A/N: This chapter aims to show Rufus as a man trying to make the best of a bad situation, whilst still maintaining friendships and never loosing his determination.

Warning for profanity.

Special mention to the show, The Thick of It, which may have influenced this chapter, and Rufus' character, somewhat.

This whole collection was written for the In Tribute to the Fallen competition at Diagon Alley II.

This one-shot was also written for the Huge TV Show Quotes Bucket, for the prompt: "The game is rigged. The villains never win." - Cruella, Once Upon a Time

Rufus Scrimgeour: Minister of Magic

Rufus waved his wand at the candle on his desk, wordlessly lighting its wick. He looked around his office with a smile; it was so much bigger than his last office in the Auror Department, and even that one had been positively luxurious.

His smile faded as his stomach rumbled, and he bent his head back down over the parchment on his mahogony desk, the leather of his chair squeaking as he adjusted his position. He'd barely been on the job a week, and already he was spending more time here than at home. If he could just get this piece finished, he'd be able to go home content.

A knock at the door startled the Minister out of his train of thought as he sat up. He frowned a little, his eyebrows knitting together. He thought he was the only idiot who stayed past seven o'clock.

"Come in," his gruff voice called, and the door handled turned. Gawain Robards allowed himself entry, his blonde hair ruffled and unkempt. Robards was an old friend of Scrimgeour, and had succeeded him to the Head of the Auror Office after Scrimgeour's promotion.

"A little late to be pouring over new Decrees, isn't it?" Robards asked. He pulled his lips into a smile even as his eyes clouded over in distress.

"Terribly, yes, but the whole bloody place is in ruins, Robards. What the bloody hell did Fudge spend his days doing?" Scrimgeour exclaimed with a sigh. He was weary of his position already, but his dedication was almost unrivalled.

"I hear the tea parties and old boys' clubs can be very distracting," Robards joked dryly.

"Well, now's not the time for bloody parties," Scrimgeour replied. "There a holes in just about everything the old fool ever did, and the Prophet's hounding the doors, demanding action. They seem to think we can pass all these laws overnight that'll fix everything. No one gives a shit about all the hoops we have to jump through for the sake of bloody governance and audit trails."

"You sound tired, old friend. Perhaps a whiskey at The Leaky Cauldron would lighten your mood?" Robards asked, tempting his friend with a half-hour of peace.

"Not at the Cauldron, too many bloody eyes in that place. I'd rather not be branded an alcoholic if I can help it," Scrimgeour retorted.

"Merlin, we're right in the thick of it, aren't we, Scrimgeour?" Robard asked, shaking his head.

"Big time, Robard. We'll need a miracle to pull this one off. The closest thing to a solution I have is to pull the wool over everyone's eyes with pretty lies and a clean image while we try and clean up the bastard's mess," Scrimgeour explained, with a dour look.

"And how long will the clean-up take?" Robard asked, wrinkles appearing on his brow.

"Depends on how much push-back we get from the pen-pushers. Months? Years? Merlin knows. I guess it's a saving grace that the game is rigged. The villains never win."

"Don't underestimate them," Robard warned.

"Oh I don't, old friend, but I have every faith in you. I just need to keep the old man on our side, and we'll be golden," Scrimgeour replied, smiling through his confidence.

"Dumbledore?" Robard asked, and Scrimgeour nodded. "You have an answer to everything, don't you?"

"I certainly try to. Isn't that the life of a politician? Tell them what you know and make it up when you don't, eh?" Scrimgeour asked, a wry smile clouding his face as he looked at his old friend.

Robard laughed, and there was a brief pause in the conversation.

"Well if not the Cauldron, there's a bottle of '78 Islay Malt in my drinks' cabinet waiting to be opened if you fancy a tipple?" he asked, and Scrimgeour sighed, looking back at his parchment.

"I suppose this old thing can wait for the sake of a friend," he commented, and stood to take his coat from its stand, following Robard to the fireplace.