"Trade"; Umbridge, PG
Aug. 6th, 2005 12:47 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
slinkiestumble.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
femgenficathonTitle: Trade
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
slinkiestumble
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1,843
Prompt: 87 - "I shall be an autocrat, that's my trade; and the good Lord will forgive me, that is His." — Catherine the Great
Summary: Dolores Umbridge in three stages: the start, the rise and the momentary fall.
Disclaimer: This should not need to be said, but I am not J.K. Rowling, therefore do not sue me because you will get nothing but some beat up old chucks and college debt.
Notes: Much thanks tomelanthe_v for suffering through my comma obsession.
Main Entry: Do•lor•es Um•bridge
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin dolor, for pain, sadness, grief, resentment; umbrage = offense, from Latin umbra shade, shadow, ghost.
Main Entry: au•to•crat
Pronunciation: 'o-t&-"krat
Function: noun
Etymology: French autocrate, from Greek autokratEs ruling by oneself, absolute, from aut- + -kratEs ruling -- more at -CRAT
1 : a person (as a monarch) ruling with unlimited authority
2 : one who has undisputed influence or power
There is a finger pointing.
“Lookit the turtle!” someone cries. Students teeter to a stop in the hallways, gathering quickly. There is a scoff from the slowing crowd and then, “She looks more like a toad to me!” another voice bellows.
Laughter bounces raucously down the corridors and Dolores blushes beat red, ducking her head away from the taunts.
There is a summons.
A bony woman pushes her bangs from her eyes and shakes her head in a disapproving manner. She tilts her nose into the air and pushes her glasses up on her face. With a thin scowl, she gives Dolores a once over.
“Oh Merlin, you will never do,” the woman says.
“Ribbit, rabbit, RIBBIT!” a boy in blue barks and then bounces for emphasis.
“Hop along now, Ms. Toad-y. Hop along to some pond and croak!” another, a girl in yellow this time, shouts and then grabs her stomach giggling. Others begin to giggle as well.
A wand is suddenly brandished, Dolores closes her eyes tight.
The woman’s skeletal hand rises into the air, three fingers held high.
CRACK!
“Oh, good. Tidly, please take—take her and have something done with those curls on top of her head. They are in no way becoming of any daughter of mine.”
The sickly looking house elf, Tidly, emits a small squeak and nods. Dolores opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.
The laughing crowd of children is silent, their faces stunned with fear and shock and horror. Two bodies lay prone upon the cold stone, faces blank.
“What is going on here?” a bearded man asks; his appearance in the hallway is sudden. He is wearing a dark purple robe, shimmering forebodingly as he weaves through the students. His twinkling blue eyes are unusually icy behind his half-moon glasses.
“Professor!” a student shouts from the crowd. “The Toad did it!”
The previously silent mob breaks into a chorus of agreement, heads bobbing almost rhythmically.
“Come along misses,” Tidly says.
Dolores takes a step forward, looks back at her mother and then follows the house elf silently to the kitchens. Another elf appears with scissors.
“This won’t hurt, misses,” the other elf says.
“I didn’t do it,” Dolores pleads.
The old man frowns. “I am disinclined to believe you, Ms. Umbridge. Twenty points from your house and…”
Dolores holds her breath, her lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen.
“…and detention with Filch – in the dungeons – tonight.”
*
Long brown curls litter the floor, dropping one after another in quick succession.
Dolores reaches up and rubs her head mournfully, glaring at the house elves which surround her.
None of them meet her stare. She silently vows revenge.
“But, but…” Dolores stutters, her voice laced with terror.
The crowd begins to teeter with excitement and anticipation.
“Well, let me see how it’s turned out. Spin about.”
Dolores slowly turns with her head down, her eyes still misty.
“Oh, oh Merlin, whatever will happen to you, you poor excuse for my child? Perhaps a bow will make the mess you call your hair look better. Doubtful, but perhaps.”
Dolores cradles a hand against her chest; she rubs the back profusely—self-consciously. Her face goes from white.
“But I am telling the truth,” she whispers.
The old man quirks an eyebrow, eyes her hand, and speaks steadily, “That has yet to be seen.”
A stack of folders and papers teeter on a desk. A man stands in the entrance to Dolores’s cubicle, holding another manila folder loosely between his fingers.
“Dolores, sweetheart,” the balding man says, his voice too sugary-sweet to be sincere, “correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I ask you for those briefs on cauldron imports three hours ago?”
