list of his own compiling, but it still didn't make it easier to read and sort through. After all, the names on the list were all of colleagues he had known for years. Just the thought that one of them could be a Death Eater gave him the chills.
"Come on," he coaxed himself, opening the topmost drawer of the sturdy desk. The faster you complete the list and send it to Magical Law Enforcement, the faster the Ministry'll be ridded of them.
Still, it took a bit of effort to pull out the page and it didn't help that the window decided to light the room with a streak of lightning and resonance of thunder at that exact moment, but once the list was out, Scrimgeour had to admit that he felt a bit better.
"Getting down to business," he muttered, picking up a sharpened quill, one that wasn't bewitched. He didn't trust anyone and or anything with this task except for himself, and that was that.
However, it was at that moment that the fireplace burst to life, emerald flames flaring in the hearth and flooding the room with a sickly burst of green light too reminiscent of a certain curse. Scrimgeour immediately dropped the quill and replaced it with his wand, an Ollivander creation, thirteen inches long, walnut, with a dragon heartstring. He pointed it firmly at the figure appearing in the fireplace as he shakily stood up, beads of sweat forming on his receding hairline.
However, once the figure became clearer, he lowered his wand. "Thicknesse, what the hell were you thinking coming through that way!? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Pius Thicknesse stepped into the office from the hearth, his long robes trailing behind him. His forehead was high, his black hair streaked with grey, and his eyes unusually dark. But yet again, Rufus thought, he is head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And with all the problems of late, no one has been getting enough sleep around here.
He shook his head, sitting back down in his desk. "I expect you have brought some dire news to have taken the grate. Which, by the way, gives me the right to know how you were able to come in?" There was a tone of suspicion in his voice.
But Thicknesse already had his answer. "The Floo Department gave me access once they saw it was me. I'm head of Magical Law Enforcement; what I say goes."
Rufus sighed. "Idiots, all of them," he muttered, pocketing his wand at the thought of inept employees. "Anyone could have impersonated you with Polyjuice Potion!" He closed his eyes wearily, reclining back in the chair. "Remind me to send them a strongly-worded owl about that, Pius."
However, Thicknesse didn't reply. Instead, he did two things so quickly that Rufus never would have believed possible for a man his size had he not seen it with his own eyes. First he aimed his wand at the Minister himself and shouted, "Incarcero!" immediately binding Scrimgeour in thick black ropes that severely limited his breathing, and then, turning immediately to the picture frame displaying the flabbergasted eighteenth century Messenger, he called out, "Orafin Angustus!" making the man in the portrait's attempt to alert the officials fail miserably as he was stuck in the rectangular confines of his frame, unable to do anything except watch the scene in horror.
Scrimgeour, however, felt his heart beating more erratically than ever as he tried to draw a breath. He was quite certain one of his ribs was broken from the strength of the spell and the ropes refused to loosen as he squirmed. As for his wand, it was uselessly stowed away in his pocket.
Don't panic, he told himself firmly in his mind, his eyes darting around the room desperately for an idea. One of the guards would have heard the spell and will alert someone. Yes, they'll be in any moment and I'll be free. I just have to keep Thicknesse occupied until then.
However, at that exact moment, the fireplace burst into flames once more, evaporating any hope that Rufus had immediately as he laid his eyes on the horrific figure before him emerging lithely from the flames: Lord Voldemort.