Disclaimer: We do not Harry Potter - all credit goes to J.K. Rowling. We do, however, own anything that does not make this story a complete copy of the Harry Potter novels. If this story is seen on any other website, it wasn't put with our permission. Also, please notify the authors that we will come after them with our wands ready (:P). That being said, please respect the hard work that has gone into this story! Love, Val&Ana.
From the entrance hall to the elevator, from the elevator to the floor, from the floor to the office, everything was, and usually is, a blur. It was the standard routine on-the-way-to-work path, and once you're used to it, there's not much to it. To be fair, apparating into a large crowd of people can be interesting enough, and being squashed in an elevator is uncomfortable at the least, and the second floor always has violently purple memos flying through the air and bustling witches and wizards, and the office, or the cubicle, is usually never the same the next day; most times, there was a new cutting of the Daily Prophet haphazardly thrown onto the desk, or a photo of a wanted witch or wizard tacked onto one of the crowded walls.
Along with all the wanted posters and maps with arrows drawn onto them, there were personal momentos. Family photos, reminders, hand-drawn pictures from the Auror's children. Most of the Aurors had children. It didn't make the job any easier. But that's what a lot of them worked for, to keep their families safe. There was always the possibility of not coming home at the end of the day, which hung over the aurors like a heavy, black cloud. The topic was mostly avoided, although when it was brought up, the whole level seemed to go silent.
Most of the time the Auror office was bright and cheery, with wizards poking each other in the backs as they passed their friend's desks. More than often, someone would bring in a wireless radio, and the office was filled with the bright sounds of hits by The Weird Sisters, the most popular being 'Do the Hippogriff'. Wizards bustled about, calling over cubicles to speak to their colleagues. Rustling papers accompanied the rare moments of quietness, before it all started up again. Because of all this, the office was hardly silent at any time. It would either give you a headache or put you in a really, really good mood.
How quickly that all could change.
Lord Voldemort had been a threat for years. The reality of the situation was true, but when he infiltrated the Ministry, it still came as a shock. The offices became silent as friend turned against friend. Rufus Scrimgeour's disappearance did nothing to better the already crumbling Ministry of Magic. Heads were kept pointed at the polished wooden floor, no one daring to speak. Family photos were hidden, anything personal kept locked away, for fear that the people they were working for would know exactly who to target. The members of the Ministry couldn't resign not without being noticed, working for a force they didn't morally believe in. Hushed whispers flew all around the Ministry - quickly stopping when anyone who was even possibly against Harry Potter walked by.
Pius Thicknesse stood in his office, staring at the small mirror on his desk. Staring back at him, blinking, was his face, but at the same time, wasn't. None of what his body did was his. A yellow haze covered his pupils; the only thing showing that his mind wasn't one with his body. He felt light, as if he were floating inside of his own subconscious, unable to control any part of his body. His body was the puppet, the Death Eater being the ventriloquist. He could see his movements, observe his actions, yet could do nothing. He was the tie between the Ministry of Magic and the Dark Lord; the tie that was never in full control - only enough that he could watch the government crumble to pieces, and only lift a finger against it.
In other words, the Ministry had been overrun. Pius Thicknesse was the new Minister for Magic. No one believed it at first, that he had been selected. The rumours surrounding the resignation of the former Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, as well as his sudden silence, were flattened under the suspicions of the hasty appointment of Thicknesse. Those who proclaimed their mistrusts a little too loudly at the Three Broomsticks had vanished; their offices swept clean the next morning. They were left bare as a silent reminder, and a warning, for anyone who had any thoughts of doing the same.
This was not the ministry that everyone was used to.