Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to JK
Rowling. I just like playing in
place after the events of the as-yet mythical Book 7 and the defeat of
Voldemort. Just a wee plot bunny that
refused to go away. Many thanks to the
SQW for putting up with my little bursts of insanity and to Emma Dalrymple for
arguing in defence of silliness. ;)
by A.L. de Sauveterre
I pressed my
lips together so tightly I was certain my jaws would break. Gingerly, I pried my burnt and bruised
fingers from between the sizzling over doors.
Looking at the crust of singed green skin on my hands, withered and
powerless… I nearly cried, unbecoming as it might have been. No one should have the right to do this to
our kind. This wasn’t the way it was
meant to be. If given the opportunity,
I could recount a list of ancestors dating back to Beowulf if need be, but that
didn’t seem to count for much anymore.
my father had warned me. Even in his
parting breath, he had warned me of changes he had seen, changes known only to
himself and the Elders. Changes that
would deplete our kind of the power we had always possessed. I had always insisted that he was
As fate would
have it, I was wrong.
“Go on, then,”
urged Fudge. “Finish the job. Crunch, crunch. Chop, chop.” The
Minister’s piggy eyes watered and his belly shook as he laughed at his own
unimaginative slapstick. I knew what
I’d slap with a stick… if only I had one.
this is for your own good,” he whispered, raising his sparse brows,
sneaking an oblique glance at the official entourage observing from the
door. The familiar faces of wizards and
witches in the Order filed past in a blur.
I glared at
Fudge there in the Ministry’s canteen, hating every sycophantic slimy inch of
him from his balding blockhead to his pretentious second-hand pinstripes. If I could have garnered even a fraction of
the power they had usurped from me and my kind, he’d have been nothing more
than an oleaginous lump of lukewarm sludge on the limestone floor.
Fates had seen fit to make him my new master.
Master. With Herculean
effort, I fought back my expletives.
Even thinking the word was nearly enough to send me into
(for even a simpleton like Fudge couldn’t fail to recognise the murderous glint
in my eyes), I swung the doors against my hand again, howling in pain with each
sharp crack of brittle bone until the Ministry officials nodded in the
said Fudge, with a patronising wink.
“Enough.” The man was clearly
enjoying my plight far too much for my liking.
I looked down
the pointed end of my long nose (my nose!) at my bleeding fingers and
hitched up the filthy dishtowel wrapped around my waist. Not wanting to speculate on what things now
looked like underneath, I focused my remaining energy on a venomous glare
directed at the tubby Minister’s retreating back.
Where had it
all gone wrong? Whose bloody idea was
this anyway? Who thought that it would
be best for our kind to be reduced to this for our own
“protection”? Wouldn’t it simply have
been best to send us away? Time would
matter little. Our kind have lived long
and have been patient, quietly hidden from the rest of what some loosely call
“society”. We could be that way
again. Gather our arms. Plot.
Wait. And then… strike!
wait? I said to
myself. We still have some power
left, after all, haven’t we?
At eye level,
beckoned the glimmer of a butcher’s knife by the sharpening stone. In an eyeblink, I had the knife in my hand
and lunged forward, taking aim at the Minister’s back—
But the knife
clattered to the floor as I tripped.
Tripped over those spindly green legs, part of this cursed elfin
body. Fudge swung round at the sound of
the commotion, then fixed me with what I suppose on anyone else would have been
a withering look. As it was, my view of
him was upside down, owing to my awkward angle on the stones. It could have been a smile for all I
knew. Blinking again, I realised that
calculated smile. On Fudge. Who knew?
Then his next
words hit me like no spell any of my kind had ever cast.
“Do it. Go on.
You know you deserve it.”
I was inches
away from the knife. I could have
plunged it right between his eyes if I’d wanted to.
But I also had
this compulsive urge… to slam my ears in the over doors.
moved towards the oven. I had no
choice, it hurt to resist.
Bam! Bam! The echoes of the doors and the shrill
undignified cries, which I soon realised were my own, reverberated against the
walls until Fudge stopped me with a condescending pat on the head.
there. That’s enough,” he said. “When you’re through cleaning this mess, you
can start with bringing up the tea trays.
The Order has convened a special session at half past. Professors Dumbledore and Snape will take
the head table. And this time… see that
it’s prepared in a timely fashion.”
instinct was to rip him apart with my bare hands, but I remembered that my
fingers were broken. I slumped against
the cupboards, impotent and enraged.
As I fumed,
Fudge half-turned from the door with a smug, self-satisfied sneer. “Oh, and one more thing…”
that the actions of a house-elf are meant to be appreciated, Lucy,” he
snickered, “not seen.”
And although I
knew it would inevitably mean my head in the oven for the next several hours, I
managed a direct hit to his smirking face with the mortar and pestle.
hadn’t seen that coming, and I thoroughly appreciated it.
“Lucius” to you, you pompous, gas-blowing, beef-witted toadflax!