“Yes, yes you did, but…”
“Really, I don’t care what excuses you want to dole out, darling. You’ve got twenty minutes to get them to my desk. Once you’ve done that, I’d really appreciate it if you’d look over this.” He tosses the manila folder at Dolores. “And try to be more prompt with this one, hmm? Time is galleons, Dolores.”
“I heard she’s that way, if you know what I mean.”
The woman is wearing heels, one foot lifted off the ground as she speaks, her dainty leg pointed forward. In the mirror she is applying a dab of blush to each cheek, rubbing the color in profusely until her face is tinted a dark pink.
“Well, it makes sense, if you get my drift. I mean, who does she think she’s fooling? Really.”
Another woman, this one also wearing heels, is twirling her blonde hair rapidly around her index finger. Her perfectly painted lips are quirked into a smirk as she looks at her friend.
“Not me, that’s for sure.”
Dolores huddles on the toilet, her sneakered feet brought up to her mostly flat chest. She is breathing shallowly. Her eyes are screwed tightly shut, fingers playing unconsciously with the bow in her hair.
They cannot be talking about me, they cannot be talking about me.
Dolores hears the bathroom door slam shut. With a shuddering breath, she steps out from the stall. Her eyes meet her reflection in the mirror, almost defiantly.
No, they were not talking about me.
“Actually, Dolores, we’ve all decided it would be best if Branson were to give the presentation.”
Dolores’s head snaps up from her clasped hands.
“Excuse me?”
“We want to sell this idea, Dolores, and we feel you…we feel Branson would be a much better representative of what we are going for.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now don’t get all upset about this, Dolores, it’s nothing against you at all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, sweetheart,” Branson cuts in, “what Mr. Crouch is trying to say is that you’re missing that special something, if you know what I mean. Perhaps if you cleaned yourself up a bit and quit thinking you were ‘just a mate,’ we wouldn’t be having this problem. As it goes…”
“Branson, please,” Mr. Crouch interrupts, eyeing the balding man crossly. “Dolores, we appreciate all the hard work you put into this project, but we’re going with Branson for the presentation.”
Dolores kicks her chair back and stands so quick everyone at the table rears back.
“EXCUSE ME?”
“Oh Circe,” someone whispers, too loudly.
Dolores ignores the breathy statement and continues on her way to her desk.
“Did you see that?”
“All that pink!”
“I didn’t even think she owned a skirt.”
“What’s with the cardigan is what I want to know!”
“We thought the bow was hideous!”
“Who knew they made heels for women like her?”
“I wonder what’s gotten into her.”
“Who cares?” is a balding man’s response.
Dolores stops scribbling and rises from her seat, leaning over her cubicle to stare at four people.
“Hem, hem,” Dolores clears her throat heavily, “perhaps this may comes as a surprise to the likes of you, but some people – i.e. me – are trying to work and I think it would be best all around if you kept your gossip to yourself. I’d hate to have to report to Mr. Crouch that you were neglecting your duties in favor of chatting.”
When Dolores sits back down, she is grinning from ear to ear. She has a memo to write to Mr. Crouch.
“What are you doing in my office?”
Dolores stops fiddling with her paperwork and looks up, a small smile gracing her pink lips.
“Oh, Branson,” she exclaims joyfully—too joyfully for Branson’s taste, “haven’t you heard? Mr. Crouch has given me a promotion…”
Branson’s eyes narrow.
“…and it seems, the office you previously occupied. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Branson sneers.
“No, darling, whatever makes you think that? I am nothing if not honest. Oh!” Dolores moves from her desk to the filing cabinet and pulls out three pale pink folders. “Your new desk is in my old cubicle, I’m sure you remember where that is? I’ve taken the liberty of moving all your personal items there already. You’ve also got some paperwork waiting for you, but you know I’d really appreciate it if you could get these,” Dolores hands over the pink folders, “back to me before the end of the day. Time is galleons, after all.”
Dolores stands before the crowd of executives and uses her paisley pointer to circle an ostentatious diagram that sits on a stand beside her.
“This diagram here is critical to the development of the project,” she says and her eyes narrow when she catches two of her audience members quietly whispering to one another.
“Hem hem.”
The two heads snap toward her face and she narrows her eyes further while brightening her smile.
“I’m sorry, is there something you’d like to add? No? Well then, as I was saying…”
Dolores continues her presentation with no more interruptions.
Their hooves hit the forest floor in rapid succession.
