Subversive

The Ministry of Magic loomed over them, its massive stone face cold and imposing against the darkened London sky. Gone was the old, hidden government that once functioned in secrecy beneath the city’s streets. Now, Voldemort’s regime had made the Ministry a symbol of power, an open and oppressive presence in the heart of London. Giant banners depicting the Dark Mark and slogans of loyalty hung from its towering columns, draped like a warning to all who approached.

Hermione and Daphne strode toward the main entrance, their steps precise, measured. The grand doors of the Ministry were no longer discreetly tucked away; they stood wide and gleaming, flanked by enchanted torches that cast an eerie green glow over the large menacing marble steps. Hooded sentries stood at attention, their wands clutched tightly in their gloved hands, watching the small clusters of witches and wizards moving in and out of the building with silent scrutiny.

“Act natural,” Hermione murmured, barely moving her lips as they neared the checkpoint.

Daphne gave a barely perceptible nod, her transformed features stiff with focus.

A set of wrought iron gates now blocked the main lobby, shimmering faintly with dark enchantments. A long queue of Ministry workers shuffled through, presenting their identification and allowing the sentries to inspect them. There was no chatter, no casual morning conversations—only the occasional clipped command from the guards and the rustling of parchment as wands were checked and blood status papers examined.

Hermione’s heartbeat pounded in her ears as they stepped into line. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to remain still, to exude the detached authority of Genevieve Caddell. She adjusted her grip on her wand, reminding herself that it wasn’t hers—it belonged to the woman she was impersonating.

Ahead of them, a wizard in deep blue robes was held up as a guard scanned his papers with a sharp glance. A flick of the sentry’s wand, and a thin ribbon of glowing light wrapped around the man’s wrist, pulsing faintly. His face remained blank, but Hermione caught the slight clench of his jaw.

“Step aside,” the sentry barked.

Without protest, the wizard obeyed, moving to a small side area where another official was already questioning a witch who looked just as uneasy. The line inched forward. Hermione resisted the urge to glance at Daphne. They could not afford to look nervous.

When it was finally their turn, Hermione stepped forward first, keeping her expression impassive as she handed over her blood status papers and wand. The sentry, a burly wizard with a twisted scar across his jaw, barely spared her a glance before waving his wand over the parchment. It shimmered briefly, then settled back into its normal state. He flicked the same spell over the wand, watching the glowing identification threads entwined within it.

“Caddell,” he grunted, glancing up at her. “Night shift?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied crisply, ensuring her voice carried the right amount of clipped professionalism.

The wizard nodded, seeming disinterested, and handed her wand back. Then, he turned his attention to Daphne, running the same scans over her papers and wand. For a brief moment, Hermione feared the magic might pick up on something, some lingering trace that would expose them—but the light around Daphne’s wand remained steady.

“Markit,” the sentry muttered. “You’re late.”

Daphne barely hesitated. “Unforeseen delay,” she replied curtly, her voice sharp with authority. “Shall I submit a report on it, or are you just going to waste more of my time?” Hermione's breath caught at Daphne's instigative words, but she didn’t dare look back at her as she stepped ahead in the line slowly.
The guard's lip curled, but he let her pass with a muttered, “Get moving.”

Hermione exhaled slowly as they stepped through the iron gates and into the main atrium of the Ministry. The vast hall was bathed in an eerie green light, the massive ceiling arched, the black stone embedded with veins of green. Where there had once been rows of fireplaces, statues of robed wizards now stood, their faces impassive but cruel. These were high standing Death Eaters and Ministry officials, loyal to Voldemort. Now, everyone had to enter through the main entrance, getting checked every single time. The Floo Network was no longer publicly open to the Ministry, but instead was heavily monitored, only certain people allowed access to travel by Floo through London. Hermione looked up slowly as they entered the atrium, and saw the familiar statue that she had seen several times when breaking into the Ministry. An enormous statue of Voldemort loomed, watching over the atrium and the other, smaller statues. It was embedded into the wall, his stone robes blending into the wall, and forming the entrance of the Ministry. Hermione breathed out slowly and looked back to the main atrium. The old Fountain of Magical Brethren was gone, replaced with an immense obsidian monolith carved with the words: Magic is Might.

The Ministry had become a monument to fear.
Daphne tilted her head ever so slightly. “We’re in.”
As they passed completely through the towering archway that led into the Ministry, Hermione allowed herself one final, steadying breath. The mission had begun.

