danistormborn: Room Without a View (Ministry of Magic, PG-13)
Title: Room Without a View
Author: danistormborn
Rating: PG-13 (for dark content)
Prompt Set: 50.2
Prompt: 034 Wings
Word Count: 1,203
Summary: Dolores Umbridge has a job to do.
Dolores Umbridge inserted a key into a lock.
But it wasn’t just any key. And it wasn’t just any lock.
The key had been made from the hoof of a centaur. It was designed to Know. She had to give the creatures some credit. For all their half-breed mumblings about stars and tides, they did occasionally see things that humans did not. Reading the future was imprinted on them like the markings their hooves made in the soft ground of the Forbidden Forest.
She had gone in afraid but had emerged with purpose.
The key nestled snugly against the lock, and Dolores watched as a familiar red scrawl etched out the information she needed along the key’s surface.
In Cold Blood.
Dolores cackled at the absurdity of the password - before stifling the undignified sound with a clearing hem-hem from her throat. She had been told the new Unspeakable had a fondness for Muggle literature, but the result seemed just a tad on the dramatic side.
Yet strangely appropriate, considering the circumstances.
Dolores hiked up her robes and knelt at the floor so her mouth could be even with the lock. She cupped her hands around her mouth, enclosing the lock so that it could only feel her breath. The lock required the password to be conveyed as a secret, for it housed one of the Ministry’s greatest hidden agendas.
“In cold blood,” Dolores whispered confidentially to the lock.
The hole of the lock widened as though it were a gigantic mouth yawning or possibly ready to swallow her whole. Dolores stood up, groaning a little at the pain in her knees, before jumping through the opening and into the room she had been waiting to see.
She felt the breeze first. The room seemed to be filled with fans. Her robes swirled around her in a child’s parody of a witch calling the winds. Her hair came loose from its magical fastenings on top of her head, one stubborn gray tendril cascading over her eye. She moved it and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. It was their naptime, and she did not want to alert them to her presence.
Her pupils dilated and she was able to make out their shapes. She found the winged horses first. She smelled the single malt whisky that could only mean Abraxans. The chestnut Aethonons and gray Granians pranced around each other, possibly too restless to sleep. She wondered where the Thestrals were, but then again, they had always seemed to keep to their own pack. Dolores appreciated the sentiment. She had long felt wizards should keep to their own kind. What use had they for half-breeds and half-bloods?
An explosion of feathers drew her attention to her left. Dolores sighed. Of course the Diricawls would sense the danger she represented.
After all, she was here to kill them.
An Augury cried out, as though it heard her thoughts. Dolores fought against the hysterical laughter bubbling inside her. That the Augury’s cry foretold death was but a myth. Ministry of Magic researchers had long since proven it spoke of rain and nothing more sinister. Yet today, Dolores supposed it was a toss up.
Dolores scowled at the Griffins and Hippogriffs. Part this, part that. Genetic mutations, interbreeding filth. She hated them… almost as much as she hated her own parents for producing her. Luckily, her mother’s genes had more tightly embedded themselves into Dolores’s genetic makeup. She mostly resembled the girl, a witch, though at times she thought she could see a bit of her father peeking through. Her father, the prince who had been turned into a frog, had never quite accepted the magic flowing through his wife’s veins - his daughter’s veins. Half and half did not a happy home make; of that, Dolores was all too certain.
A well-placed nonverbal Accio, and she had priceless eggs nestled firmly in the safeguarded pockets of her robes. She would have to hurry, though, because the Occamy was known to attack when its pure silver eggs were threatened. But Dolores could not leave yet.
Her eyes sought out the Gryffindor colors that would indicate she had found the other set of eggs on her list. A dragon leg shifted and the vibrant gold specs drew her attention to the crimson and gold-spotted eggs of the Chinese Fireball. Weaving her way into an unobstructed view of the eggs - she did not want to damage the expensive potions ingredients in the transference - was not easy. She did not wish to incur the ire of the dragons, especially not the Peruvian Vipertooth with its venomous fangs or the Chinese Fireball whose eggs she wished to steal. Both were known to have a taste for humans.
