(no subject)
Guys, you know what tonight means?
Ohhhh yeah.
HANYWAY, before all goes splodey, going to post a semi-crack fic written after OotP. Way-hey.
Title: Class Time at the Ministry
Characters: Scrimgeour, Robards, Dawlish, Umbridge, Fudge.
Rating: Er, perhaps PG-13 for language. Rufus just can't keep it clean.
Word Count: Around 2000.
Summary: The Aurors play guinea pig to Umbridge's mad teaching skills. The results are less than mature.
Note: Writing in early morning after watching OotP may not be the best idea ever. Let it be known here and now that I wouldn't consider the situation even remotely canon (not that Fudge isn't an arse enough to try it, but that it just doesn't make sense XD); the premise is ridiculous, all of that. Fine. But you start thinking about Aurors forced into a classroom situation, listening to none other than that most condescending of demons (that is, of course, D. to the J. Umbridge), and you know you're curious. Maybe? Any rate, here goes.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Scrimgeour hadn't made any sort of attempt to keep his voice down, and for a moment, the office of the Aurors fell into a dead silence. To all appearances, Scrimgeour himself hadn't noticed, gripping his cane and seething. "Have they gone mad? Have they finally gone completely mad?"
For his part, Robards remained calm, aware of both the silence and the awkwardness of the situation. "I cannot speak for a certainty to that. Those were the instructions--"
"How in Merlin's name are we expected to accomplish anything if they're going to be dragging us into this rubbish? For the love of--Don't they have anyone of less necessity on hand?"
"It appears that we have been chosen specially for the task." Robards didn't raise his voice in the least, though he allowed himself to look rather less than pleased with this development. In all honesty, he quite agreed with Scrimgeour: it would be a waste of their time, a foolish indulgence brought about for reasons no doubt petty, senseless. Even so, orders were orders. If they--he, Scrimgeour, a number of the Aurors--had been instructed to act as a sort of experimental class for Dolores Umbridge (unfortunately, this was indeed the case), there was little to be done save to bear it.
"Lovely." Scrimgeour had lowered his voice somewhat by this point, shooting warning glares at nearby Aurors. This wasn't their business; let them do what all of them should by rights be doing. "And have--?"
Dawlish chose this most opportune of moments to appearing, flashing a smile. "Well, well, well. I've heard the good news. Lucky us, eh?" A slap on Scrimgeour's back, and he was striding away, well out of striking distance.
Scrimgeour cursed profusely.
A conference room had been arranged especially for the occassion, complete with three rows of desks and chairs, all as would be expected of the great and mighty Hogwarts. Rufus cringed internally upon entry, as much at this sight as at the presence of Dolores Umbridge and he Minister himself, that rutting coward of a bastard.
During the walk over, Robards had managed to talk Scrimgeour out of any disturbance. It was best, he had explained, to simply wait it out. There would be other battles to fight, and this was at base a most tolerable task. It wuld require sitting, not even necessarily listening. From the sound of it, Robards had little intention of giving full ear to this occurence, and perhaps he was correct. If it only required his presence, Rufus supposed he could withstand an hour or two. It couldn't be worse than a particularly long meeting, after all.
But then, those meetings--while they might include Fudge, which was quite horrific enough--did not involve Umbridge, nor did they generally involve the irritating presence that was Dawlish. And here, somehow, Rufus found that the latter had taken a seat (a desk, for fuck's sake, they were seated at desks like bloody schoolchildren) directly beside his own, and was already grinning that damned self-satisfied grin of his.
Lord, and it only got worse. Umbridge for the whole of an hour. The woman was insane, completely batshit insane, and Rufus was willing to bet that he'd have one hell of a time trying to block that voice of hers completely. There was something about it, some quality that managed to grate at his nerves, no matter how much he thought he wasn't listening. Hell, she could be in the next room over, and he'd still feel it.
Well. Let them do what they would. He was here, he could be marked for the requisite attendence, and damned if he was going to pay any further mind. It took only a moment to prop his feet on the desk, lean back, and begin to view this as time for a potential nap. Might be that some good would come of this, after all.
"Good morning, class."
Fuck, her voice nearly made him jump. Rufus caught himself just barely, retaining his posture. To hell with her. Just ignore it. Simple as that.
