Saturday, 21 April 2007 02:48 pm
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deckardcanineThose of you who have read my journal for more than a year may recall me confessing to the authorship of a naughty Harry Potter fanfic. To this day, only Ashkitty and I have had a look at it. But I still look at it from time to time and find it fun. Now, with the release of the final book still three months away, I'm daring to post it. Only a little has been edited since Ashkitty's reading.
Let me be thorough in my warning. The material is either PG-13 or a strong PG for suggestive themes, but it is not intended to arouse people like so much het -- it's strictly for humor. It does not involve any students, only adults. And with these adults being so secondary, it could have happened in canon for all I know. (I made sure not to violate any known premises of the Potterverse.)
If you can accept a jokingly racy HP fanwork, then my next warning is that the characters involved are not exactly attractive, whether written by J.K. Rowling or me. In fact, one is among the most loathsome characters of all -- and no, I don't mean Snape. The other premiered in the sixth book, but if you have even a vague memory of the fifth (Order of the Phoenix), then you'll understand all you need. I dunno; maybe you don't even need to know that much to enjoy it.
If you find my story more repulsive than amusing, I apologize. I don't know what prompted me to write it. Perhaps the most shocking thing about it is that I wrote it.
Rufus Scrimgeour squinted at his watch. The circles had to be off somehow; it could not be so early in the wee hours. But to be sure, the various and sundry catastrophes whose reports quite literally screamed "URGENT" in his direction would take a toll on even the youngest and spryest Minister of Magic who ever was. The parchment in his hands was not one of the more merciful ones, either: Death Eaters had apparently interfered with the clinical supplies of a Muggle anesthesiologist. He was about to recheck the definition of "anesthesiologist" when the silence was broken:
"Hem, hem."
To Scrimgeour, that was enough of an excuse to put down the quill. "Dolores," he said after clearing his own throat, "I thought you'd left hours ago."
"Yes, well, I decided that you could use some... moral support this evening, Rufus." Madam Umbridge had her characteristic smile fixed. At least, it seemed characteristic from what little attention the listing Scrimgeour could pay.
"This morning, rather. I appreciate your concern, Dolores, but you needn't have bothered. Miss Marchpane is still here for my company, and I have unwavering faith in my guards."
"Miss Marchpane, yes, indeed. But she was beginning to look tired, so I decided to 'spell' her for a while."
"Ah, how kind of you," Scrimgeour murmured, although there was something fishy in the way she had said "spell." He rubbed his fingers on his temple. "Times like these make me regret that the Minister of Magic can never be spelled."
"It must be such a terrible burden, having so much power," Umbridge crooned as she inclined with her elbows on his desk. Her wide lips bunched together in what may have been a compromise between a frown and a smile. "Have you had any time away from your work in the last week or so?"
"Some, but to be honest, it's not much better. I'm not making it public, but you may have heard that my wife disappeared without a trace last Thursday."
"Your wife, yes." There was no change in her tone or expression, aside from her glance moving downward. "There must be a gaping hole in your life right now." With a typical feminine sigh, Umbridge rose almost suddenly. "Is there anything I can do for you right now?" she chirped.
"Er... thank you very much, but I—"
"You look like you could use a Peppy Potion," she chimed, and with that, she opened her kitten-adorned purse and pulled out a vial full of swirling warm colors. She then Summoned a mug from a nearby desk and filled it three-quarters full, a greater volume than the vial itself. Umbridge held out the mug with her pinky extended, a curvaceous eyebrow raised expectantly. Scrimgeour gazed rather stupidly at it before coming to the senses befitting a Minister.
"Not to insinuate any wrongdoing on your part, Dolores, but I prefer to get my own beverages." He furrowed his brow. "These days, I'm almost ready to go to the same lengths as old Mad-Eye...."
Umbridge bunched up her lips again and casually sipped the mug. The sip became a chug for good show, albeit as dainty a chug as one could conceivably manage. Satisfied, Scrimgeour took the mug. After regarding her lips once more, he pointed his wand at the mug and whispered, "Pasteuro." Finally he sipped.
"Hm," he said, licking his thick mane. His next swallow was faster than he intended. "My, this doesn't taste like the usual Peppy Po—"
The glass came down with a sharp knock as Scrimgeour barely avoided dropping it. His eyes were wide open now, and they focused helplessly on Dolores Umbridge. Those curls, those perfect round eyes, those rosy cheeks, those vast lips... when had she gotten so stunning?
The lips finally parted in an earnest grin. "Is it sweeter, Rufus? Like... honey?"
"Yes, or sugarcane, or-or good butterbeer, or... love... p..."
Scrimgeour definitely felt more energetic now, but he sensed the energy to be rather concentrated in a selective area. Something told him to be sore with Umbridge — no, downright fierce... but in what way? If this was insubordination or even betrayal within the Ministry, then why didn't it feel more wrong? Surely this dear creature would do nothing to hurt him. Much.
He shook his head and started again. "D-Dolores... I've never let you know truly how much your contributions have meant to the administration. It's these... little things, like the Peppy Potion...."