She did not Summon these eggs as she had the last batch, because the spell worked too fast and drew too much attention. A simple Wingardium Leviosa allowed her to gently maneuver her bounty without attracting the mother’s defenses.
Carefully, Dolores worked her way to the center of the large room that the Ministry had worked so hard to keep hidden. She was disgusted that they were studying these creatures, most of them abominations, and all to learn new methods of flying. As if the old ways weren’t enough. But then the Dark Lord and Severus Snape had showed that it was possible to fly without broom or animal, and the Ministry wanted that power for their own. Dolores had loved the Ministry, but she knew that sometimes she had to go a bit beyond procedure to do what was necessary for the greater good. And what was best for the magical world was to respect tradition and move forward as one cohesive entity. There was no room for creatures with eagle fronts and lion backs just as there was no room for Mudbloods. She would show them.
Dolores reached into a bag she had brought with her and pulled out a collection of wands: holly, vinewood, birch, olive. Some were squat and firm, others long and springy. They were her pride and joy, proof of the work she had done to rid their world of unsavory kind. Each Commission, every Hearing, Dolores tried to gain a new wand. The Ministry was under the impression she snapped them, and Dolores had been quite content to let them believe just that. Meanwhile, she saved them.
For today.
Levitating the wands all around her, Dolores concentrated every bit of magic and concentration she had within her. It would be tricky, but she had practiced small spells with this method and thought she could do it. No, she knew she could.
After all, the trick to casting an Unforgivable was to mean it.
Dolores felt the wind against her face and the hairs of her arms. It seemed strange to have such a strong movement of air in a windowless room. Uncharacteristically, Dolores wondered whether the winged creatures ever thought of freedom. And what was the point of flying without a sky?
But there was no time for idle thoughts. She had a job to do.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The air stood still as the beating of wings stopped. Dolores Umbridge fell, another body in the rubble.
Author: danistormborn
Rating: PG-13 (for dark content)
Prompt Set: 50.2
Prompt: 034 Wings
Word Count: 1,203
Summary: Dolores Umbridge has a job to do.
Dolores Umbridge inserted a key into a lock.
But it wasn’t just any key. And it wasn’t just any lock.
The key had been made from the hoof of a centaur. It was designed to Know. She had to give the creatures some credit. For all their half-breed mumblings about stars and tides, they did occasionally see things that humans did not. Reading the future was imprinted on them like the markings their hooves made in the soft ground of the Forbidden Forest.
She had gone in afraid but had emerged with purpose.
The key nestled snugly against the lock, and Dolores watched as a familiar red scrawl etched out the information she needed along the key’s surface.
In Cold Blood.
Dolores cackled at the absurdity of the password - before stifling the undignified sound with a clearing hem-hem from her throat. She had been told the new Unspeakable had a fondness for Muggle literature, but the result seemed just a tad on the dramatic side.
Yet strangely appropriate, considering the circumstances.
Dolores hiked up her robes and knelt at the floor so her mouth could be even with the lock. She cupped her hands around her mouth, enclosing the lock so that it could only feel her breath. The lock required the password to be conveyed as a secret, for it housed one of the Ministry’s greatest hidden agendas.
“In cold blood,” Dolores whispered confidentially to the lock.
The hole of the lock widened as though it were a gigantic mouth yawning or possibly ready to swallow her whole. Dolores stood up, groaning a little at the pain in her knees, before jumping through the opening and into the room she had been waiting to see.
She felt the breeze first. The room seemed to be filled with fans. Her robes swirled around her in a child’s parody of a witch calling the winds. Her hair came loose from its magical fastenings on top of her head, one stubborn gray tendril cascading over her eye. She moved it and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. It was their naptime, and she did not want to alert them to her presence.