Perhaps not. He could still hear her, feel himself bristle with every word as she addressed them as a defense against the dark arts class. He snickered to himself at this, was still grinning mentally at the thought when he realized that the crazy woman was standing directly at his side. "Mister Scrimgeour?"
Oh, in the name of--"Yes?" He made no attempt at hiding his irritation.
"We do not put our feet on the desks, Mr. Scrimgeour."
He stared at her--all right, it might have been a glare--for a moment before responding. "Yes. Yes, we do."
"Mister Scrimgeour--" Oh, Lord, she was doing it again. That trick of hers of screwing up her face into a smile and flashing her teeth. She looked the sort of woman--if, indeed, she was a woman, and not quite a full-fledged demon--to start spitting fire at any moment. "--we do not put ur feet on our desks. While you remain in my classroom, you will follow my rules."
"Unnn." Rufus waved a hand vaguely, watching that expression of hers. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't just back down. That would be cowardice.
There was a tense moment--not terribly tense, actually, as Scrimgeour had accepted his own decisions not to give a fuck--during which Rufus was certain that he could see the madwoman's skin beginning to crack. Then that bastard crackpot had to throw his piece of mind (as if Fudge had a mind, ahaha), explaining that they must simulate a classroom environment as much as was possible, so that Ms. Umbridge (the way Fudge spoke the name, it was possible to believe he'd wanted to add 'lovely'; Rufus shuddered at the thought) would have the proper experience before entering Hogwarts.
He explained, also, that so long as they failed to comply, the session would simply run longer. Umbridge added quite primly that she was quite willing to wait all day, if necessary.
Cursing under his breath (almost under his breath, at any rate), Rufus resumed a far more appropriate seating position. "Is this to your liking?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Scrimgeour. Now let's not have a repeat of your mishap, or I shall be forced to punish you."
Shit. Rufus cringed visibly at the accompanying image, then started as some object or other collided with his head. Nothing large, mind, but irritating in an already poor situation. What in the--?
Dawlish. Bloody Dawlish. The man waved his fingers languidly, tossing a paper ball from hand to hand. Scrimgeour was about to snarl a response, and Dawlish looked about to toss the paper again, when Robards cleared his throat, shook his head slightly. The voice of reason.
But Umbridge had caught part of this as she turned to face them, standing once more at the front of the room. "Mr. Robards, did you have something to share with the class?"
Scrimgeour caught the briefest flash of a reaction across Gawain's face--an expression of cornered guilt, of hesitation--before the man resumed his typical calm. "No."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is, Ms. Umbridge."
"Professor Umbridge, Mr. Robards."
No change in expression this time, although there was a longer pause before Robards spoke again. "I beg your pardon." There was, too, the slightest hint of irritation in his tone, a note indicating that Gawain Robards was quite finished with this foolishness.
Happily, she moved on at last, chirping into some inane sort of introduction--lord, she was covered in pink, wasn't she--composed of nothing but the most irritating of phrases. She might almost have begun moving into some lesson for schoolchildren, as well, something particularly useless. On and on and--
"Mr. Scrimgeour, are you paying attention?"
"No."
It had come before he could stop it--or he hadn't wanted to stop it; he left the matter open to interpretation--and now he only watch her, saw that smile returning. Hell. Damn, fucking hell. She was coming toward him.
"Mr. Scrimgeour, I do not tolerate insolence in my classroom."
Stave her off, stave her off! Play along, and she'd go away--"But you see, Professor Umbridge, I have a question, and I really cannot pay proper mind until I've heard the answer. You do tolerate questions, yes?"
She had stopped and now only blinked at him, still smiling but obviously uncertain. "Of course, Mr. Scrimgeour. It is natural that students will ask questions, and I am happy to hear these."
Here was the chance, ask something relevant, and they could be out within forty minutes--"Why in Merlin's name is your arse so big?"
All right. Not what he had intended, but the response was priceless. It was the first time that he had seen Umbridge completely dumbstruck, and he nearly laughed at the sight.
The silence was broken by Dawlish, and Rufus braced himself for an attack from that particular corner. He was warily, though a bit pleasantly, surprised by the response. "Scrimgeour, you say that as if it were a bad thing."
