RP: At last!
Date: 15 January 1999
Character: Dolores Umbridge
Location: The forest near where the World Cup was once held.
Status Private
Summary: Dolores finds what she has been searching for, at last.
Warnings: Violence/Blood/Ew-factor
Completion: Complete
Dolores caught her breath as she saw the cross etched into the gnarled tree.
This had to be the place.
One part of her mind suggested, firm and angry and cold, that this might be the mark of anything, that a child might have buried a beloved pet cat here, that it might have been carved by a bored teen-ager, that a cross didn't signify what she sought at all, which would be better represented by a circle, a knot, a sphere carved like so much melon or a scoop of hard-packed ice cream from the shop on Diagon Alley. But the other part, equally angry and railing back, said no, no, that wasn't it, that wasn't, because no child lived near here to bury a cat, no teen-ager would come out alone into a boring forest amongst boring trees just to deface a plant, that a cross was an easy mark to make.
Dolores told both parts to be quiet, and frowned at the cross. This had to be the place.
She dropped to her knees and ran her finger over the slashing slices in the bark. They were deep, deliberate but hurried, and even now, after…she tried to count the months in her head, and found she'd only the chill of the air to assist her. Perhaps it was November, by now, or possibly even nearing Christmas, so she supposed it had been a year. A year, since she'd last peered through her door to see all that went on around her. A year, since the Potter brat had eluded her again, had stolen what was hers. Had shattered the security of her Ministry, the Ministry that was orderly and proper and always on the side of magic.
Dreadful boy.
Always had been.
She traced the shape again and again, pressing into it until a ragged edge broke loose and pierced her finger. She jumped, putting the finger in her mouth to stanch the drops of blood, to taste the metallic earthy taste of it.
This had to be the place.
Her knees ached as she sat back on her feet, ached on the cold hard earth, throbbed where an unruly tendril of root rested over the packed earth and under the hollow below her kneecap. Her knees hurt. Her body hurt. She had looked, looked all over Britain, it seemed, for all these months since the horrifying night and day when battle and smoke and flashes of screaming light had been all around.
All she wanted was what was rightfully hers.
And it was here. Here it was. She wondered if it could see her even now. If it might be looking up at her bruised knees and ladder-striped hose on top of the earth.
She scrabbled her way backward, suddenly overcome with the notion that after all that time serving one twisted and hard master, it might rest there under the earth looking up her skirt, laughing at her for how long it had taken her to find it.
Well, she would fix that, wouldn't she? She'd have it back, have it so she could see again, everything and everyone around her and near her and trying to take her before the sham of a trial court the false new Ministry had surely built by now.
She leaned forward and set her hands flat on the earth, looking for, yes, there. There was the heartbeat of a magical signature, the trace of Moody from a long association, the sharp hot spike of the thief overlaying, the orderly cool surface of her own magic beneath. She exulted in that last, a moment, enjoying the tidy smooth slickness of it, glad it had remained through the sullying by the boy.
And then, she curled her fingers under, dragging them toward her, clawing the earth off of it bit by bit.
Yes. Yes, she was getting closer; she could feel it. Just there.
And then she had it. The eye rested at the bottom of the hole, swiveling against the rough and overchilled flesh of her fingers, still alive, still working. She worked her fingers around it, twisting and digging, until she could bring it up to her, up into the palm of her hand. It glared at her, the blue false iris brightening as she held it, and she cupped her other hand overtop, crooning at it.
She would be safe, now. She would see them coming. She wouldn't need to fear.
The holder that had been in her door had been splintered when the boy broke it, and there had been no repairing it. The mousy little man in Artefacts, the one who had manufactured it for her in the first place, had vanished somewhere in the chaos of that day, and she didn't have any idea how to do it herself, but there had been no time to devote to research in that direction; she'd been busy scrying and casting runes and examining the leaves in the bottom of her cup, searching for the eye itself. She'd come to terms with the obvious solution months ago, and was prepared.
Still, when she went to pull out her wand, there was a moment of hesitation.
No, no, she had to do it. Potter's side had won, and there must be far too many people looking for her, looking for the woman who had been Minister Thicknesse's right hand and partner. She had to be able to see them coming.
She pulled out her wand and jabbed the tip of it against her iris, gasping as it hit. She cried out, then bit her lip hard to cut off the shout, and whispered the charm as she swiveled the wand in her hand. That charm had been in the same book from which she'd originally learned to charm her quills, so no research had been required.
She supposed she should have wiped the eye clean before she began, but it was no matter. Her blouse was muddied and torn, in any case, and would serve to clean the eye as soon as she had stopped the blood.
All in all, it had only taken a few moments. Her vision was blurred, but when the swelling subsided, it would be clear, she was sure.
She stood and brushed off her tattered skirt, wrapping her faded cardigan around her bare breasts. It was very cold, she thought. Very cold, and she needed to get home.
She stumbled away from the grove of trees and into the clearing where she'd left her broom.
Apparating before her vision had restored itself was out of the question, and she hadn't been willing to take the chance.
She kicked into the air, ignoring the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, and headed north.