Her pupils dilated and she was able to make out their shapes. She found the winged horses first. She smelled the single malt whisky that could only mean Abraxans. The chestnut Aethonons and gray Granians pranced around each other, possibly too restless to sleep. She wondered where the Thestrals were, but then again, they had always seemed to keep to their own pack. Dolores appreciated the sentiment. She had long felt wizards should keep to their own kind. What use had they for half-breeds and half-bloods?
An explosion of feathers drew her attention to her left. Dolores sighed. Of course the Diricawls would sense the danger she represented.
After all, she was here to kill them.
An Augury cried out, as though it heard her thoughts. Dolores fought against the hysterical laughter bubbling inside her. That the Augury’s cry foretold death was but a myth. Ministry of Magic researchers had long since proven it spoke of rain and nothing more sinister. Yet today, Dolores supposed it was a toss up.
Dolores scowled at the Griffins and Hippogriffs. Part this, part that. Genetic mutations, interbreeding filth. She hated them… almost as much as she hated her own parents for producing her. Luckily, her mother’s genes had more tightly embedded themselves into Dolores’s genetic makeup. She mostly resembled the girl, a witch, though at times she thought she could see a bit of her father peeking through. Her father, the prince who had been turned into a frog, had never quite accepted the magic flowing through his wife’s veins - his daughter’s veins. Half and half did not a happy home make; of that, Dolores was all too certain.
A well-placed nonverbal Accio, and she had priceless eggs nestled firmly in the safeguarded pockets of her robes. She would have to hurry, though, because the Occamy was known to attack when its pure silver eggs were threatened. But Dolores could not leave yet.
Her eyes sought out the Gryffindor colors that would indicate she had found the other set of eggs on her list. A dragon leg shifted and the vibrant gold specs drew her attention to the crimson and gold-spotted eggs of the Chinese Fireball. Weaving her way into an unobstructed view of the eggs - she did not want to damage the expensive potions ingredients in the transference - was not easy. She did not wish to incur the ire of the dragons, especially not the Peruvian Vipertooth with its venomous fangs or the Chinese Fireball whose eggs she wished to steal. Both were known to have a taste for humans.
She did not Summon these eggs as she had the last batch, because the spell worked too fast and drew too much attention. A simple Wingardium Leviosa allowed her to gently maneuver her bounty without attracting the mother’s defenses.
Carefully, Dolores worked her way to the center of the large room that the Ministry had worked so hard to keep hidden. She was disgusted that they were studying these creatures, most of them abominations, and all to learn new methods of flying. As if the old ways weren’t enough. But then the Dark Lord and Severus Snape had showed that it was possible to fly without broom or animal, and the Ministry wanted that power for their own. Dolores had loved the Ministry, but she knew that sometimes she had to go a bit beyond procedure to do what was necessary for the greater good. And what was best for the magical world was to respect tradition and move forward as one cohesive entity. There was no room for creatures with eagle fronts and lion backs just as there was no room for Mudbloods. She would show them.
Dolores reached into a bag she had brought with her and pulled out a collection of wands: holly, vinewood, birch, olive. Some were squat and firm, others long and springy. They were her pride and joy, proof of the work she had done to rid their world of unsavory kind. Each Commission, every Hearing, Dolores tried to gain a new wand. The Ministry was under the impression she snapped them, and Dolores had been quite content to let them believe just that. Meanwhile, she saved them.
For today.
Levitating the wands all around her, Dolores concentrated every bit of magic and concentration she had within her. It would be tricky, but she had practiced small spells with this method and thought she could do it. No, she knew she could.
After all, the trick to casting an Unforgivable was to mean it.
Dolores felt the wind against her face and the hairs of her arms. It seemed strange to have such a strong movement of air in a windowless room. Uncharacteristically, Dolores wondered whether the winged creatures ever thought of freedom. And what was the point of flying without a sky?
But there was no time for idle thoughts. She had a job to do.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The air stood still as the beating of wings stopped. Dolores Umbridge fell, another body in the rubble.