Disclaimer: The characters here and the world they inhabit are the creation and property of JK Rowling and her assigns.
She doesn't sit at her desk in her office for very long, preferring to check on her workers. She moves from cubicle to cubicle like a frog among lily pads, looking for that one tasty tidbit that will give her what she wants. She's not particularly hungry for food, although she does enjoy a good meal. Instead she's looking for the authority to command every witch and wizard in Magical England.
She doesn't want to be the one in charge; it's too easy to get into trouble that way. Instead she chooses to manipulate that person. It's so much easier to wield power and then simply go home at the end of a work day. Cornelius was such a dear and so easy. All he required was a sympathetic shake of the head and occasional "tsk, tsk." Rufus has proven harder, but she knows what she's doing and has managed to make it work. She has it on good authority that Rufus's time is coming to an end soon and hopes for better days…
Scanning the room, she sees that Fescue is writing love letters to Rita Skeeter again. It's not the sort of thing anyone would be proud of, but she allows it. She has copies of a few of the letters, and Fescue has a wife. He has his purposes and until he does not, she is content with the status quo.
Green is planning his getaway. Little does he know that Dolores has already written the plan to abduct his wife and children when the time comes. In the mean time, his memos concerning Muggle shops are proving quite useful in certain departments.
Hammond sits up straight, and glances nervously at her. He stretches in an amateurish attempt to throw her off the scent. It doesn't work. He has something, something good, so she wants it.
"Hem hem. You've found something, Hammond?"
"Er-em, yes, ma'am."
"May I see it?"
He hands her a codex and, wiping his hands on his robes, starts to speak too quickly. "It's not hard at all to classify any word as a spell, and then from there..."
"To qualify it as a Class A Unforgivable. Then it can be traced. Very clever, Hammond." She pats him on the arm.
It just needs to be signed into law by the Minister. Scrimgeour would never do such a thing, but he will soon be replaced. Pius won't in any condition to argue the matter. It's is as good as done.
She recalls a classroom and a certain student who wouldn't stop talking. A smile spreads clear across her face as though she's caught a particularly fat fly. "I know just the word."
It's almost like directing the Inquisitorial Squad again, but without the lip that the entitled darlings in Slytherin House constantly gave her. The Snatchers do as she directs and without question. Best of all, when they muck it up she can shrug and complain that the budget she was given doesn't allow for better help.
It's a breathless night, watching and waiting for the trace to activate. She stands in the Department of Mysteries and watches the map of England. Suddenly a light blinks in London and a take out wrapper starts to glow blue.
One of the Unspeakables gasps. "We don't know if the Portkey feature works properly yet!"
She isn't concerned. "They're adventurous boys, aren't you, lads? Carry on!"
Ignoring their panicked faces, she waves cheerily as they disappear.
There is bad news and good news about that first attempt. The snatchers are close and actually have Potter in their grasp, but they are outclassed in the Muggle establishment. Potter and his friends are very good indeed at dueling. If she needed any proof that the Muggle world needed to be eliminated, this was it. Fortunately, no one knows about the trace on the word, and she can continue her work. It will take a little longer, but at least this fiasco proves the concept.
The fall grows long and little happens. There are a few occasions when a school aged child accidentally says the name, not realizing the ramifications. In the case of pure blood families, she pats the child on the head and explains, "That name is simply too precious to speak, dear," while looking sternly at the cowering parents.
Once, a Muggle sees the word on a railroad trestle and says it. Not caring when he keeps shouting, "It was just graffiti!" she waves to the Snatcher who then performs the spell. It was one less Muggle, so not a complete waste of time.
A sunny but cold afternoon enables her to settle an old score. The Snatchers summon her and she finds herself face to face with a memory of sorts. He has lost some weight. Clearly he's done without his wife's cooking for a while. Her smile slides from ear to ear.
"Hem, hem. Well, Edward," she whispers, "We've been looking for you. Not so brave without your protector, are you?"
"I have no protector."
"That witch you live with." The thought of the other woman sticks in her throat like dried bubotuber leaves.
"My wife? I wouldn't ask that of her. I certainly wouldn't put her in danger, Dolores," he answers, without a trace of concern.
"I fancied you, you know. So fit on that broom, flying, sending the bludgers flying… ah, what teenaged witches will believe in the name of love. You acted as though you liked me too, Edward, but it was all a lie."
"I was polite. Call it what you will, I've always loved my wife."
"That was your mistake. I would have been a much better match for you and you know it."
"I have different memories of my school days."
"What about our work days? We might have run off, even right before Pius took office and all this unpleasantness started, but every night at five you dashed home to the other witch."
"You mean my wife of course. I love her." A disgusting look crossed his face.
"We could have had everything."
"Would it change our position right now?"
No it wouldn't; he's right. The only real difference is that she has control over this moment. Matters of the heart are immaterial when vermin have to be exterminated. She summons all of her magic and feels it course through her as she says the spell, allowing her hatred for another pure blood witch to give her supremacy over this wizard's heart, if only for the briefest of instants.
