Rufus Scrimgeour sat down in the large, luxurious, leather chair. He propped his feet upon the antique desk and crossed them nonchalantly at the ankles. With his hands resting comfortably behind his head, he let out a contented sigh. It was a good day to be Rufus Scrimgeour.
At last the blundering idiot Fudge had been ousted from office and he, Rufus Scrimgeour, had been appointed the Minister of Magic. Fudge had only just cleared out his desk and packed his personal belongings. And now, the office belonged solely to the previous Head of the Auror Department.
It had been a move that Scrimgeour had eagerly anticipated. The foolish Fudge was ineffective and a weak leader of his people. But he, Scrimgeour, knew how to lead. He had led the Aurors for ten years. He had fought alongside some of the best wizards in the world. And now, he was in charge of them all. At last.
Lazily, he picked up his wand and, after a quick flicking motion, a roaring fire appeared in the grate, illuminating the dark room. It felt good to bask in the warmth and elegance of the Minister of Magic’s – his very own – office. There was an elaborately carved marble mantel above the fireplace and the leaded windows were covered with lush velvet draperies. The floor was carpeted in a richly colored rug that felt soft to the touch.
There were portraits of previous ministers and important wizards lining the walls. Many were currently absent, though this was not unusual; most of the subjects of these portraits had another frame elsewhere that they preferred. In fact, Scrimgeour noticed that only one of the frames was filled. The portrait was of an elderly man, bedecked in flowing brown robes. His face was resting against the edge of the portrait and he was in a very deep slumber.
Slowly, Scrimgeour removed his feet from the desk and sat up a bit straighter. It was a feeling of power to sit in such a chair and look out upon such a magnificent room. Scrimgeour’s eyes scanned the walls, looking to see if any of the other portraits had returned to their frames. They had not. However, Scrimgeour did notice something in the corner.
It was tall, slender, and obscured by shadows. Curious, Scrimgeour stood and peered into the corner in which the object was hidden. There seemed to be some sort of a lumpish shape resting on top of the otherwise elegant silhouette. His curiosity piqued, Scrimgeour slowly walked out from behind his desk and towards the far corner.
What he found made him laugh in spite of himself. It was a hat rack with Fudge’s signature lime green bowler hat resting atop. In his haste to vacate the office, Fudge must have overlooked it.
With a bit of a grin, Scrimgeour plucked the hat from the top of the rack and placed it on his own head. He strode to the window and pushed back the drapes in order to see his reflection. The hat rested at a jaunty angle atop his head and clashed horribly with his complexion. Scrimgeour tugged on the brim slightly to pull it towards the conservative angle that Fudge had always worn. He squinted towards the glass and pulled the hat a little lower over his eyes. Stooping his shoulders slightly and arranging his face in a comically distorted manner, he peered into the window again.
Cornelius Fudge stared right back at him.
Quickly, as if it he had been burned by it, Scrimgeour yanked the hat from his head. He held it in his hands and stared at it with revulsion. He would not be another Fudge! He would be strong, someone who the world could count on in uncertain times.
No hat could make him into Fudge – it wasn’t that easy to become a fool. Certainly not!
Calmly, though with a touch of irritation, Scrimgeour placed the rather ugly hat on his gleaming desk. It looked forlorn there, as if it was begging for something from him. It was the only thing on the polished surface of the desk and Scrimgeour was unable to tear his eyes away from it.
The years had not been kind to the old lime bowler. It had faded slightly, though it still retained its signature vibrant hue. There were several worn patches on the brim and a small, dark stain on one side, as if a pair of dirty fingers had been used to doff it from the owner’s head. It was no longer the shape of a proper bowler, either; one side was slightly squashed inwards and it was more oval than round.
It was quite the ugliest hat that Scrimgeour had ever seen.
Idly, he wondered why Fudge had ever chosen such an ugly hat. Perhaps it had sentimental value. Or perhaps, Fudge had been fond of the color, hideous as it was. Perhaps it had been a gift from a color-blind relative.
Briefly, Scrimgeour wondered if he ought to make some sort of effort to return it to Fudge.
The thought left his mind as quickly as it had come. Why would Fudge want a reminder of all that he had lost? The hat had been a symbol of his term in office, and now that he was gone, Fudge truly didn’t have a need for it any longer. It was just a hat, after all. If Fudge needed a hat, he could easily get another. Hopefully in a more tasteful shade, next time.
But what could he do with it now? Scrimgeour had no want or need for such a hat and he certainly didn’t want to look at a reminder of his predecessor every day. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to simply throw it away.
Every time that he had seen Fudge, Fudge had been wearing that stupid hat.
When Fudge was first appointed to the position of Minister, he had been wearing that hat. When Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, Fudge had held a meeting with the Auror Department and he had worn that hat. When he had gone the Triwizard Tournament and represented the entire Ministry, he had worn that hat. When he had finally been ousted from office, he had been wearing that hat.
Scrimgeour’s reminiscing was rudely interrupted by a crackling noise. Startled, he looked around the room for the source of the noise and concluded that it had only been the fire. He walked back to his chair and sank down into the luxurious leather once again.
Although he tried his hardest to keep his eyes away from the unfortunate hat on his desk, they were inexplicably drawn to it. It was as if the lime green bowler contained a magnet of sorts that caused his eyes to be unable to look away. And what a magnet it must have contained! For the eyes of Rufus Scrimgeour were not easily distracted by people and certainly not by inanimate objects. And yet, this hat, this ugly lime-colored hat, commanded his undivided attention.
It was unsettling how an innocent hat could do such a thing. Although, Scrimgeour decided, it was not an innocent hat. It was the hat of his predecessor, Cornelius Fudge. The hat was an unwavering supporter of the previous Minister. Such an object had no right to be in what was now his office.
Leaning forward in his chair, Scrimgeour picked the hat up once again. Placing his left hand inside of it, he stroked the well-worn brim with the fingers of his right hand. The fabric had been worn smooth in most places; there was hardly any felt left on it at all. With his fingers, he twirled it around on his hand. After several revolutions, he held it still once more.
Gently, he placed it in the rubbish bin next to his desk. It was where the hat belonged. No one in their right mind would ever wear the thing. Perhaps, now that it was gone, it would not have such a hold on Scrimgeour’s thoughts. He sighed in anticipation of one less distraction.
Alas, that was not to be. As Scrimgeour sat back in his chair, he could see the very top of the hat sticking out defiantly from the bin. The hat was playing with him - Fudge was playing with him!
A wave of cold fury washed over Scrimgeour. He reached out a pale hand and snatched the hat back out of the bin. It seemed somehow tired and had a shred of paper stuck to it. Grasping it in both hands, Scrimgeour brought the lime-colored hat close to his face. For several moments, he was still. And then, abruptly, he stood and strode towards the fireplace.
When he was close enough, he thrust the ugly hat into the roaring flames. With something that felt remarkably like pleasure, he watched as the hat shriveled into ash. When it had been reduced to mere cinders, he strode back to his desk and sat down once again.
The last remnant of Fudge’s tenure was gone, gone in a fiery inferno.
He, Rufus Scrimgeour, was the Minister of Magic.
Lime by Indigoenigma
Story Notes:
Various people have looked this over during the past year and a half (it's been an absurdly long time in the making). If you did look it over, I apologize for not remembering you, but I would like to extend my warmest thanks.
And I'm not JK Rowling. Sorry.