Character: Dolores Umbridge
Location: The forest near where the World Cup was once held.
Status Private
Summary: Dolores finds what she has been searching for, at last.
Warnings: Violence/Blood/Ew-factor
Completion: Complete
Dolores caught her breath as she saw the cross etched into the gnarled tree.
This had to be the place.
One part of her mind suggested, firm and angry and cold, that this might be the mark of anything, that a child might have buried a beloved pet cat here, that it might have been carved by a bored teen-ager, that a cross didn't signify what she sought at all, which would be better represented by a circle, a knot, a sphere carved like so much melon or a scoop of hard-packed ice cream from the shop on Diagon Alley. But the other part, equally angry and railing back, said no, no, that wasn't it, that wasn't, because no child lived near here to bury a cat, no teen-ager would come out alone into a boring forest amongst boring trees just to deface a plant, that a cross was an easy mark to make.
Dolores told both parts to be quiet, and frowned at the cross. This had to be the place.
She dropped to her knees and ran her finger over the slashing slices in the bark. They were deep, deliberate but hurried, and even now, after…she tried to count the months in her head, and found she'd only the chill of the air to assist her. Perhaps it was November, by now, or possibly even nearing Christmas, so she supposed it had been a year. A year, since she'd last peered through her door to see all that went on around her. A year, since the Potter brat had eluded her again, had stolen what was hers. Had shattered the security of her Ministry, the Ministry that was orderly and proper and always on the side of magic.
Dreadful boy.
Always had been.
She traced the shape again and again, pressing into it until a ragged edge broke loose and pierced her finger. She jumped, putting the finger in her mouth to stanch the drops of blood, to taste the metallic earthy taste of it.
This had to be the place.
Her knees ached as she sat back on her feet, ached on the cold hard earth, throbbed where an unruly tendril of root rested over the packed earth and under the hollow below her kneecap. Her knees hurt. Her body hurt. She had looked, looked all over Britain, it seemed, for all these months since the horrifying night and day when battle and smoke and flashes of screaming light had been all around.
All she wanted was what was rightfully hers.
And it was here. Here it was. She wondered if it could see her even now. If it might be looking up at her bruised knees and ladder-striped hose on top of the earth.
She scrabbled her way backward, suddenly overcome with the notion that after all that time serving one twisted and hard master, it might rest there under the earth looking up her skirt, laughing at her for how long it had taken her to find it.
Well, she would fix that, wouldn't she? She'd have it back, have it so she could see again, everything and everyone around her and near her and trying to take her before the sham of a trial court the false new Ministry had surely built by now.
She leaned forward and set her hands flat on the earth, looking for, yes, there. There was the heartbeat of a magical signature, the trace of Moody from a long association, the sharp hot spike of the thief overlaying, the orderly cool surface of her own magic beneath. She exulted in that last, a moment, enjoying the tidy smooth slickness of it, glad it had remained through the sullying by the boy.
And then, she curled her fingers under, dragging them toward her, clawing the earth off of it bit by bit.
Yes. Yes, she was getting closer; she could feel it. Just there.
And then she had it. The eye rested at the bottom of the hole, swiveling against the rough and overchilled flesh of her fingers, still alive, still working. She worked her fingers around it, twisting and digging, until she could bring it up to her, up into the palm of her hand. It glared at her, the blue false iris brightening as she held it, and she cupped her other hand overtop, crooning at it.
She would be safe, now. She would see them coming. She wouldn't need to fear.
The holder that had been in her door had been splintered when the boy broke it, and there had been no repairing it. The mousy little man in Artefacts, the one who had manufactured it for her in the first place, had vanished somewhere in the chaos of that day, and she didn't have any idea how to do it herself, but there had been no time to devote to research in that direction; she'd been busy scrying and casting runes and examining the leaves in the bottom of her cup, searching for the eye itself. She'd come to terms with the obvious solution months ago, and was prepared.
Still, when she went to pull out her wand, there was a moment of hesitation.
No, no, she had to do it. Potter's side had won, and there must be far too many people looking for her, looking for the woman who had been Minister Thicknesse's right hand and partner. She had to be able to see them coming.
She pulled out her wand and jabbed the tip of it against her iris, gasping as it hit. She cried out, then bit her lip hard to cut off the shout, and whispered the charm as she swiveled the wand in her hand. That charm had been in the same book from which she'd originally learned to charm her quills, so no research had been required.
She supposed she should have wiped the eye clean before she began, but it was no matter. Her blouse was muddied and torn, in any case, and would serve to clean the eye as soon as she had stopped the blood.
All in all, it had only taken a few moments. Her vision was blurred, but when the swelling subsided, it would be clear, she was sure.
She stood and brushed off her tattered skirt, wrapping her faded cardigan around her bare breasts. It was very cold, she thought. Very cold, and she needed to get home.
She stumbled away from the grove of trees and into the clearing where she'd left her broom.
Apparating before her vision had restored itself was out of the question, and she hadn't been willing to take the chance.
She kicked into the air, ignoring the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, and headed north.