Here Rufus nearly hesitated. He didn't get on well with Dawlish, and had no intention of acting too near to such an unsavory individual. However, it seemed that Dawlish might be willing to play along in this instance, and perhaps the man was well suited for it. Might be worth a try. It seemed to beat the alternative, anyway. If he had to listen to that woman's inane lecture any longer, he might just tear out her throat, and that would like create something of a mess that he didn't want to deal with.
"Don't tell me you find that attractive, Dawlish."
"Can I help myself? Besides, she carries it well."
"She does not." Oh, the look was better still. The longer they could keep this up, the longer it'd take her to recover.
"You just don't know a proper woman, Scrimgeour."
"I really wouldn't go so far as to call her a woman..."
"There you go, insulting her. This is why you can't get a girl, Scrimgeour." Here, Rufus shot a warning glare; Dawlish only smiled. Let him, for now. He'd be put on some grunt task of other, later.
"I have taste, Dawlish."
"You can't get much better than this." Dawlish was positively leering at the woman, laying into that mode of his used more often outside of work. "And in pink, Merlin, in pink."
"A shame for you, then, that she's taken." Rufus nodded toward Fudge, who had risen from his own chair and was staring, open-mouthed.
"Oh, I can fix that. A little of my charm, and she'll be out of his arms and into mine." Dawlish had stood and begun to look over Fudge disapprovingly.
Here Umbridge at last spoke, her voice high, sputtering. "Mr. Daw--Mr. Dawlish! Please remain seated!"
"Dear Dolores, I wish only to be closer to your side."
Rufus smirked, leaning back to watch the show. Dawlish would keep the stage for himself, and so much was fine with Rufus. With any luck, that one would wear through the patience of Umbridge and Fudge soon enough, and they could all leave. In the meanwhile, he'd relax and have a bit of a laugh. To his other side, Rufus noticed that Robards had produced a book, in which he now looked to be wholly involved.
Dawlish was still running his mouth. "Dolores, my Dolores, forget this imposter, this Cornelius--"
"Mr. Scrimgeour, take your feet--"
"Take my hand, my darling. No, no, allow me, grant me the pleasure of one caress--"
"Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Dawlish!"
"But, my dear, you drive me wild with passion..."
Terrible to think about, but really quite entertaining as a farce. Rufus settled back and let the matter run its course.
Half an hour later, Dawlish had proposition Umbridge no fewer than fifteen times, Scrimgeour had managed to catch a brief bit of sleep, Robards had finished his book, and both Umbridge and Fudge had stormed out.
Perhaps it hadn't been so bad, after all.
-----------------------------
And, what the hell. This isn't finished, per say, but I don't really care.
It may work as a somewhat finished bit in its own; lacking time to properly review, I dunno. >.> Yeah, it's all over the place. Again, I don't care. XD Becausssse there was supposed to be more, focusing on some different areas, but brain has been too dead to finish. So y'all get this. Semi-finished, maybe. XD May be completed and such after reading of the book, but we'll see.
So. Rufus and some Moody. Damn straight.
All men were strangers. Evasive, their motives hidden behind every possible expression. It seemed that he had seen every possible mask of a face, every trick of a lie, directed gesture. To operate properly, it was necessary to properly interpret these gestures, to be able to catch each nuance and act accordingly. Politics in particular became quickly a matter of swiftly knowing strangers.
This was not full knowledge, of course. It compromised a listing of perceived desires, methods, the price at which each man might be bought. Useful, though not to be fully relied upon. There could be no sense to placing trust in anyone, nor fully in their apparent inclinations. There were always anomalies. Reasons to remain wary, alert.
Just now, Rufus was inclined to feel rather mistrustful, indeed. The man before him had arrived unannounced, unwanted (so Rufus told himself, yet he had permitted the man’s entrance), and with some particularly confounding design. Almost impossible to believe that this man had come with any well-worn aim; here was no politician, no seeker of power.