She steps forward to look at him lying there. He doesn't even look scared, which takes the shine off her victory. She feels a twinge of loss over a girlhood dream but quickly straightens up and turns to her dear boys who have made this moment possible. "His wife's house is no longer unplottable. You may recall we paid her a visit a few months ago. Drop him there."
The big score comes in the late winter. She happens to be sitting in the Department of Mysteries when the map lights up and blinks madly in some field near a small town. The Snatcher Squad, used to the process by now, salutes her as their tea cozy turns blue. She smiles fondly after them, the dear lads.
Word comes quickly. They have Granger and two boys. The boys don't look so much like Potter or Weasley however. "Our girl is stepping out," she murmurs. Nasty, the way Muggles have so little loyalty. Then she clears her throat. "Hem hem. We should interrogate the girl. No doubt she knows how to find the other two. This is probably our best chance."
"Yes, ma'am," says Geoffery someone or other. "Word from the Minister's office is that Stan Shunpike will get a commendation from this. He might even get a reward from You-know-who himself."
"Stan Shun—how charming!" She makes herself smile wide and lifts her chin. A commendation for Stan Shunpike, that miserable lowlife who's practically a squib and needs to be confunded to do the slightest thing! It's not to be borne. "Geoffery, be a dear and set me up with a quick Portkey to Malfoy Manor, would you?"
"What are you doing here? Is there some reason my home has become King's Cross Station?"
"Now Lucius, I know everyone's emotions are a bit frayed, but do try for some perspective. I'm merely here to discuss the situation with you."
"What situation?"
"Why, how to deal with the Granger girl, of course."
Lucius says nothing more. He simply glares and points toward a different room. She goes through. "What a lovely archway! You really do have a magnificent home!" Finding herself face to face with a witch that looks like her one-time rival, she smiles deeper. "Ah, Bellatrix!"
"We don't need you."
"Of course you don't, dear." She pats Bellatrix's arm. "I simply wanted to point out that with the correct persuasive techniques, you will be able to get information about Potter out of the Granger girl."
"Are you calling me stupid?!" shrieked the other witch.
Such temper! She has in her possession a special ring, procured from the same source as that lovely locket. A twist of the gem and the smallest of needles is released. The irony of using it today on this witch is delicious. She pats Bellatrix's other arm. "Of course not, darling! You're the best for the job, I'm sure! I simply wanted to remind you not to be—well not to be indelicate, but—please don't be overeager in your technique."
"Get out."
"Of course, as you wish." She leaves, flashing a simpering smile behind, and walks out of the Manor and down to the edge of the property. It is the smallest of needles and the lightest of potions. Bellatrix will never know it happened, but her aim will be off. It will do the work, if the Granger girl has any of her former ability. It is a shame to let Potter go at this point, but no one is going to get the glory she had worked so hard to obtain, nor the power that would accompany it. Stan Shunpike, indeed!
There will be other chances.
Except another chance never comes. The fall comes instead, and with it messy Wizengamot cases. She looks up from the well toward the bench where she once held sway. She sighs fondly. Such wonderful days as those were! Others stare at her today with such nasty looks. They think she's done for. She doesn't consider herself out of it yet, however.
Wizards and witches are brought in from other parts of the world to oversee these trials. She looks hopefully up at them. One white-haired wizard looks over the table, down at her. "We see you're being charged with war crimes."
She chuckles softly "Me? What am I supposed to have done?"
"Are you saying you're innocent of the charges?"
"I'm sure I merely fulfilled the commands of my superiors. No one is in a position to argue during a war, you know."
"You were the superior of several witches and wizards, yourself."
"Some were simply overzealous. The help one gets these days." She waves her hand expressively.
There is much whispering among the Wizengamot and much glaring from the gallery, but in the end she is let go. She's played her cards well and has managed to place everything such that nothing can tie to her. She considers the last few details. If she's done it right, she'll still have a job in the bargain.
She doesn't sit at her desk in her office for very long, preferring to check on her workers. She moves from cubicle to cubicle like a frog among lily pads, looking for that one tasty tidbit that will give her what she wants. She's not particularly hungry for food, although she does enjoy a good meal. Instead she's looking for the authority to command every witch and wizard in Magical England.
She doesn't want to be the one in charge; it's too easy to get into trouble that way. Instead she chooses to manipulate that person. It's so much easier to wield power and then simply go home at the end of a work day. Pius was no trouble at all. He just needed to be told that something was what the Dark Lord wanted. Kingsley is much harder than anyone she's worked with, but she'll find a way to get round him eventually. If not, she'll wait for the next one. There's always a next one...
A/N: This was written for a challenge at the Teachers' Lounge. The prompt is "power." I've always wanted to write a story about Dolores, and she knows more about power than anyone. Be a dear and leave me a note to tell me if you agree.