Thump, ka-thunk, thump, ka-thunk.
Dolores’s heart races and she closes her eyes, fear lacing through her blood.
Not like this, she thinks fiercely, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“I am innocent!” Dolores wails.
The centaurs circle her mercilessly, their hooves bringing up dirt and small plants and dead vegetation.
One centaur leaves the circling pack and moves forward toward her quivering form.
“You have never been innocent!”
“Who goes there?” an old, husky voice drifts from the darkness.
“It is only us, Aragog!”
“Ronan, yes, and others…what brings you here? Why have you disturbed me?”
“Intruders have disobeyed our warnings and foolishly entered the forest.”
“Yes, this is not the first time…”
“No, it is not, but it will be this intruder’s last. We centaurs do not kill for blood sport, but perhaps your children are hungry?”
Dolores’ head snaps between the angry centaur and the many blinking eyes of the darkness. A primal scream bubbles up in her throat.
“You have never been innocent! The human race…it does not know innocence!”
“I am High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Minister’s most valuable special assistant, on top of that—you cannot do this to me!”
The beating of the centaurs hooves come to a halt. Dolores stands from her crouching position, a fierce look of triumph across her face.
“You are right; we cannot do this to you.”
Dolores’ hands come to her hips, the look of triumph morphing into smugness.
“But we know who can.”
Dolores is roughly grabbed around the middle. The holler that escapes her throat is one of sheer panic.
“For you, Albus Dumbledore, I will make this one exception. However, should this woman—or any other of her ilk—ever enter this forest again…”
Dumbledore’s face is solemn as he stares down at the filth covered Dolores Umbridge.
“I understand.”
Dumbledore moves forward and grasps the woman by the arm. Dolores flinches in his touch, clasps her left hand with her right and begins to rub profusely, thankful for the glamour.
Author:
slinkiestumbleRating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1,843
Prompt: 87 - "I shall be an autocrat, that's my trade; and the good Lord will forgive me, that is His." — Catherine the Great
Summary: Dolores Umbridge in three stages: the start, the rise and the momentary fall.
Disclaimer: This should not need to be said, but I am not J.K. Rowling, therefore do not sue me because you will get nothing but some beat up old chucks and college debt.
Notes: Much thanks to
melanthe_v for suffering through my comma obsession.Main Entry: Do•lor•es Um•bridge
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin dolor, for pain, sadness, grief, resentment; umbrage = offense, from Latin umbra shade, shadow, ghost.
Main Entry: au•to•crat
Pronunciation: 'o-t&-"krat
Function: noun
Etymology: French autocrate, from Greek autokratEs ruling by oneself, absolute, from aut- + -kratEs ruling -- more at -CRAT
1 : a person (as a monarch) ruling with unlimited authority
2 : one who has undisputed influence or power
1. Hideous
There is a finger pointing.
“Lookit the turtle!” someone cries. Students teeter to a stop in the hallways, gathering quickly. There is a scoff from the slowing crowd and then, “She looks more like a toad to me!” another voice bellows.
Laughter bounces raucously down the corridors and Dolores blushes beat red, ducking her head away from the taunts.
*
There is a summons.
A bony woman pushes her bangs from her eyes and shakes her head in a disapproving manner. She tilts her nose into the air and pushes her glasses up on her face. With a thin scowl, she gives Dolores a once over.
“Oh Merlin, you will never do,” the woman says.
*
“Ribbit, rabbit, RIBBIT!” a boy in blue barks and then bounces for emphasis.
“Hop along now, Ms. Toad-y. Hop along to some pond and croak!” another, a girl in yellow this time, shouts and then grabs her stomach giggling. Others begin to giggle as well.
A wand is suddenly brandished, Dolores closes her eyes tight.
*
The woman’s skeletal hand rises into the air, three fingers held high.
*
CRACK!
*
“Oh, good. Tidly, please take—take her and have something done with those curls on top of her head. They are in no way becoming of any daughter of mine.”
The sickly looking house elf, Tidly, emits a small squeak and nods. Dolores opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.
*
The laughing crowd of children is silent, their faces stunned with fear and shock and horror. Two bodies lay prone upon the cold stone, faces blank.
“What is going on here?” a bearded man asks; his appearance in the hallway is sudden. He is wearing a dark purple robe, shimmering forebodingly as he weaves through the students. His twinkling blue eyes are unusually icy behind his half-moon glasses.
