"NO! I'm asking the questions! You're in the chair!"
Mimi rolled her eyes. "Oh, if that's the problem here—" She forced power into the blood-drawn runes beneath her palms, scorching them deeply into the wood — probably permanently ruining the chair, but it wasn't very comfortable anyway. She shook the chains off, and then, since the chair was already ruined, set it alight with a handful of soulfire. (Not strictly necessary, she could have used a wandless charm, but soulfire was impressive as fuck.) She sighed dramatically, as everyone in the room — from Umbridge, Ambrose, and Hermione up on the platform, to the Hit Wizards, to the muggleborns awaiting their own questioning — gaped at her. "Well. I can't say I'm impressed, Dolores."
"What?!" the toad shrieked, infuriated by her tone and the sudden turn of events. "You— That was Ministry property! You! Dementors! Seize her!"
Hermione's hand jerked reflexively toward her wand, though she hadn't quite thought about what she was going to do — cast a patronus of her own, maybe, to protect Mimi? That was sort of sweet, albeit entirely unnecessary. Relax, Maïa. I have my wand, I'm fine. Keep your cover.
Touch me and you die, she warned the creatures, flashes of the wand at her ankle and a memory of her pinning a DAP to a tree with a sunspear carrying the meaning more than the audiated words. The dementors, slowly gliding toward her, froze, though Mimi got the impression they...
Oh. Right. She hadn't considered trying to warn the fucking dementors. As soon as they realised that they were being invaded in her timeline, they'd fucking vanished. Thom said they'd collectively starved themselves to death or something, allowing them to respawn in another timeline or universe. Dementors weren't born, and couldn't really be killed. They just faded out or were banished from the mundane plane, and appeared somewhere with a more favourable misery-to-dementors ratio. (Certain light battlemagics would damage them badly enough that they couldn't obtain enough energy quickly enough to repair their physical form and were forced to fade out, which was what she'd meant by "and you die".) Or at least, humans had thought they couldn't truly be killed until the DAPs got them running scared. It was currently hypothesised that if a DAP consumed a dementor as they did other sentient consciousnesses, that dementor wouldn't respawn.
She'd have to ask, when she was done with Dolly. Since she couldn't hold them off entirely and use legilimency at the same time, she pushed a few of the more relevant memories of the invasion at them in response to their more urgent, more determined attempts to get into her mind. I'll talk to you later! I'm in the middle of something!
That something was shrieking, "I said seize her!" When the dementors remained immobile — communing with each other, or perhaps with the rest of their hive (they were individual beings, but they were almost always in contact with every other dementor within a certain distance, giving the illusion that each colony had only a single mind) — she turned to the Hit Wizards. "Peters! Johnson! Subdue the prisoner! Charge her with destruction of public property!"
Unlike the dementors, Peters and Johnson were vulnerable to her compulsions. She didn't have to threaten them, she just had to order them to ignore the toad. Their own good judgment kept them in their respective corners, well away from the dementors and the witch who'd just torched a chair with fucking soulfire. Who knew what else she was capable of, even without a wand? (Well, compulsions for one...)
"Given that you've just failed your audit with flying colours, Dolly, dear, I'm going to go ahead and say the chair is the least of your problems."
AUDIT? Hermione echoed. Now you're going to— Mira! You can't claim to— Who would even have the authority to audit the Senior Undersecretary?!
...Me? Obviously?
"Audit?! Nobody told me about any audit! You're not an auditor, you're not even a witch!" she shouted — accustomed, apparently, to her word making it so, at least in this room. Ambrose gaped at her in obvious disbelief behind her back, because really, Dolores? I just used soulfire in front of you. How much more obviously a witch could I possibly be?
"I think your Ministry property smouldering there would beg to differ. And as to you not being informed that I was monitoring your performance, that is rather the point, Dolores. The Dark Lord does not wish the resources of his Ministry to be used frivolously, or to no productive end. Given that you just comprehensively failed to identify a marked Death Eater as a witch—"
She slid up her sleeve for effect. Fear crashed over the pathetic pink toad, her patronus snuffed out like a candle, leaving not so much as a wisp of incorporeal fog behind. Her focus shifted abruptly from rage at this little girl flouting her authority to how do I make this someone else's fault? It was all Mimi could do to avoid ruining her very serious, disapproving attitude by sniggering.
