Class Time at the Ministry
Title: Class Time at the Ministry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Scrimgeour, Robards, Dawlish, Umbridge, Fudge
Rating: PG-13 abouts, for language. Rufus just can't keep it clean.
Summary: Aurors play guinea pig to Umbridge's mad teaching skills. The results are less than mature.
Other: 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 at last 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 drag 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 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, and 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 occasion, 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 would 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 attendance, 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 only just caught himself, 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 our 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 anything they might ask." Here Fudge remarked rather banally that this would be a wonderful opportunity for Umbridge to experience the true pressure of a classroom, and Umbridge nodded, looking at Rufus as if demanding the question.
Here was the chance, ask something relevant, and they could be out within forty minutes--"Why in Merlin's name is your arse so very large?"
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?” He spread his arms, overdramatic as ever. “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 catch a girl, Scrimgeour." Here, Rufus shot a warning glare; Dawlish only smiled. Well. Let him, for now. He’d find himself assigned to paperwork, or perhaps filing, later on.
"I have taste, Dawlish."
"You can't find 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 amend that little difficulty. A little of my charm, and she'll be out of his arms and into mine." Dawlish had stood, and now began 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. He would take this as it was advisable to take anything with Dawlish; simply dismiss any potential implications on reality. 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.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Scrimgeour, Robards, Dawlish, Umbridge, Fudge
Rating: PG-13 abouts, for language. Rufus just can't keep it clean.
Summary: Aurors play guinea pig to Umbridge's mad teaching skills. The results are less than mature.
Other: 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 at last 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 drag 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 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, and 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 occasion, 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 would 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 attendance, 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 only just caught himself, 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 our 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 anything they might ask." Here Fudge remarked rather banally that this would be a wonderful opportunity for Umbridge to experience the true pressure of a classroom, and Umbridge nodded, looking at Rufus as if demanding the question.
Here was the chance, ask something relevant, and they could be out within forty minutes--"Why in Merlin's name is your arse so very large?"
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?” He spread his arms, overdramatic as ever. “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 catch a girl, Scrimgeour." Here, Rufus shot a warning glare; Dawlish only smiled. Well. Let him, for now. He’d find himself assigned to paperwork, or perhaps filing, later on.
"I have taste, Dawlish."
"You can't find 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 amend that little difficulty. A little of my charm, and she'll be out of his arms and into mine." Dawlish had stood, and now began 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. He would take this as it was advisable to take anything with Dawlish; simply dismiss any potential implications on reality. 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.