"Little things?" Umbridge let out a silvery laugh, nevertheless restrained enough that the guards outside probably didn't hear. "Rufus, I am ready to move on to providing much bigger things for my favorite supervisor. But don't worry. I'm sure you can thank me more than enough."
"Your laugh... it's so... sweet. Like your speaking voice."
"And might I say, dear Rufus, that your leonine intonations make me want to purr like a kitten."
"And a way with words! Dolores, I don't care what anybody says about you; you must have made a great teacher."
"You really think so? Well, I like to think my teaching days are far from finished."
"Could you... demonstrate?"
"With pleasure." A swift wave of her wand drew all the curtains closed. Laying her wand aside, she came slowly around the desk. "Wands away, class. Except for a certain one."
"You mean my, eh, quarterstaff?"
If a smile was merely starting to show on Scrimgeour's features, then Umbridge's face threatened to rend itself asunder.
"This morning, we are going to learn a few things about the history of human bondage."
She opened her purse anew and produced a set of Tetherman's Self-Tying Twine rolls, which proceeded to fasten on Scrimgeour's wrists and ankles. For a split second, he wondered how such basic instruments of mischief ever made their way through security. But he promptly got distracted by a first glimpse of what lay beneath her robe. Having had the dubious privilege of witnessing death, he could feast his eyes on what had to be a Thestral-leather teddy. For another split second, he wondered how an unmarried woman of her status could afford something so rare. But there was so much more to occupy his mind — and body.
"Er, nice to see you so prepared for this lesson...," Scrimgeour began, but a quick peck (if one could call anything from such lips a "peck") shut his mouth. Umbridge's hungry eyes did not stray from him as she put both hands into her purse once more.
She sang softly, "There will be no need to talk."
And for the next hour or so, she was right on that point.
"How do you do, Cornelius?" the Minister asked brightly as the former Minister arrived.
"Coming along, coming along," Mr. Fudge answered shakily. "Yourself, sir?"
"A little fatigued, but not as bad as yesterday." Indeed, for anyone who had seen Scrimgeour in the last month, there could be no doubt that something had lifted his spirit. "Could you give priority to the couple of scrolls I left on your desk?"
"Certainly, sir."
And as Cornelius Fudge ambled off, Scrimgeour peered at his first fully welcome message almost since he could remember: a small card which, when given a very particular spell, produced a lacy pink text proclaiming the oneness of him and his new love for all time. This card had been attached to a thin black quill she had slipped him on the way out. Someday, she wrote, when we need no longer keep this love a secret, I want you to use this quill to write my name over and over again.
He had enough experience to guess what made the quill so special to her. It will hurt, he thought. But... in a good way. Scrimgeour stroked his mane and returned to work.
Let me be thorough in my warning. The material is either PG-13 or a strong PG for suggestive themes, but it is not intended to arouse people like so much het -- it's strictly for humor. It does not involve any students, only adults. And with these adults being so secondary, it could have happened in canon for all I know. (I made sure not to violate any known premises of the Potterverse.)
If you can accept a jokingly racy HP fanwork, then my next warning is that the characters involved are not exactly attractive, whether written by J.K. Rowling or me. In fact, one is among the most loathsome characters of all -- and no, I don't mean Snape. The other premiered in the sixth book, but if you have even a vague memory of the fifth (Order of the Phoenix), then you'll understand all you need. I dunno; maybe you don't even need to know that much to enjoy it.
If you find my story more repulsive than amusing, I apologize. I don't know what prompted me to write it. Perhaps the most shocking thing about it is that I wrote it.
Rufus Scrimgeour squinted at his watch. The circles had to be off somehow; it could not be so early in the wee hours. But to be sure, the various and sundry catastrophes whose reports quite literally screamed "URGENT" in his direction would take a toll on even the youngest and spryest Minister of Magic who ever was. The parchment in his hands was not one of the more merciful ones, either: Death Eaters had apparently interfered with the clinical supplies of a Muggle anesthesiologist. He was about to recheck the definition of "anesthesiologist" when the silence was broken:
"Hem, hem."
To Scrimgeour, that was enough of an excuse to put down the quill. "Dolores," he said after clearing his own throat, "I thought you'd left hours ago."
"Yes, well, I decided that you could use some... moral support this evening, Rufus." Madam Umbridge had her characteristic smile fixed. At least, it seemed characteristic from what little attention the listing Scrimgeour could pay.
"This morning, rather. I appreciate your concern, Dolores, but you needn't have bothered. Miss Marchpane is still here for my company, and I have unwavering faith in my guards."
"Miss Marchpane, yes, indeed. But she was beginning to look tired, so I decided to 'spell' her for a while."
"Ah, how kind of you," Scrimgeour murmured, although there was something fishy in the way she had said "spell." He rubbed his fingers on his temple. "Times like these make me regret that the Minister of Magic can never be spelled."
"It must be such a terrible burden, having so much power," Umbridge crooned as she inclined with her elbows on his desk. Her wide lips bunched together in what may have been a compromise between a frown and a smile. "Have you had any time away from your work in the last week or so?"
"Some, but to be honest, it's not much better. I'm not making it public, but you may have heard that my wife disappeared without a trace last Thursday."
