A/N: hey yall, I just thought I'd post the second chapter even though I don't have any reviewers yet. Pretty please review if you're reading this, even anonomys review are alright! So ya. Please review and enjoy this next chapter.

Chapter Two: Dementor's Kiss

Rufus Scrimgeour sat at his desk and stared blankly down at the memo before him, wondering what it was actually about since he'd read it half a dozen times now. He knew it contained some sort of information about a de-briefing that the head of the auror office was putting on and that he, as Minister of Magic, ought to attend to be sure of the going-ons in the ministry and the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But the only subject in his mind at the moment, which had been in his mind for the past few days, was what Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore were doing on the night of the latter's death. They were up to something very important otherwise Dumbledore would not have let Harry Potter out of the security of the castle. Then again, and this thought had passed through Scrimgeour's mind more than once, maybe that was the reason Dumbledore allowed Harry with him that night, knowing that the security of the castle was no more, therefore he had taken Harry with him to keep him safe.

More than once, Rufus had though yes, that must be it, but once he really had time to process it through his mind, nothing added up. If Dumbledore knew of the danger to enter the castle that night, why did he attempt to keep Harry safe, but not the rest of the students? Why didn't he make the staff and aurors aware; even if he'd had the slightest inkling something might happen? Which made him wonder exactly what Dumbledore and Harry had been doing to make him think additional security and look-outs were not necessary. This put him back, for the hundredth time, at square one. What was it that the professor and pupil had been out doing together? What sort of importance did it hold so that Harry would not break a promise even to a dead man? A man who would never (despite Potter's ridiculous, "Dumbledore will have never truly left this school until none here are loyal to him" speech) return? Harry's reluctance to break the promise even then deepened Scrimgeour's curiousness of the situation. It was on his mind day and night and appeared in his dreams on an almost regular basis. He would rise or stoop to almost any level to get that so called "secret" out of Potter. Even if it meant feeding him the lie that Dumbledore was alive and a hostage of the ministry until Scrimgeour got what he wanted. They could bribe him that he could not see Dumbledore until he revealed the information Scrimgeour so desperately wanted.

He suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over and shaking his desk so badly that several of his possessions either fell over the edge in the front, or over on their sides on the surface.

That was it! That was the answer! Of course, he'd need ministry officials close to him that were trust-worthy enough to lie to the boy without giving away the truth. It was definantly ironic in a way. That Weasley boy that Fudge couldn't seem to stop talking about was certainly diligent and appeared to be completely loyal to the ministry. After what had happened at his mother's house over Christmas with the accusations and name-calling, not to mention food-flying, going on between the young man and his siblings, Scrimgeour was ready to curse any person or persons accusing Percy of anything other than loyalty to the ministry into oblivion.

Yes, Percy was the perfect Naive person he'd need and he trusted Dawlish with something like this beyond a doubt. Almost as much as he trusted Percy.

"Sir! Sir!" came an unfamiliar voice from a portrait by the door. It was the little man with the plain brown back-drop in his portrait who usually delivered messages with dignity between the Prime Minister and Scrimgeour. Now, however, he looked disheveled and frightened.

"Sir, it's the Prime Minister…he's been attacked!" the man in the portrait exclaimed.

The minister quickly stood up again, once again knocking his possessions everywhere, "What?"

"The Prime Minister has been attacked! I came as quickly as I could."

"By what?" he quickly asked, walking around his desk and pulling out his bag of floo-powder.

But the man in the portrait didn't seem to be listening. His eyes were wide with fright and staring else where, "I've only heard stories of what it feels like to be in their presence…to experience the kiss…"

But Scrimgeour was no longer listening to him. The Prime Minister had been attacked…but where? In his office, or maybe out on the streets? But of course, the Prime Minister worked late hours and seeing as though it was half-past midnight, Scrimgeour's chances of finding him in his office were very high.

He threw the emerald powder into the fire grate and immediately green flames sprung up. He stepped into them and clearly stated where he wanted to go. He then felt the sickening spinning sensation that he despised so much. He never did do well traveling by floo.

Suddenly he was standing, coated in ash and dust, in the middle of the Prime Minister's fire place.

"What in the bloody hell was that?" came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"Muggles," he muttered, putting a sealing charm on the door as he stepped onto the rug before realizing there was something very wrong with the situation.

He suddenly felt as if he had been doused in icy-cold water and he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him feel as if he'd never be happy again, as if everything was going to go badly.

After so many years of being an auror, he was familiar with this feeling, and knew right away that a Dementor was in the room. As he looked up, though, he saw there were four of them all surrounding a lump of something in the corner. With a horrid jolt that felt much like a punch in the stomach, he realized who that must be, laying there in the corner.

"No," he whispered, scrambling backward. Even though he had been head of the auror office, he couldn't produce a patronus to save his life; quite literally.

The dementors now began to sense him and just before they surrounded him, he caught sight of a pale-faced, white-eyed Prime Minister who was clearly worse than dead.

There it was, the rattling breath of death coming closer and closer as one of the dementors leaned in. Horrible memories formed in Scrimgeour's mind; some he was sure he'd never had before.

The scabbed, scaly hand of one dementor reached up and pulled the hood off of its self, revealing a large, round mouth where anyone else's face would have been.

"No," Scrimgeour whispered again, leaving his wand on the floor and covering his face.

The cold hands of the dementor grasped his arms and with what seemed unlimited strength, pulled them away from his head.

He was on the verge of passing out, but at least he'd die staring death in the face.