"—over the course of twenty minutes of questioning — a Death Eater who, I might add, made it very clear that they were familiar with concepts such as honour duels and anathema subsumption rituals, and whom you should have easily identified as a mind mage from their apparent indifference to the presence of dementors. I can't say I have any more faith in your ability to identify an actual muggleborn. How many people — inferior people, yes, but people whose children's children, should they prove magical, might be allowed to join in our society — have you condemned to Azkaban simply because they, like you yourself, cannot find a close magical relative to vouch for them? No. I'm afraid we're going to have to start from scratch."
"Who are you, exactly, to put words in the Dark Lord's mouth?" Yaxley demanded, stalking down from the platform to examine her loyalty mark, fear and doubt creeping in as he realised that it was genuine. It didn't look much like his, or any of the other Death Eaters' who had taken it before their lord had fallen, but that was because theirs were marred by overlying burn scars, an effect of Voldemort dragging power through them to help save himself when Lily had blown him up. Hers was pristine, the lines of the tattoo clear and the image detailed, rather than a shapeless black brand. That actually made it more believable that she'd been marked at some point in the past year or two: anyone trying to fake a Dark Mark would almost certainly attempt to replicate the scars they'd seen on older Death Eaters. And he wouldn't be able to feel that it wasn't actually a soul-brand. "I...was not aware that the Dark Lord had marked any new recruits."
She raised an eyebrow, cool and confident and blatantly imitating Sev. "Are you so deeply placed in the Dark Lord's confidence that you should expect him to make you aware of such matters?" she bluffed. She really had no idea how close to Voldemort this version of Yaxley was, and didn't have the time to ferret it out with legilimency, but from what she'd seen of the Dark Lord in Harry's memories, he didn't seem the type to keep advisors or the like. Or to welcome the suggestion that he ought to.
"I— No– No, of course not. Please, forgive the implication." Point to Mimi!
"Indeed. You may call me Calytrix. I did simply intend to speak to Madam Umbridge about some of the more...inflammatory language in her latest pamphlet, but on finding her out of the office on a Monday afternoon, I decided that an audit of her entire operation was in order. And quite frankly, I'm glad that I did. Those of us whose blood is pure, whose family history stretches back centuries, are of course better suited to rule than those who have only just rediscovered magic — the theory, Madam Umbridge, is that magic comes from magic, suggesting that all so-called muggleborns have one or more squibs somewhere in their direct ancestry. I have no idea where you came up with the ludicrous notion that they have somehow stolen magic."
(She'd made it up, simply to have an excuse to remove them from society, though she immediately began trying to think of someone she could pin the idea on, perhaps that was how she would get out of any responsibility for— She'd thought the Dark Lord would approve of ridding society of that filth!)
"But magical blood should not be wasted to feed dementors, regardless of its cleanliness or lack thereof. Given careful breeding over enough generations, the mud will be filtered out, and that magic reclaimed. The purpose of a Muggleborn Registration Commission, as I was given to understand it—" (read: the purpose of a Muggleborn Registration Commission as she was making it up right now) "—is not to remove muggleborns from the general population, it is to track marriages and the children produced among their class, in order to know, two or three generations from now, which of those children may be worthy of marrying into the common class — their bloodline proven, if young."
Umbridge wisely kept her mouth shut, still trying to work out an angle from which she didn't look like she'd been wasting magical lives for her own sick gratification, now thinking that perhaps she could blame Lucius Malfoy and his presentation of the project. Which had admittedly been obnoxiously charged with blood purity rhetoric, but had certainly not advocated remanding all muggleborns to Azkaban. Developing a system that ensured that certain "undesirable" people would be firmly excluded from "polite society" was not the same as ensuring that certain people would be excluded from society entirely. (And even if it were, refusing to allow muggleborns the freedom to voluntarily leave the country, ensuring that as many muggleborns would be locked up as possible, had been all Umbridge's idea.) Lucius was an arse, but he wasn't an idiot.
