The challenge was a minimum of 1500 words in 24 hours, secret ingredient: The Ministry

Warning: may contain politics.

May, 1998

It had been just over a year since the Prime Minister had taken over that office from the previous incumbent; the first change of political power for eighteen years. Of course, he was a different kind of Prime Minister.

"Do call me by my Christian name," he had said to the man who looked rather like an old lion, even down to the yellowish eyes behind incongruous wire rimmed glasses who had told the Prime Minister, with an impatient scowl, of the existence of the magical world and that they were in the throes of civil war. He had called it the Second Wizarding War.

The Prime Minister had only seen Rufus Scrimgeour that once before he had been replaced by Pius Thicknesse. They certainly had a penchant for interesting names, these wizards – well, when you were allowed to say the name at all, that was. There had been no handover period. Apparently, Scrimgeour had retired suddenly last summer. Odd that. He really hadn't seemed the flaky type to the Prime Minister. Just went to show: one never could tell. Now this Thicknesse chap ("Call me Pius," he had said) had definitely seemed like a fellow after the Prime Minister's heart.

Pius had been introduced by that ugly little portrait and he had been very amiable, not nearly as stuffy as Scrimgeour. He had taken a seat and he had told the Prime Minister how there really hadn't been a civil war at all, but certain undesirable anarchists in Wizarding society were trying to destabilise the proper order. Pius assured the Prime Minister that he had no need to worry because his regime would restore the proper balance of law and order. Then he and Pius had chatted about how government needed to be strong for its people, needed to ensure its citizens had just the right amount of information to assess a matter without being overburdened with data. Indeed, sometimes, the public needed to be led (in the most benign way possible of course) to the proper conclusions for the good of society. The Ministry was there to assist in that promotion of a healthy, orderly society.

Head screwed on, that Pius. Not too Libertarian. Of course, the Prime Minister understood the need to profess the great principles of liberty – he had had the benefits of a classical education to understand democracy, but – well – the public needed information presented to them appropriately – in bite-size chunks. Pius seemed to understand this and he and the Prime Minister had exchanged ideas on the use of an ostensibly free press that had also been so pivotal to his landslide election success.

And now, nine months on, Pius had been arrested, and before him stood the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. For heaven's sake, this was the man who had been his secretary briefly, apparently guarding him from something called the imperious curse. Heaven knows what that was: a curse to make him high-handed? Well, just how was that a curse?

At least, Shacklebolt (who didn't ask the Prime Minister to call him Kingsley, he noticed) didn't dress with the curious flamboyance of his predecessors. He was serious, but calm and reassuring. Actually, he had quite a presence, if the truth were told.

So here Shacklebolt sat, telling him how there had been a huge battle at a boarding school in Scotland and the Second Wizarding War was now over. The Prime Minister fixed his most interested expression on his face as he tried to process the information this man was telling him. This school had been considered a bastion of light magic where many wizards in Britain were educated. It had fallen into the hands of the wizard-we-don't-name-but-now-we-can-called-Riddle. The Prime Minister shuddered with confusion. Apparently, the school had been overrun by Death Eaters, Riddle's organised gang of criminals, and the demons who guarded that Wizarding prison out in the Hebrides. They had also recruited werewolves, giants, and acromantula.

"Acro what?" queried the Prime Minister, as if the presence ... no, the very existence of werewolves and giants was not incomprehensible enough.

"Giant spiders," supplied Shacklebolt, "each about the size of a car." The Prime Minister's mouth dried out, his collar feeling tighter still. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top button as Shacklebolt continued.

"As well as Death Eaters, they had a number of lesser wizards we call Snatchers, Imperiused wizards and ... I am very sorry to report ... a large number of Ministry officials."

"Your officials fought against a school," he blustered, "with children in it?"

"Some were Imperiused, and some ... well, let's say, that some believed it their duty to follow orders, no matter what those orders were."

"Well, you clearly didn't," noted the Prime Minister.

