A/N: QLFC S11 R3 | Pride of Portree Chaser 1 | main prompt: write about the patriarch of a family | optional prompts: notorious | beta'd by:
TW: some language, torture, character death, allusions to alcoholism and suicidal thoughts, and, uh, cynical discussion of politics and war?
The air was thick with deceit. Treachery hiding around every corner, chaos lurking at every bend, and wherever he looked there was no way to tell whether what his eyes perceived was what truly stood before him. If what he heard was only what he was meant to hear, or what he wanted to believe had been uttered. The Ministry had been infiltrated, and truth along with it. When dark and light are given physical form, the lines between fact and fiction are inevitably blurred. He knew just enough philosophy to understand it and just enough history to fear it, he'd lived it in the First Wizarding War, and now he was living it all over again. At some point, long ago, he had naively thought 'history repeats itself' was some quaint saying. And now he was watching it happen.
A war required two sides. As Britain stood today, the notorious Death Eaters had claimed one, and the other was left to all the rest. War, much like politics, did not reward neutrality. Now, the Ministry, the Ministry was not a side. It could never be—try as it might to assert control, a government could never win a war because, quite simply, it was not the government fighting the war. It was the people. The Ministry was, however, a symbol of power. A symbol with near total-control of the press. And the press was a direct line to the people. The Ministry was also composed, mostly, of people. Hell, he was a bloody person, regardless of how he felt right now.
And with that, Rufus Scrimgeous lost the thread of his own metaphor, his mind rebelling against thought as he tried and failed to stifle a scream, writhing against the cold stone as yet another curse wracked through his body. He heard a voice, soft and low. It seemed to speak in his ear from across the room. Just another illusion to contend with. The words were muffled by the sound of his pulse whooshing in his ears. He wouldn't have answered even if he knew what was asked. He had lasted this long. The curse lifted and semi-coherent thought returned after a moment. He tried desperately to focus on anything but the pain emanating from every inch of his skin, slowly leaching into his bone and muscle, clutching onto his rambling thoughts like the edge of a cliff.
War and politics; good and evil; power, press and people. Maybe in another universe he would have written a goddamn book. Instead he had, somehow, found himself the Minister for Magic. And the Ministry was fighting a war of appearances that was starting to rival the Second Wizarding War. The mighty battle between the embodiments of good and evil was nothing compared to the war to control what the public thought about it, and, more importantly, how they felt about the way the Ministry was handling it.
The government of Wizarding Britain was falling to pieces and he was somehow supposed to pretend it wasn't all collapsing around him, atop him, until he could scarcely move? Build up a facade and pretend the institution still functioned as a legitimate entity? It was going down like the Belgrano, and there he was trying desperately to hold together the planks while parrying continued blows from all angles. The public was panicked, outraged even, and they had every right to be. But what was he supposed to have done? Dragged perfect figurehead-mouthpiece combination Potter in by the mop atop his head? He'd tried everything but, and his methods had failed. The boy had far too much honor. That was one of the first things he learned, as Minister. Politics did not reward honor. Virtue, integrity, and courage were far from the pillars upon which the ministry stood. When it fell as it stood, he had let his own pillars fall to support the crumbling structure. He took little solace in the fact that he was not the only one. Not one person still in the Ministry today could claim their hands were clean. If he were a betting man he would bet his life on it, though the way things were going, it didn't look like he'd have it around to wager much longer. And if he were a drinking man he'd take a shot every time someone tried to publicly wash them and let a few bottles of Scotland's finest Quintin Black whisky fill him up until his blood turned to alcohol running through his veins and he joined the Ministry in crumbling and falling and sinking. But Rufus and whisky mixed as well as war and politics, and seeing as he'd found himself at the frontlines of the latter fusion, he'd continued his avoidance of the former. God, but he could do with a drink. Unfortunately, his present company didn't seem the type to fancy a trip to a pub.
He felt another current of fiery lightning run through him as yet another curse took its hold on his body and another scream tore its way out of his ravaged throat. When it finally halted and his senses returned, if more dulled than before, he saw Mary in his mind's eye. Family was supposed to be the last thing in one's thoughts, not fucking politics. Figures it took him this long to get to it.
When the next curse hit, there was no scream.
–/–
The funeral was a small affair. Nothing more than a quiet gathering of family and friends in Fife. Well, family, at least. The friends—friend—had other engagements. While her father and Alastor had an ongoing debate over 'the last Scot standing' for as long as she could remember, Mary suspected neither had truly wanted to win. And really, neither had. The fact of the matter was all that was left of her father was a stone with his name carved on it in blocky letters. And she was the only one left to give the eulogy.
"My father," she said softly, "tried his best."
Fin.
A/N 2: Can you guess who's feeling real cynical right now? Aye, that's right! Yours truly here really ought to return to the times in which they did not follow the news.