That was foolish, though, and Rufus wasn’t about to allow himself such luxurious assumptions. He did not know what this man desired and so could not proceed as if he did. It had been years since they had spoken, and the final years had been unsteady, the product of an ever-widening gap in drive. Acting on what he knew of Alastor Moody would do little good, for this was Moody years later, Moody after doing lord knew what with his life. No, this was not the man he had known, worked beside. This man, too, was a stranger.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing here? Watching across the desk, just watching-that damned thing never stopped watching, Rufus knew it-weighing his words and his time. He had come, Rufus had invited him to sit, speaking more clearly than he might have expected, but with some tension, as well. Even sitting, leaving the too obvious standing position (no need to stand to display authority, not here, and the man would see too cleanly through any such gesture). And the man, Moody, had returned a brief greeting, still watching, watching. Then a silence, and it seemed that this had passed for hours, though seconds only had ticked away.
And not a hint, not one suggestion of why this man should appear here, of all places. That he had dared set foot in the Ministry-What did he want? Rufus couldn’t tell. Didn’t bloody know, because the man was strange to him, and this left Rufus feeling a mild sort of discomfort. There was a story behind them, perhaps, but the years between left an insurmountable difficulty.
As had, for that matter, the years before. Years in which Moody had come to understand what it was that drove Rufus Scrimgeour (and, thankfully-for it was always necessary to hold reciprocal information-years in which Rufus had learned much of Alastor Moody). This understanding could prove unfortunate. If he knew-Well. He may well have guessed much already, have seen what it was that Rufus had come to realize. Hell, for all Rufus knew, the man had simply come to gloat.
But, no. It wouldn’t be so simple as that.
And so he was left to discern the meaning, the motives. Was Moody to be trusted? No. No, and absolutely without hesitation, no. Lord. To even begin to think otherwise was.… It was foolishness, and Rufus was no damned fool.
Deal with this as with others. There was a method of understanding, after all. It required a calculation of the strangeness, to which he would assess what he knew of anyone in general, consider those oft-evaded but ever-present truths. The truth that man, wizard or no, survived through deceit and lived for his own goals. That each one would do whatever proved necessary to obtain his desires. Such understanding alone could be relied upon, expanded to accommodate every situation.
Rufus had understood these truths from a young age-he wouldn’t say how long, preferred to gloss over the time before he truly began, before he was able to impact the world-teaching himself to act accordingly. It was necessary to overcome others to reach one’s own goal, necessary also to hold one particular and very clear goal in mind. Even then, in younger years, all goals had been subjugated to the ambition, the grand idea. Lord, how it had appeared to him… He could perhaps laugh, now, yet there had ever been an earnest force behind this drive, and this compelled his silence.
It, the idea, still appealed. Even now, he was hard-pressed to contain a smile, almost a smirk (and what the stranger would have made of this, Rufus could only guess), at the fact of his own power. Yes, to be sure, he appreciated the force of this claim.
As an unfortunate truth, there were sticking points. Difficulties that he should have foreseen… But there was no point in chasing that particular thread. Useless to mourn in hindsight.
There was some muted pain in the discovery of certain truths. The further he had come, the more he found that his own goals had been… Well. Almost optimistic, perhaps. And much as he might dislike the word or its implications, even somewhat misguided. Thinking the word, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the matter with this stranger. Never mind his own complications. Honesty with one’s self could only continue for so long, after all.
This complication almost more easily dealt with, this communication. After all, there were only so many ways to speak to another man. None of these, in Rufus’ experience, revolved around the most foolish idea of speaking truth. Better to say what was necessary, what best fit the situation and would achieve the required results. There was no interaction without intent; a goal would form from the briefest of exchanges. Truths, again, that he had known for years. Simple truths. Unyielding.
He did not tell himself that he enjoyed manipulating these, did not need to tell himself; he knew the details of the matter. However much Rufus may have ignored the inevitability of restraint-the whisper pulls heard now and often indicating that, obviously, there was no ideal in existence, that there were only difficulties-and however much he maydespise it, there remains the greater scheme, the meetings private and open in which he reads them, plays to and off of them. The instances in which he manipulates to his will. It is at these times that he finds what he has always enjoyed, recalls sharply the why of his experience, his choices.
Only, in this instance... No. What had been done was finished, altered by time and its occassions. There was nothing particularly atypical in this, could not be.
“Do you enjoy this, Minister?”