"No indeed, and I had to go into hiding or I would have been arrested and thrown in Azkaban without trial ... or worse."

The Prime Minister took a sharp intake of breath. How could anything so barbaric happen in a free society? How could a society become so corrupt? Nothing like that could ever happen to this country under his administration, the Prime Minister preened sanctimoniously.

"Well, if governmental forces were ranged against the school, who was protecting the children?"

"Some of us who had gone on the run, the staff of the school, the students who were of age, the local villagers, bewitched armour, Centaurs, house-elves, even some Thestrals and some of the castle ghosts."

The Prime Minister began to wonder (just as he had when he had had his first visit from Scrimgeour) if this were not an elaborate prank as he mulled over the idea of centaurs and ghosts joining in a battle as he found himself suddenly plagued by a song to bewitch armour ... what was it? "Substitutiary Locomotion" – that was it. And what on earth were house-elves or Thestrals for that matter? No, he wasn't going to ask and look uninformed, and he wasn't going to think of that song any more. He just needed answers to the most important question:

"So, this Riddle is dead now?"

"Yes, he's quite dead this time."

Quite dead - this time. The Prime Minister blinked. And then he blinked again.

"And his Death Eaters? Do we have any law enforcement issues arising from this battle of yours? Followers of Riddle as a martyr?"

"Many are dead. The rest we are rounding up for trial, as well as collaborators, of which there were far too many for my comfort."

"And the ... the Dementors?" Of all the things he had been asked to accept when he had met Scrimgeour, the existence of the prison guards of Azkaban who fed on human happiness and multiplied on human misery, was by far the worst. He simply could not credit it. Why the Other Ministry had ever thought that having such creatures (or demons, as he thought of them) to guard prisoners would be appropriate or proportionate was beyond him. Perhaps, wizards didn't use those legal standards. Back then, Scrimgeour had told him the demons had somehow escaped from the bonds of Ministry control and were abroad in the country, free to roam and sow despair across the land and yet no-one from the other Ministry seemed to want to control it.

"The Dementors have been summoned back to Ministry control and are now banned from Azkaban," confirmed Shacklebolt, "so their source of nourishment has been removed and their numbers will dwindle. The Minister for Magic in Jamaica has been most accommodating in overseeing their gradual reduction from the Wizarding world."

"You've given them a summer holiday in Jamaica?" asked the Prime Minister incredulously.

"Not a holiday, no," chuckled Shacklebolt. "The Dementors cannot thrive in the sunnier climes. They thrive in, and in turn create, miserable atmospheres. Have you not noticed the upturn in the weather? Even in the mood of the country?"

The Prime Minister gawped a little. Well, in truth, he had noticed but had never thought the cause might be magical rather than meteorological. Despair-inducing, soul-sucking demons had not crossed his mind for the lengthy downturn in the weather and the concomitant labile nature of the populace. He had the urge to tug at his collar. He didn't really enjoy not having the full facts at his disposal. After all, the Prime Minister was the one usually in possession of facts and giving the orders to spin them to his advantage. He felt rather discomfited. He sighed. He supposed he always felt discomfited by the Other Minister.

"I don't understand how this was allowed to happen. How your Ministry became so corrupted within one year ..."

"Oh no. Our society has had this malaise for decades. Some people were just talented at tapping into it. As it is, there will have to be fundamental changes at The Ministry," Shacklebolt said heavily. "Root and branch reform to weed out the blatant and the latent discrimination and corruption."

The Prime Minister listened very carefully, noting the use of horticultural metaphor and the nice balance of 'blatant' and 'latent'. He rather liked the turn of phrase. He considered himself something of a wordsmith, after all.

"It is true that some of the corruption came directly from Riddle and the Death Eaters, but there was much that was institutional – insidious and corrosive," Shacklebolt continued. "The rot started long before Tom Riddle ... for instance, long-standing, discriminatory legislation against werewolves needs to be repealed, not to mention the deregulation of their status as beasts ..."