"Madam Cattermole, for example, has three children, all of them magical. Her husband has one muggleborn parent. Should all of their children successfully produce magical children, those children may be considered acceptable matches for the less refined strata of proper mages. And in the meanwhile, we will know clearly who is who, and be able to avoid sullying those bloodlines which are still pure."
Any family who cared about such things would research a betrothal candidate's family independently as well, of course. A registry would almost certainly be of more use to create a new underclass to be discriminated against (that was how Lucius had framed it, albeit in prettier language), but creating something like the longstanding network of family trees and relatedness charts the nobles maintained, she imagined, would be the publicised rationale for its existence. If they weren't looking at an alien invasion in a matter of weeks, at which point all of this would be moot, Mimi might hesitate to prop it up — yes, it would certainly mean fewer muggleborns fed to the dementors, but reframing it would make the system more sustainable, which might do more harm in the long run? (Maybe? She didn't know. Ethical calculations were not her strong suit.) — but since they were, derailing the Azkaban Express seemed the obvious choice. (Also, ruining Dolly's pet project was a worthy end-goal in and of itself.)
She turned back to Ambrose. "Madam Umbridge appears to have no clear idea herself what the purpose of this incredibly essential project is, and how it ought to differ from the list of known muggleborns which the Ministry already maintains, and seems, in fact, to be using it as an excuse to exterminate a significant proportion of the population. And while I do appreciate the urge to remove certain...filth from our society," she added, sneering in Umbridge's general direction, "such methods are distinctly counterproductive.
"Would you not agree, Ambrose?"
"Er...yes?" he hazarded, rather shell-shocked. (Hermione, equally shocked, and considerably more disgusted with Mimi — She doesn't really believe that, does she? She did say she's a Death Eater in her world... — bit the inside of her cheek to avoid reacting.)
"Good lad," she said, reaching up to pat his cheek in a somewhat patronising way (all the more so given he was at least twice her age), very reminiscent of her Bella (and the Bella Ambrose recalled from the Sixties and Seventies).
"You two! Peters! Johnson! One of you, send word to Azkaban. I want every person this worthless toad has sent up who hasn't already been kissed returned to their homes until a proper investigation of their heritage and magical talent or lack thereof may be conducted. If they wish to leave Britain, they are to be allowed to do so — that is, quite literally, the very least we can offer as restitution for needlessly and unjustly exposing them to the dementors. The other is to escort these people off Ministry premises, immediately. Then relay the message to Madam Umbridge's staff that there will be a memo communicating specific policy goals which will need to be addressed to correct course with regards to the Muggleborn Registration project. In the meanwhile, however, they are to issue whatever orders necessary to rescind the travel restrictions recently enacted and recall those ridiculous, inflammatory pamphlets — dangers posed by mudbloods, honestly... No proper witch has anything to fear from their mere existence."
"You can't do that!" Umbridge objected, apparently involuntarily. She quailed when Mimi turned to glare at her, eyes glowing with power, an eerie green the same shade as a Killing Curse.
Yeah, that's what I thought. She turned back to the Hit Wizards. "Do it." And then, to the muggleborns, "Those of you brought here today to discuss your blood status, please accept my apologies on behalf of the Administration as a whole. We recognise that despite the recent shift in priorities at the highest levels of our government, said government must continue to fulfil its functions and duties to its citizens. Madam Umbridge's interpretation of her instructions is not representative of this Administration's policies, and steps will be taken to correct any implications to the contrary."
...What the heck was that?
I told you I'm a diplomat in my timeline, didn't I? Diplomacy is approximately eighty-five per cent making up dragonshite on the fly, and fifteen per cent making it sound reasonable to any given audience. "Now, you may follow Hit Wizard Johnson up to the Atrium," she dismissed them firmly, planting the idea equally firmly in their minds to get out of the fucking country, because there was really no telling how long this little confidence play would hold up.