The response came without pause: “Of course.”
Ohhhh yeah.
HANYWAY, before all goes splodey, going to post a semi-crack fic written after OotP. Way-hey.
Title: Class Time at the Ministry
Characters: Scrimgeour, Robards, Dawlish, Umbridge, Fudge.
Rating: Er, perhaps PG-13 for language. Rufus just can't keep it clean.
Word Count: Around 2000.
Summary: The Aurors play guinea pig to Umbridge's mad teaching skills. The results are less than mature.
Note: Writing in early morning after watching OotP may not be the best idea ever. Let it be known here and now that I wouldn't consider the situation even remotely canon (not that Fudge isn't an arse enough to try it, but that it just doesn't make sense XD); the premise is ridiculous, all of that. Fine. But you start thinking about Aurors forced into a classroom situation, listening to none other than that most condescending of demons (that is, of course, D. to the J. Umbridge), and you know you're curious. Maybe? Any rate, here goes.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Scrimgeour hadn't made any sort of attempt to keep his voice down, and for a moment, the office of the Aurors fell into a dead silence. To all appearances, Scrimgeour himself hadn't noticed, gripping his cane and seething. "Have they gone mad? Have they finally gone completely mad?"
For his part, Robards remained calm, aware of both the silence and the awkwardness of the situation. "I cannot speak for a certainty to that. Those were the instructions--"
"How in Merlin's name are we expected to accomplish anything if they're going to be dragging us into this rubbish? For the love of--Don't they have anyone of less necessity on hand?"
"It appears that we have been chosen specially for the task." Robards didn't raise his voice in the least, though he allowed himself to look rather less than pleased with this development. In all honesty, he quite agreed with Scrimgeour: it would be a waste of their time, a foolish indulgence brought about for reasons no doubt petty, senseless. Even so, orders were orders. If they--he, Scrimgeour, a number of the Aurors--had been instructed to act as a sort of experimental class for Dolores Umbridge (unfortunately, this was indeed the case), there was little to be done save to bear it.
"Lovely." Scrimgeour had lowered his voice somewhat by this point, shooting warning glares at nearby Aurors. This wasn't their business; let them do what all of them should by rights be doing. "And have--?"
Dawlish chose this most opportune of moments to appearing, flashing a smile. "Well, well, well. I've heard the good news. Lucky us, eh?" A slap on Scrimgeour's back, and he was striding away, well out of striking distance.
Scrimgeour cursed profusely.
A conference room had been arranged especially for the occassion, complete with three rows of desks and chairs, all as would be expected of the great and mighty Hogwarts. Rufus cringed internally upon entry, as much at this sight as at the presence of Dolores Umbridge and he Minister himself, that rutting coward of a bastard.
During the walk over, Robards had managed to talk Scrimgeour out of any disturbance. It was best, he had explained, to simply wait it out. There would be other battles to fight, and this was at base a most tolerable task. It wuld require sitting, not even necessarily listening. From the sound of it, Robards had little intention of giving full ear to this occurence, and perhaps he was correct. If it only required his presence, Rufus supposed he could withstand an hour or two. It couldn't be worse than a particularly long meeting, after all.
But then, those meetings--while they might include Fudge, which was quite horrific enough--did not involve Umbridge, nor did they generally involve the irritating presence that was Dawlish. And here, somehow, Rufus found that the latter had taken a seat (a desk, for fuck's sake, they were seated at desks like bloody schoolchildren) directly beside his own, and was already grinning that damned self-satisfied grin of his.
Lord, and it only got worse. Umbridge for the whole of an hour. The woman was insane, completely batshit insane, and Rufus was willing to bet that he'd have one hell of a time trying to block that voice of hers completely. There was something about it, some quality that managed to grate at his nerves, no matter how much he thought he wasn't listening. Hell, she could be in the next room over, and he'd still feel it.
Well. Let them do what they would. He was here, he could be marked for the requisite attendence, and damned if he was going to pay any further mind. It took only a moment to prop his feet on the desk, lean back, and begin to view this as time for a potential nap. Might be that some good would come of this, after all.
"Good morning, class."
Fuck, her voice nearly made him jump. Rufus caught himself just barely, retaining his posture. To hell with her. Just ignore it. Simple as that.