"Just hang on there," interjected the Prime Minister, raising his index finger. "You did just say werewolves?"

"Yes, I said werewolves."

"But didn't you just say that there were werewolves attacking that school ...?"

"Just as with all men, there are villains as well as heroes," said Shacklebolt, patiently. "The legislation we currently have in place against werewolves as good as ensures they will lead lawless lives as there is no legitimate way for them to earn a living, and that must change."

"Yes, one must be tough on crime, but also on the causes of crime ..." the Prime Minister nodded, sagely. He had particularly liked that slogan. Shacklebolt did not return his broadest smile.

"That said, one of our heroes of the battle, Remus Lupin, was a great personal friend who happened to be a werewolf ..."

"Remus Lupin?" repeated the Prime Minister, his voice cracking slightly as he stifled a nervous laugh. "No hiding behind that name for him then."

"Poor taste, if I may say, Prime Minister. Remus is one of our heroic dead."

"My apologies," he spread his hands in the universal gesture of pacifism, as taught in Basics of Psychology for Politics. "I'm sure ... ah ... Remus Lupin will always be," he paused, his face schooled to be sombre but sincere, "the Wizards' Werewolf, long to be remembered in your hearts."

The Minister for Magic seemed mollified and the Prime Minster was sure he had spun his way out of that faux-pas. He knew from the turbulent events of autumn 1997 that the public always liked alliteration and he was pleased he'd had the opportunity to use it to great effect yet again. He encouraged Shacklebolt to carry on as he offered him a brandy and helped himself to a generous measure.

"We need nothing less than a revolution in the way the Wizarding world thinks of itself," Shacklebolt said. "We have laws and procedures that give preference and favour to those of pure-blood. Whilst I doubt there are many wizards and witches of genuine pure-bloodedness, I am actively campaigning for people to understand that things such a blood status should be irrelevant. It certainly will not open any doors at the Ministry once I have finished," he declared, his jaw set. A fire seemed to light in his eyes as he spoke.

"There is so much to be done for the other magical races too. Not just werewolf civil liberties but house-elf and centaur enfranchisement and proper recognition for goblins and all the Wandless. These are just the tip of the iceberg if the magical world is to avoid civil war again," said Shacklebolt, passionately. "And I intend that the Ministry of Magic will lead by example."

Goblins. Yes, he had definitely said goblins. The Prime Minister steepled his fingers together and nodded knowingly, as if the rights of 'the wandless' had been part of his own party's manifesto.

"So, tomorrow you start to put together a task force?" he ventured, trying to find some common ground.

"Exactly! A task force to reform all the departments in the Ministry from the top down, assess how they have been functioning, what part of their functionality led to even passive acceptance of the values that have let our society down."

As Shacklebolt talked of his plans for reform, it seemed to the Prime Minister that the Other Minister was an idealistic dreamer. How could one possibly reform the whole of a society? Of course, he wouldn't say so, but as a scholar of political theory, he was fairly sure that Shacklebolt had bitten off more than he could chew.

"Well, Prime Minister," Shacklebolt said, in his reassuringly deep voice, "I must be going. I have much to do."

Shacklebolt held out his hand, and the Prime Minister grasped it in both of his hands in the hearty handshake of politicians.

"I hope I do not have cause to see you too soon," said the Prime Minister, with his most sincere smile. This statement was certainly not a lie. He very much hoped he could put from his mind the existence of this other world of men who didn't die with soul demons at their command and armies of child soldiers, and relax into his own certainties once more.

The fire flared green as Shacklebolt departed and the Prime Minister sat back in his chair heavily, cradling his brandy. He expelled a breath that had seemed trapped in his chest.

From manipulation of newspapers to the use of demons for population control, it seemed to him that the Ministry of Magic could certainly teach him a thing or two about psychological operations. He laughed quietly but then another thought struck him.

"Centaurs and giants and werewolves?" he whispered. "Oh my."

~FIN~