“Professor!” a student shouts from the crowd. “The Toad did it!”
The previously silent mob breaks into a chorus of agreement, heads bobbing almost rhythmically.
*
“Come along misses,” Tidly says.
Dolores takes a step forward, looks back at her mother and then follows the house elf silently to the kitchens. Another elf appears with scissors.
“This won’t hurt, misses,” the other elf says.
*
“I didn’t do it,” Dolores pleads.
The old man frowns. “I am disinclined to believe you, Ms. Umbridge. Twenty points from your house and…”
Dolores holds her breath, her lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen.
“…and detention with Filch – in the dungeons – tonight.”
Long brown curls litter the floor, dropping one after another in quick succession.
Dolores reaches up and rubs her head mournfully, glaring at the house elves which surround her.
None of them meet her stare. She silently vows revenge.
*
“But, but…” Dolores stutters, her voice laced with terror.
The crowd begins to teeter with excitement and anticipation.
*
“Well, let me see how it’s turned out. Spin about.”
Dolores slowly turns with her head down, her eyes still misty.
“Oh, oh Merlin, whatever will happen to you, you poor excuse for my child? Perhaps a bow will make the mess you call your hair look better. Doubtful, but perhaps.”
*
Dolores cradles a hand against her chest; she rubs the back profusely—self-consciously. Her face goes from white.
“But I am telling the truth,” she whispers.
The old man quirks an eyebrow, eyes her hand, and speaks steadily, “That has yet to be seen.”
2. Relentless
A stack of folders and papers teeter on a desk. A man stands in the entrance to Dolores’s cubicle, holding another manila folder loosely between his fingers.
“Dolores, sweetheart,” the balding man says, his voice too sugary-sweet to be sincere, “correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I ask you for those briefs on cauldron imports three hours ago?”
“Yes, yes you did, but…”
“Really, I don’t care what excuses you want to dole out, darling. You’ve got twenty minutes to get them to my desk. Once you’ve done that, I’d really appreciate it if you’d look over this.” He tosses the manila folder at Dolores. “And try to be more prompt with this one, hmm? Time is galleons, Dolores.”
*
“I heard she’s that way, if you know what I mean.”
The woman is wearing heels, one foot lifted off the ground as she speaks, her dainty leg pointed forward. In the mirror she is applying a dab of blush to each cheek, rubbing the color in profusely until her face is tinted a dark pink.
“Well, it makes sense, if you get my drift. I mean, who does she think she’s fooling? Really.”
Another woman, this one also wearing heels, is twirling her blonde hair rapidly around her index finger. Her perfectly painted lips are quirked into a smirk as she looks at her friend.
“Not me, that’s for sure.”
Dolores huddles on the toilet, her sneakered feet brought up to her mostly flat chest. She is breathing shallowly. Her eyes are screwed tightly shut, fingers playing unconsciously with the bow in her hair.
They cannot be talking about me, they cannot be talking about me.
Dolores hears the bathroom door slam shut. With a shuddering breath, she steps out from the stall. Her eyes meet her reflection in the mirror, almost defiantly.
No, they were not talking about me.
*
“Actually, Dolores, we’ve all decided it would be best if Branson were to give the presentation.”
Dolores’s head snaps up from her clasped hands.
“Excuse me?”
“We want to sell this idea, Dolores, and we feel you…we feel Branson would be a much better representative of what we are going for.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now don’t get all upset about this, Dolores, it’s nothing against you at all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, sweetheart,” Branson cuts in, “what Mr. Crouch is trying to say is that you’re missing that special something, if you know what I mean. Perhaps if you cleaned yourself up a bit and quit thinking you were ‘just a mate,’ we wouldn’t be having this problem. As it goes…”
“Branson, please,” Mr. Crouch interrupts, eyeing the balding man crossly. “Dolores, we appreciate all the hard work you put into this project, but we’re going with Branson for the presentation.”
Dolores kicks her chair back and stands so quick everyone at the table rears back.
“EXCUSE ME?”
*
“Oh Circe,” someone whispers, too loudly.
Dolores ignores the breathy statement and continues on her way to her desk.
“Did you see that?”
“All that pink!”
“I didn’t even think she owned a skirt.”
“What’s with the cardigan is what I want to know!”
“We thought the bow was hideous!”
“Who knew they made heels for women like her?”
“I wonder what’s gotten into her.”
“Who cares?” is a balding man’s response.
Dolores stops scribbling and rises from her seat, leaning over her cubicle to stare at four people.