Perhaps not. He could still hear her, feel himself bristle with every word as she addressed them as a defense against the dark arts class. He snickered to himself at this, was still grinning mentally at the thought when he realized that the crazy woman was standing directly at his side. "Mister Scrimgeour?"
Oh, in the name of--"Yes?" He made no attempt at hiding his irritation.
"We do not put our feet on the desks, Mr. Scrimgeour."
He stared at her--all right, it might have been a glare--for a moment before responding. "Yes. Yes, we do."
"Mister Scrimgeour--" Oh, Lord, she was doing it again. That trick of hers of screwing up her face into a smile and flashing her teeth. She looked the sort of woman--if, indeed, she was a woman, and not quite a full-fledged demon--to start spitting fire at any moment. "--we do not put ur feet on our desks. While you remain in my classroom, you will follow my rules."
"Unnn." Rufus waved a hand vaguely, watching that expression of hers. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't just back down. That would be cowardice.
There was a tense moment--not terribly tense, actually, as Scrimgeour had accepted his own decisions not to give a fuck--during which Rufus was certain that he could see the madwoman's skin beginning to crack. Then that bastard crackpot had to throw his piece of mind (as if Fudge had a mind, ahaha), explaining that they must simulate a classroom environment as much as was possible, so that Ms. Umbridge (the way Fudge spoke the name, it was possible to believe he'd wanted to add 'lovely'; Rufus shuddered at the thought) would have the proper experience before entering Hogwarts.
He explained, also, that so long as they failed to comply, the session would simply run longer. Umbridge added quite primly that she was quite willing to wait all day, if necessary.
Cursing under his breath (almost under his breath, at any rate), Rufus resumed a far more appropriate seating position. "Is this to your liking?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Scrimgeour. Now let's not have a repeat of your mishap, or I shall be forced to punish you."
Shit. Rufus cringed visibly at the accompanying image, then started as some object or other collided with his head. Nothing large, mind, but irritating in an already poor situation. What in the--?
Dawlish. Bloody Dawlish. The man waved his fingers languidly, tossing a paper ball from hand to hand. Scrimgeour was about to snarl a response, and Dawlish looked about to toss the paper again, when Robards cleared his throat, shook his head slightly. The voice of reason.
But Umbridge had caught part of this as she turned to face them, standing once more at the front of the room. "Mr. Robards, did you have something to share with the class?"
Scrimgeour caught the briefest flash of a reaction across Gawain's face--an expression of cornered guilt, of hesitation--before the man resumed his typical calm. "No."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is, Ms. Umbridge."
"Professor Umbridge, Mr. Robards."
No change in expression this time, although there was a longer pause before Robards spoke again. "I beg your pardon." There was, too, the slightest hint of irritation in his tone, a note indicating that Gawain Robards was quite finished with this foolishness.
Happily, she moved on at last, chirping into some inane sort of introduction--lord, she was covered in pink, wasn't she--composed of nothing but the most irritating of phrases. She might almost have begun moving into some lesson for schoolchildren, as well, something particularly useless. On and on and--
"Mr. Scrimgeour, are you paying attention?"
"No."
It had come before he could stop it--or he hadn't wanted to stop it; he left the matter open to interpretation--and now he only watch her, saw that smile returning. Hell. Damn, fucking hell. She was coming toward him.
"Mr. Scrimgeour, I do not tolerate insolence in my classroom."
Stave her off, stave her off! Play along, and she'd go away--"But you see, Professor Umbridge, I have a question, and I really cannot pay proper mind until I've heard the answer. You do tolerate questions, yes?"
She had stopped and now only blinked at him, still smiling but obviously uncertain. "Of course, Mr. Scrimgeour. It is natural that students will ask questions, and I am happy to hear these."
Here was the chance, ask something relevant, and they could be out within forty minutes--"Why in Merlin's name is your arse so big?"
All right. Not what he had intended, but the response was priceless. It was the first time that he had seen Umbridge completely dumbstruck, and he nearly laughed at the sight.
The silence was broken by Dawlish, and Rufus braced himself for an attack from that particular corner. He was warily, though a bit pleasantly, surprised by the response. "Scrimgeour, you say that as if it were a bad thing."