It was entirely possible that Voldemort, in his insanity, actually did want all of the muggleborns incarcerated or dead, or would be sufficiently annoyed when he discovered that someone had been issuing orders in his name that he would reverse them directly out of spite, ordering all the muggleborns rounded up with no room for creative interpretation of said orders. Hermione, staring, appalled by her audacity, shared that concern. Knowing Umbridge, she fully expected the toad to belay Mimi's orders the second she left, and probably go running off to the Dark Lord as well, to demand he clarify her orders personally, and reprimand that little bitch who'd embarrassed a very important, senior Ministry official and destroyed Ministry property.
You can't just– just go around claiming to speak on behalf of Voldemort, Mira!
Oh? I think you'll find I just did. And if he has a single scrap of rationality left, he'll let my orders stand, because they make sense and will help to placate the populace. And even if he doesn't, it's not like he doesn't already want to kill Harry, and wouldn't kill me if I'm caught with you. Do you really think Dolly's going to run off telling tales? She certainly wasn't planning on it yet, but she was still trying to think of ways to avoid punishment herself, so.
Absolutely.
Noted. In that case, she'd simply have to prevent Umbridge having the opportunity to do so.
"Now then," she said, sweeping up the short staircase to the platform, where "Madam Hopkirk" and the Senior Undersecretary were waiting, Ambrose trailing behind her with the air of one who has very little idea what the fuck is going on here, but is not inclined to question his good fortune — in this case, the apparent return of sanity to some faction of the Death Eaters' leadership. Yes, he was willing to laugh and jeer at the poor unfortunates Dolly intended to send up to Azkaban, but at least fifty per cent of that willingness was fear for his own fate should any suggestion that his loyalty might be lacking make its way back to the Dark Lord. He was, after all, one of those who had escaped prison time in Eighty-Two by disavowing him. It seemed that by October of Eighty-One, most of the marked Death Eaters had only continued to follow Thom because they had a fucking soul-brand tying them to his service.
Leaning casually against the balustrade, she asked, "What am I to do with you, Dolores?"
"What do you mean, what are you to do with me? You can't possibly think you'll get away with this! I am the Senior Undersecretary! I've been involved at the top levels of the past four administrations!" Mimi wasn't entirely certain that was something to brag about — the past four administrations hadn't exactly done a great job governing Britain, as far as she was concerned. "I was running this Ministry before you were born! You can't just waltz in here and– and take over my project! You have no authority—" Her voice cut out suddenly, leaving Hermione wondering what the hell just happened, and Ambrose with an uncomfortable suspicion that Mimi had just taken control of the toad's body, which was exactly what had just happened.
She gave the bitch her sweetest, most innocent smile. "I think you'll find I do," she said softly, feeling the dementors draw in closer as Umbridge's fear and helplessness spiked. As long as they continued to wait politely until she was finished with the bitch for answers regarding the DAPs, Mimi didn't mind. She could feel their urgency, dark, corrupting magic attempting to worm its way deeper into her mind, but complaining about that would make her the biggest hypocrite. They weren't trying to force their way into her memories to simply take the answers, when they almost certainly could. She was actively extending her consciousness at the moment, she wouldn't be able to occlude solidly enough to stop them.
Hermione, on the other hand, whimpered, fingernails digging into her palms as she tried to remain focused on something other than modifying her parents' memories and sending them off to Australia, or watching Harry writhe in pain, trying to wake him from a nightmare, or sitting through Dumbledore's funeral— Oh, for fuck's sake, just cast a patronus.
I can't. I can't focus...
Well, that was just too bad, because Mimi wasn't about to attempt to counter the dementors' influence directly for Hermione when she was already puppeteering Umbridge, and pausing in her intimidation to cast a light protection charm for a helpless Ministry paper-pusher would be breaking character. Badly.
"Magic is might, Dolores. I have the authority to do anything you can't stop me from doing. Which, given that I am me — and you are a despicable little toad whose only strength lies in her ability to convince others with actual power to do her bidding, lest they be dismissed from their positions in an institution which holds no leverage over me — is anything I like.
"For example. That necklace. Give it to me."