<>

They were to meet Tracey Davis near the statue of Bellatrix Lestrange, as she had instructed. Hermione and Daphne walked briskly, but steadily, towards the unmistakable carving of Bellatrix, her stone lips twisted into a cruel grin. Hermione felt a shudder run down her spine as she stared up into the wide eyes of Bellatrix and remembered the feeling of that woman's knife carving the word Mudblood into her forearm. The knife had been bewitched, so it had taken a long time for the wound to heal. But with the use of magic and healing potions, the word was faint, only noticeable if you knew to look for it.

Death Eaters and Ministry officials moved through the hall, their robes sweeping across the polished floors, their voices low murmurs against the oppressive silence. Every few feet, a pair of enforcers stood watch, their eyes scanning the crowd with predatory sharpness. The air itself felt charged, thick with paranoia and barely veiled cruelty.

As they made their way to the statue, Hermione read the writing on the square base that the stone Bellatrix stood on. Bellatrix Lestrange, and below: The Dark Lords most faithful, his will made flesh. She kneels only to him, all others fall before her. Below that, was a quotation. Something Bellatrix had obviously said. “His power is absolute, and I am its blade.”

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine as she read this. Bellatrix was stronger than ever, by Voldemort's side as he forced his rule.

A woman with chin length black hair and large eyes stood a few feet away from the statue, her face impassive. Hermione glanced at Daphne ever so slightly, for some confirmation that this was Tracey, and Daphne gave the smallest of nods.

As they reached Tracey, her eyes flitted to the two of them, analyzing each of them in turn, hands clasped behind her back.

“Caddell, Markit.” She said with a curt nod at Hermione and Daphne. They nodded back, letting her take the lead. They were completely at her hand now, and were relying on her.

She led Hermione and Daphne through the atrium and towards the rows of dark oak elevators. Hermione remembered how the Ministry had looked before the war. When the elevators were warmly lit, and had copper grates on them. Now the wood was dark, and the bars in front of each eerily green glowing elevator were black, looking far too much like a prison cell for her comfort. It seemed Voldemort cared a lot more about aesthetics than she would have assumed. But then again, she reminded herself as a dull looking guard with sunken eyes opened the bars of the nearest elevator for them, Voldemort had always been vain. Hermione stepped into the elevator, and the familiar feeling of confinement washed over her as the black iron clanged shut behind her. A shiver ran down her spine.

Hermione's fingers itched to grip Genevieve Caddells wand tightly, but she knew that would look horribly suspicious, so she hardened her resolve and clasped her hands in front of her as the elevator shuddered on its downward descent, the thin wood of the wand pressed against her forearm in its holster.
The three of them were silent as the lift descended. Hermione was just about to open her mouth after crafting some well concealed question about the whereabouts of the information they were stealing, she assumed there was surveillance charms in the lifts and they were monitored, when the elevator shuddered to a stop-the first one so far-and the iron bars slid open. Hermione shot a sideways glance to Tracey who made no motion to move, so she assumed they were stopped because someone else had called the lift as well.

Sure enough, when Hermione's eyes flicked to the elevator entrance, there were two wizards standing there. As they entered, Hermione, Daphne and Tracey shifted back slightly to accommodate them, and her eyes landed on the taller of the twos’ hands. She didn't want to stare at their faces and seem suspicious, so she opted for analyzing them more inconspicuously as the lift hummed to life again, continuing its descent.
Her eyebrows drew together in sudden confusion as she peered down at the wizard's hands. Slender but calloused, slightly tan. But that's not what really caught her eye. It was the long thin bit of wood he was twirling between his fingers. His wand. Eleven inches, maybe, she thought as her eyes narrowed. The wood was a deep reddish color, and the handle bit was almost black. Thin dark lines extended from the handle in a sharp jagged pattern along the length of the wand. It was an incredibly unique wand design. And horribly familiar.

She recognized that wand from the countless days she had to sit next to its owner in Arithmancy class, twirling it in that exact same fashion as it distracted and irritated her as it flitted in and out of her peripheral vision. The wizard's back was to her, but as she lifted her eyes to his shoulders, the carefree and slightly languid posture once more shot a jolt of familiarity through her. She didn't dare look to Daphne on her right, because she knew she recognized him too.
Thick chestnut hair was combed neatly, his natural waves defined with immaculate precision. The lift stuttered to a halt again and the wizard accompanying him stepped out. As the bars shut, his head turned ever so slightly and his side profile came into view, and although she didn't need the confirmation it provided, the sight still had her heart thudding.

Theodore Nott, who she hadn't seen in over five years, was standing a foot away from her in the depths of the Ministry.