Here Rufus nearly hesitated. He didn't get on well with Dawlish, and had no intention of acting too near to such an unsavory individual. However, it seemed that Dawlish might be willing to play along in this instance, and perhaps the man was well suited for it. Might be worth a try. It seemed to beat the alternative, anyway. If he had to listen to that woman's inane lecture any longer, he might just tear out her throat, and that would like create something of a mess that he didn't want to deal with.
"Don't tell me you find that attractive, Dawlish."
"Can I help myself? Besides, she carries it well."
"She does not." Oh, the look was better still. The longer they could keep this up, the longer it'd take her to recover.
"You just don't know a proper woman, Scrimgeour."
"I really wouldn't go so far as to call her a woman..."
"There you go, insulting her. This is why you can't get a girl, Scrimgeour." Here, Rufus shot a warning glare; Dawlish only smiled. Let him, for now. He'd be put on some grunt task of other, later.
"I have taste, Dawlish."
"You can't get much better than this." Dawlish was positively leering at the woman, laying into that mode of his used more often outside of work. "And in pink, Merlin, in pink."
"A shame for you, then, that she's taken." Rufus nodded toward Fudge, who had risen from his own chair and was staring, open-mouthed.
"Oh, I can fix that. A little of my charm, and she'll be out of his arms and into mine." Dawlish had stood and begun to look over Fudge disapprovingly.
Here Umbridge at last spoke, her voice high, sputtering. "Mr. Daw--Mr. Dawlish! Please remain seated!"
"Dear Dolores, I wish only to be closer to your side."
Rufus smirked, leaning back to watch the show. Dawlish would keep the stage for himself, and so much was fine with Rufus. With any luck, that one would wear through the patience of Umbridge and Fudge soon enough, and they could all leave. In the meanwhile, he'd relax and have a bit of a laugh. To his other side, Rufus noticed that Robards had produced a book, in which he now looked to be wholly involved.
Dawlish was still running his mouth. "Dolores, my Dolores, forget this imposter, this Cornelius--"
"Mr. Scrimgeour, take your feet--"
"Take my hand, my darling. No, no, allow me, grant me the pleasure of one caress--"
"Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Dawlish!"
"But, my dear, you drive me wild with passion..."
Terrible to think about, but really quite entertaining as a farce. Rufus settled back and let the matter run its course.
Half an hour later, Dawlish had proposition Umbridge no fewer than fifteen times, Scrimgeour had managed to catch a brief bit of sleep, Robards had finished his book, and both Umbridge and Fudge had stormed out.
Perhaps it hadn't been so bad, after all.
-----------------------------
And, what the hell. This isn't finished, per say, but I don't really care.
It may work as a somewhat finished bit in its own; lacking time to properly review, I dunno. >.> Yeah, it's all over the place. Again, I don't care. XD Becausssse there was supposed to be more, focusing on some different areas, but brain has been too dead to finish. So y'all get this. Semi-finished, maybe. XD May be completed and such after reading of the book, but we'll see.
So. Rufus and some Moody. Damn straight.
All men were strangers. Evasive, their motives hidden behind every possible expression. It seemed that he had seen every possible mask of a face, every trick of a lie, directed gesture. To operate properly, it was necessary to properly interpret these gestures, to be able to catch each nuance and act accordingly. Politics in particular became quickly a matter of swiftly knowing strangers.
This was not full knowledge, of course. It compromised a listing of perceived desires, methods, the price at which each man might be bought. Useful, though not to be fully relied upon. There could be no sense to placing trust in anyone, nor fully in their apparent inclinations. There were always anomalies. Reasons to remain wary, alert.
Just now, Rufus was inclined to feel rather mistrustful, indeed. The man before him had arrived unannounced, unwanted (so Rufus told himself, yet he had permitted the man’s entrance), and with some particularly confounding design. Almost impossible to believe that this man had come with any well-worn aim; here was no politician, no seeker of power.