She tried to resist, but the poor thing had never learned any proper occlumency. Techniques to recognise the boundaries of her own mind and enforce them against charms and lesser mind-mages, but certainly nothing that would help her dislodge a legilimens who had infiltrated her mind so thoroughly that her will was already completely divorced from the actions of her body. (Though to be fair, the only non-legilimens she knew who could shake her if she got this far into his mind was Sirius.) Her pudgy little hands with their sharp, pink nails rose to pluck the chain over her head, handing it to Mimi without hesitation.
"Why, thank you, Dolly! What a lovely gift!" She giggled at the older witch's impotent fury. "Unfortunately, you're right, I can't keep this up forever. I do have more important things to do than babysit you indefinitely." Hope and vindictive fury spiked at the thought that Mimi was going to have to release her, as though Mimi wasn't perfectly aware that Dolores might be a dangerous enemy to disregard. She laughed. "Don't be silly, Dolores. I'm not going to let you go. I'm going to transfigure you into a small animal and take you home with me. Maybe a kitten? You can live in a little cage and think about what you've done wrong until I find some use for you." Like being sacrificed to the Family Magic, for example. (This really was a good plan, she was glad she'd thought of it.)
Her thoughts were largely incoherent terror — disbelief warring with an unshakeable awareness that Mimi meant every single word and a strange, denial-laced certainty that she would get Mimi back for this somehow, even in the face of her imminent kitten-ification.
"Oh, come now. This is me being nice. I could just shred your consciousness or let the dementors have you. I could turn you into an actual toad. Being imprisoned as a kitten might be humiliating, but I'd contend it's still more humane than Azkaban. You do like kittens, don't you?"
Not anymore, she didn't. Tee hee.
She let the witch remain conscious throughout the transformation — not only was it incredibly disorienting being transfigured by someone else, but she suspected the controlling little bitch would find the experience of being forced into a different form against her will deeply violating. Generally speaking, Mimi didn't particularly enjoy psychological torture. She certainly didn't enjoy it as much as Thom. But there was something just delightful about forcing truly terrible people to experience fates they would gladly inflict on others. Not that dear Dolly generally acted directly on her victims, but she'd certainly inspired that sick helplessness more than once, revelling in the power to punish children for anything she saw fit, to say nothing of the office politics and backstabbing which had gotten her to her current position in the Ministry. Besides, the dementors deserved a treat for their patience.
"Sleep well, Dolores," she added, just to amuse herself, before stifling the kitten-shaped toad's consciousness and shoving the tiny creature unceremoniously into her pocket.
"What are you going to do with her?" Ambrose asked, as she pocketed the toad's wand as well, and vanished her robes.
Mimi shrugged. "Sacrifice her to the Dark, maybe? I haven't decided yet." Hermione made an involuntary little squeak. Ambrose swallowed hard.
You're not really going to... Are you?
No, I'm probably going to sacrifice her to the Black Family Magic. There is a distinction there, especially since Sirius broke the Covenant. Long story. I'll explain later if you remind me. (She suspected she wouldn't. The idea of Mimi actually killing someone in cold blood — even if that someone was only Umbridge — was just too horrible, she didn't want to think about it.)
"I would appreciate it, Ambrose, if you would avoid mentioning this little encounter to any other Knights. I — and others, I would assume — have been tasked with monitoring our various operations on behalf of the Dark Lord, to ensure that those to whom he has delegated various responsibilities are carrying out his wishes as ordered. As with Dolores's project, I find it is much more instructive to investigate routine operations anonymously, rather than to forewarn those under investigation that they are being audited. I expect there will be questions regarding my authority to reassign this project to someone less...egotistical. I'm sure my name will get around after I issue the memo I promised. Feel free to inform anyone who asks that you examined my Mark and found it to be genuine, but keep it to yourself that the Dark Lord is systematically spying on our own people, if you would."
"I— Of– Of course." He had already half-suspected something of the sort — they all had, apparently — given Voldemort's increasingly obvious frustration with his inability to capture Harry. He took it out on his Death Eaters with direct punishment and finding new ways to exercise control over them, like demanding Lucius hand over his wand the other week. That he had become sufficiently paranoid as to mark new recruits to spy on the Death Eaters who had avoided Azkaban, and their running of the government in general, was not a surprise, especially since there were now many unmarked civilians like Umbridge involved in day-to-day management, and the Dark Lord was currently somewhere on the Continent, unable to monitor them personally. (Well, that was convenient.)