"Your wife, yes." There was no change in her tone or expression, aside from her glance moving downward. "There must be a gaping hole in your life right now." With a typical feminine sigh, Umbridge rose almost suddenly. "Is there anything I can do for you right now?" she chirped.
"Er... thank you very much, but I—"
"You look like you could use a Peppy Potion," she chimed, and with that, she opened her kitten-adorned purse and pulled out a vial full of swirling warm colors. She then Summoned a mug from a nearby desk and filled it three-quarters full, a greater volume than the vial itself. Umbridge held out the mug with her pinky extended, a curvaceous eyebrow raised expectantly. Scrimgeour gazed rather stupidly at it before coming to the senses befitting a Minister.
"Not to insinuate any wrongdoing on your part, Dolores, but I prefer to get my own beverages." He furrowed his brow. "These days, I'm almost ready to go to the same lengths as old Mad-Eye...."
Umbridge bunched up her lips again and casually sipped the mug. The sip became a chug for good show, albeit as dainty a chug as one could conceivably manage. Satisfied, Scrimgeour took the mug. After regarding her lips once more, he pointed his wand at the mug and whispered, "Pasteuro." Finally he sipped.
"Hm," he said, licking his thick mane. His next swallow was faster than he intended. "My, this doesn't taste like the usual Peppy Po—"
The glass came down with a sharp knock as Scrimgeour barely avoided dropping it. His eyes were wide open now, and they focused helplessly on Dolores Umbridge. Those curls, those perfect round eyes, those rosy cheeks, those vast lips... when had she gotten so stunning?
The lips finally parted in an earnest grin. "Is it sweeter, Rufus? Like... honey?"
"Yes, or sugarcane, or-or good butterbeer, or... love... p..."
Scrimgeour definitely felt more energetic now, but he sensed the energy to be rather concentrated in a selective area. Something told him to be sore with Umbridge — no, downright fierce... but in what way? If this was insubordination or even betrayal within the Ministry, then why didn't it feel more wrong? Surely this dear creature would do nothing to hurt him. Much.
He shook his head and started again. "D-Dolores... I've never let you know truly how much your contributions have meant to the administration. It's these... little things, like the Peppy Potion...."
"Little things?" Umbridge let out a silvery laugh, nevertheless restrained enough that the guards outside probably didn't hear. "Rufus, I am ready to move on to providing much bigger things for my favorite supervisor. But don't worry. I'm sure you can thank me more than enough."
"Your laugh... it's so... sweet. Like your speaking voice."
"And might I say, dear Rufus, that your leonine intonations make me want to purr like a kitten."
"And a way with words! Dolores, I don't care what anybody says about you; you must have made a great teacher."
"You really think so? Well, I like to think my teaching days are far from finished."
"Could you... demonstrate?"
"With pleasure." A swift wave of her wand drew all the curtains closed. Laying her wand aside, she came slowly around the desk. "Wands away, class. Except for a certain one."
"You mean my, eh, quarterstaff?"
If a smile was merely starting to show on Scrimgeour's features, then Umbridge's face threatened to rend itself asunder.
"This morning, we are going to learn a few things about the history of human bondage."
She opened her purse anew and produced a set of Tetherman's Self-Tying Twine rolls, which proceeded to fasten on Scrimgeour's wrists and ankles. For a split second, he wondered how such basic instruments of mischief ever made their way through security. But he promptly got distracted by a first glimpse of what lay beneath her robe. Having had the dubious privilege of witnessing death, he could feast his eyes on what had to be a Thestral-leather teddy. For another split second, he wondered how an unmarried woman of her status could afford something so rare. But there was so much more to occupy his mind — and body.
"Er, nice to see you so prepared for this lesson...," Scrimgeour began, but a quick peck (if one could call anything from such lips a "peck") shut his mouth. Umbridge's hungry eyes did not stray from him as she put both hands into her purse once more.
She sang softly, "There will be no need to talk."
And for the next hour or so, she was right on that point.
"How do you do, Cornelius?" the Minister asked brightly as the former Minister arrived.
"Coming along, coming along," Mr. Fudge answered shakily. "Yourself, sir?"
"A little fatigued, but not as bad as yesterday." Indeed, for anyone who had seen Scrimgeour in the last month, there could be no doubt that something had lifted his spirit. "Could you give priority to the couple of scrolls I left on your desk?"
"Certainly, sir."
And as Cornelius Fudge ambled off, Scrimgeour peered at his first fully welcome message almost since he could remember: a small card which, when given a very particular spell, produced a lacy pink text proclaiming the oneness of him and his new love for all time. This card had been attached to a thin black quill she had slipped him on the way out. Someday, she wrote, when we need no longer keep this love a secret, I want you to use this quill to write my name over and over again.
He had enough experience to guess what made the quill so special to her. It will hurt, he thought. But... in a good way. Scrimgeour stroked his mane and returned to work.
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It's funny how these things work out, though. I just posted a previously-secret, potentially-PG-13 but all-in-good-humor work of mine today as well. Maybe I should repost it in a friendlocked journal entry.
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