That was foolish, though, and Rufus wasn’t about to allow himself such luxurious assumptions. He did not know what this man desired and so could not proceed as if he did. It had been years since they had spoken, and the final years had been unsteady, the product of an ever-widening gap in drive. Acting on what he knew of Alastor Moody would do little good, for this was Moody years later, Moody after doing lord knew what with his life. No, this was not the man he had known, worked beside. This man, too, was a stranger.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing here? Watching across the desk, just watching-that damned thing never stopped watching, Rufus knew it-weighing his words and his time. He had come, Rufus had invited him to sit, speaking more clearly than he might have expected, but with some tension, as well. Even sitting, leaving the too obvious standing position (no need to stand to display authority, not here, and the man would see too cleanly through any such gesture). And the man, Moody, had returned a brief greeting, still watching, watching. Then a silence, and it seemed that this had passed for hours, though seconds only had ticked away.
And not a hint, not one suggestion of why this man should appear here, of all places. That he had dared set foot in the Ministry-What did he want? Rufus couldn’t tell. Didn’t bloody know, because the man was strange to him, and this left Rufus feeling a mild sort of discomfort. There was a story behind them, perhaps, but the years between left an insurmountable difficulty.
As had, for that matter, the years before. Years in which Moody had come to understand what it was that drove Rufus Scrimgeour (and, thankfully-for it was always necessary to hold reciprocal information-years in which Rufus had learned much of Alastor Moody). This understanding could prove unfortunate. If he knew-Well. He may well have guessed much already, have seen what it was that Rufus had come to realize. Hell, for all Rufus knew, the man had simply come to gloat.
But, no. It wouldn’t be so simple as that.
And so he was left to discern the meaning, the motives. Was Moody to be trusted? No. No, and absolutely without hesitation, no. Lord. To even begin to think otherwise was.… It was foolishness, and Rufus was no damned fool.
Deal with this as with others. There was a method of understanding, after all. It required a calculation of the strangeness, to which he would assess what he knew of anyone in general, consider those oft-evaded but ever-present truths. The truth that man, wizard or no, survived through deceit and lived for his own goals. That each one would do whatever proved necessary to obtain his desires. Such understanding alone could be relied upon, expanded to accommodate every situation.
Rufus had understood these truths from a young age-he wouldn’t say how long, preferred to gloss over the time before he truly began, before he was able to impact the world-teaching himself to act accordingly. It was necessary to overcome others to reach one’s own goal, necessary also to hold one particular and very clear goal in mind. Even then, in younger years, all goals had been subjugated to the ambition, the grand idea. Lord, how it had appeared to him… He could perhaps laugh, now, yet there had ever been an earnest force behind this drive, and this compelled his silence.
It, the idea, still appealed. Even now, he was hard-pressed to contain a smile, almost a smirk (and what the stranger would have made of this, Rufus could only guess), at the fact of his own power. Yes, to be sure, he appreciated the force of this claim.
As an unfortunate truth, there were sticking points. Difficulties that he should have foreseen… But there was no point in chasing that particular thread. Useless to mourn in hindsight.
There was some muted pain in the discovery of certain truths. The further he had come, the more he found that his own goals had been… Well. Almost optimistic, perhaps. And much as he might dislike the word or its implications, even somewhat misguided. Thinking the word, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the matter with this stranger. Never mind his own complications. Honesty with one’s self could only continue for so long, after all.
This complication almost more easily dealt with, this communication. After all, there were only so many ways to speak to another man. None of these, in Rufus’ experience, revolved around the most foolish idea of speaking truth. Better to say what was necessary, what best fit the situation and would achieve the required results. There was no interaction without intent; a goal would form from the briefest of exchanges. Truths, again, that he had known for years. Simple truths. Unyielding.
He did not tell himself that he enjoyed manipulating these, did not need to tell himself; he knew the details of the matter. However much Rufus may have ignored the inevitability of restraint-the whisper pulls heard now and often indicating that, obviously, there was no ideal in existence, that there were only difficulties-and however much he maydespise it, there remains the greater scheme, the meetings private and open in which he reads them, plays to and off of them. The instances in which he manipulates to his will. It is at these times that he finds what he has always enjoyed, recalls sharply the why of his experience, his choices.
Only, in this instance... No. What had been done was finished, altered by time and its occassions. There was nothing particularly atypical in this, could not be.
“Do you enjoy this, Minister?”
The response came without pause: “Of course.”