He would almost certainly attempt to drop a few hints to his closer compatriots, warn them that they needed to maintain the highest standards of behaviour at all times, because one never knew who might be watching, but that was all to the good. It wouldn't hurt anyone to have the Death Eaters be somewhat self-conscious about whether every single action they took could be justified to the Dark Lord, if questioned. And honestly, Mimi didn't care if he did tell people. She presumed none of them would dare actually confront Voldemort about his supposed decision to spy on his own people when he got back from whatever he was doing. As long as he didn't know that she was using his name to order around Death Eaters, her orders would probably stand. But if she were actually trying to catch them out performing their jobs poorly, she thought she would try to keep her existence a secret.
"Very good. I will modify Madam Hopkirk's memory and instruct the new Muggleborn Registration Project Lead to contact you should they require assistance, but I expect that they will coordinate their efforts through Records. You may return to your duties."
He gave her a short bow before he made his escape, somewhat less than keen to spend another second in the company of the dementors or the creepy little legilimens who reminded him uncomfortably of both the Dark Lord and Bellatrix (despite the fact that he was fairly certain they didn't have a child).
As soon as the door closed behind him, she cast a patronus for Hermione, a small hawk-like bird circling around to perch on her shoulder.
"You can cast a patronus?"
"Should I not be able to?" she asked, somewhat facetiously. She was aware that her ability to cast polarised spells at both ends of the spectrum was...highly unusual, to say the least. She wasn't entirely certain whether the effects of the ritual Lily had done to induce her own magical ambivalence had been heritable, or whether Mimi's own proximity to Hecate and Persephone as a child had had a greater effect. But she didn't think she'd cast anything especially dark around the locals, yet.
Hermione clearly thought she shouldn't be able to, because, as far as Mimi could tell, she thought Mimi's personality was too dark for truly light magic (though she wouldn't have put it in those terms). She didn't actually say as much, though, so Mimi let it go. They could talk about magical theory some other time. At the moment, "You should go find Harry and Ronald, and get out before your polyjuice wears off. I need to speak to the dementors and draft a memo, find someone to promote to Umbridge's recently vacated position."
"You can't just...decide to promote people, Mira. You don't work here! You don't even work for You Know Who!"
"Yeah, but see, no one knows that, and who the hell would dare claim to speak for the Dark Lord if she didn't? So I sort of can, actually. Seriously, you should go find the boys, they're probably getting into trouble without someone to watch them — and unlike me, people do know who they are. If you don't get out of here in the next, what? ten minutes? you're sort of screwed."
Hermione clearly wanted to continue arguing the point, but she couldn't deny that Mimi was right about that. "...Good point. We'll meet you back at Headquarters, then. Should I take the...you know what?"
No, if you get caught with it, it'll be a hell of a lot harder for you to explain than if I'm caught with it. Go.
She went. (Finally.)
Alright, Mimi thought at the dementors, taking a seat on the balustrade overlooking the room. The platform was only about five feet high, the balustrade maybe another three, so that put them eye-to-eye, more or less. Eye to...eyeless heads, anyway. Tall fucking things.
They glided closer, despite not actually needing proximity to establish mental contact and 'speak' to each other. The ones that had been out in the corridor silently filed in as well, to 'hear' whatever she had to say first-hand.
She crushed the urge to stand and take a large step back. They weren't being threatening about it or anything, projecting urgency and curiosity rather than attempting to elicit fear and misery to feed on. Their aura was still there, of course, and grew more intense as their numbers increased, but as far as she could tell (from Siri's memories from Azkaban), about half a metre away from each other — close enough to feel the air moving as they sucked it in with their great, rattling breaths — was just their idea of normal 'speaking' distance when they were in the same physical space. They rarely ever actually touched each other, but they tended to stand/hover in little crowd-like groups, slightly too close for human comfort (even if they weren't three metres tall), when they were idle.
She braced herself against the prospect of intentionally letting them deeper into her mind. This was going to be unpleasant. Best just get it over with.
She sighed. So here's the deal...