“Hem, hem,” Dolores clears her throat heavily, “perhaps this may comes as a surprise to the likes of you, but some people – i.e. me – are trying to work and I think it would be best all around if you kept your gossip to yourself. I’d hate to have to report to Mr. Crouch that you were neglecting your duties in favor of chatting.”
When Dolores sits back down, she is grinning from ear to ear. She has a memo to write to Mr. Crouch.
*
“What are you doing in my office?”
Dolores stops fiddling with her paperwork and looks up, a small smile gracing her pink lips.
“Oh, Branson,” she exclaims joyfully—too joyfully for Branson’s taste, “haven’t you heard? Mr. Crouch has given me a promotion…”
Branson’s eyes narrow.
“…and it seems, the office you previously occupied. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Branson sneers.
“No, darling, whatever makes you think that? I am nothing if not honest. Oh!” Dolores moves from her desk to the filing cabinet and pulls out three pale pink folders. “Your new desk is in my old cubicle, I’m sure you remember where that is? I’ve taken the liberty of moving all your personal items there already. You’ve also got some paperwork waiting for you, but you know I’d really appreciate it if you could get these,” Dolores hands over the pink folders, “back to me before the end of the day. Time is galleons, after all.”
*
Dolores stands before the crowd of executives and uses her paisley pointer to circle an ostentatious diagram that sits on a stand beside her.
“This diagram here is critical to the development of the project,” she says and her eyes narrow when she catches two of her audience members quietly whispering to one another.
“Hem hem.”
The two heads snap toward her face and she narrows her eyes further while brightening her smile.
“I’m sorry, is there something you’d like to add? No? Well then, as I was saying…”
Dolores continues her presentation with no more interruptions.
3. Bestial
Their hooves hit the forest floor in rapid succession.
Thump, ka-thunk, thump, ka-thunk.
Dolores’s heart races and she closes her eyes, fear lacing through her blood.
Not like this, she thinks fiercely, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
*
“I am innocent!” Dolores wails.
The centaurs circle her mercilessly, their hooves bringing up dirt and small plants and dead vegetation.
One centaur leaves the circling pack and moves forward toward her quivering form.
“You have never been innocent!”
*
“Who goes there?” an old, husky voice drifts from the darkness.
“It is only us, Aragog!”
“Ronan, yes, and others…what brings you here? Why have you disturbed me?”
“Intruders have disobeyed our warnings and foolishly entered the forest.”
“Yes, this is not the first time…”
“No, it is not, but it will be this intruder’s last. We centaurs do not kill for blood sport, but perhaps your children are hungry?”
Dolores’ head snaps between the angry centaur and the many blinking eyes of the darkness. A primal scream bubbles up in her throat.
*
“You have never been innocent! The human race…it does not know innocence!”
“I am High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Minister’s most valuable special assistant, on top of that—you cannot do this to me!”
The beating of the centaurs hooves come to a halt. Dolores stands from her crouching position, a fierce look of triumph across her face.
“You are right; we cannot do this to you.”
Dolores’ hands come to her hips, the look of triumph morphing into smugness.
“But we know who can.”
Dolores is roughly grabbed around the middle. The holler that escapes her throat is one of sheer panic.
*
“For you, Albus Dumbledore, I will make this one exception. However, should this woman—or any other of her ilk—ever enter this forest again…”
Dumbledore’s face is solemn as he stares down at the filth covered Dolores Umbridge.
“I understand.”
Dumbledore moves forward and grasps the woman by the arm. Dolores flinches in his touch, clasps her left hand with her right and begins to rub profusely, thankful for the glamour.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-08-06 01:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-06 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-06 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-06 07:37 pm (UTC)To be honest, I never wanted to feel sorry for Umbridge either.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-10 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-11 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-24 02:09 am (UTC)Thanks again for what was one of the better pieces (IMO) from the ficathon!
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 11:35 pm (UTC)(I nearly wrote an Umbridge-in-the-Forest fic for this, glad I didn't now! The idea the centaurs might have handed her over to Aragog was nastier even than I thought of.)
no subject
Date: 2005-08-18 03:54 am (UTC)The whole centaurs handing Umbridge over to Aragog really stemmed from my own fear of giant spiders. The entire idea of giant spiders in the forest ... it's just not right. Heh.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-25 09:40 pm (UTC)Thank you
Date: 2011-05-26 09:28 pm (UTC)Thanks again.