Snatching the Robes of Power

Snatching the Robes of Power

By Arianrhod

The day when - yes, I remember that. I was wearing my new dove-grey robe. In retrospect I probably should have worn old clothes, murder is such a messy business after all, but the grey set off my eyes so well....

Anyway, I remember feeling very proud as I walked down the familiar corridors, knowing that soon they would be my corridors. I could hear the muffled sounds of the attack in the rest of the building. I had no worry as to what the outcome would be. There could be only one outcome. My plans never fail.

It's a shame that in these upper levels there were enchantment against wand magic. It's supposed to be security. Ha! How like this fumbling lot to forget that Muggles have managed thousands of years of assassinations without magic. I do so hate being reduced to muggle activity, but there is something strangely satisfying about it. Messy too, very messy, I still haven't got the blood stains from my cuffs. It's a shame really, those were nice robes. But it was worth a set of robes, worth six sets of robes.

The doors to the Minister's office are large and heavy, but they were kept well oiled. Fudge didn't even hear me come in. I never allow them to be oiled these days; I pride myself on learning from the mistakes of others.

I paused in the doorway to listen. Silence. I remember the thrill of anticipation that ran through me now that I was so close to my goal. It had taken years of planning and now here he was, sitting not five steps away, completely oblivious to my presence and to my loyal followers already swarming the building. There wouldn't be a Ministry official alive by sundown. There was no one to help him and yet he sat there, completely immersed in bureaucracy, blind to his danger.

He was sitting at his desk, reading a pile of reports, wearing his usual, horrid assortment of things: a checked suit, a mustard tie, his pointed purple boots and that lime-green bowler hat. His black cloak was slung across the back of his chair, which was convenient. It was plenty large enough to wrap around the corpse until I could arrange for his body to be removed. And to prevent blood ruining the carpet. It's a thick, oriental one, but woven with the insignia of the ministry and I'd always rather liked it.

There was, however, no way that I could protect the desk, which I found most irritating. I had been looking forward to that desk, and now it would get bloodstained. Sadly, it couldn't be helped.

I paused for a moment, running my fingers along the knife hilt that protruded from a small scabbard at my waist. It was pretty, an ebony hilt inlaid with gold filigree and a gold-washed blade. But it was more than attractive, I'd had it purpose made by a chap in Diagon Alley and not only was the blade razor sharp, but it was poisoned with a potent mixture of Acromantula venom and the extract of a Manticore sting (hence the scabbard). I was taking no chances; one way or another, Fudge was going to die.

I was only two steps behind him when he turned. Only two steps from my goal. He smiled his stupid, benign smile. "Ah Lucius. So sorry, didn't hear you come..." He didn't hear the knife leave its scabbard either. I struck fast, clasping one hand over his mouth to prevent a scream and thrusting hard with the knife. He looked faintly surprised. Then his eyes glazed over and he just twitched slightly. Ten seconds at most and he fell still. But he was still bleeding. More and more. It soaked the cloak and the carpet. It ruined my robes. At least his horrid attire was nothing I should feel guilty about ruining.

Amazingly, the desk wasn't stained. I think it was because he turned away from it to greet me. So, I sat down there and then and wrote the first speech I ever gave to our nation. And it is at that desk that I sit now as I pen the speech for tonight's anniversary party. I'm rather looking forward to it. Who'd have thought that I've already been Minister here for ten whole years? I plan to wear black robes tonight, elegant and impressive and although they don't pick up my eyes they look good with my colouring. It's a shame, but I've rather lost my taste for grey.