Potter/Wimsey X-over crack-fic
This is entirely the fault of dolabellae (moral: Be Careful What You Wish For). In a dingy mansion on a dark and stormy night, a jaded old Muggle will become the saviour of the wizarding world.
A gentleman is at home in any company. Hence if the Hon. Paul Arthur Delagardie was surprised when the door to the house of his old friend Sagar “Budgy” Riddle was opened to reveal not the familiar profile of Andrews, but a man robed for a fancy-dress party, he did not show it. He presented his card and the man took it silently in his black-gloved hand.
The other hand, Delagardie could not help noticing, held what looked like a magician’s wand. Ah, one of those people.
He waited in the hall, sighing inwardly for his old friend. It had been years since they had met, Riddle having become something of a recluse, and Paul spending most of his time before the war in the more clement climate - in every sense of the word - of France. Rumour had reached him of the son’s disastrous marriage and he had almost written, but had felt too much time had passed to make a man’s misfortunes the excuse for a letter. Now he bitterly regretted his lack of action, that he had left his friend for so long to become the pray not only of melancholy, but of Theosophical frauds.
Murmurs came through the heavy oak door, but Delagardie could not make out what was said. Perhaps Riddle would refuse to see him. Looking about him at the ill-kept room, a faint scent, odd, dusty and sweet drifting through from what he remembered as the direction of the kitchen, he resolved that in that case he would insist nonetheless upon seeing Riddle. Heaven only knew under whose malign influence the man now suffered.
The black-robed man returned.
‘You can leave,’ he said brusquely, and the door opened by itself: one of the greatest minds of a generation reduced to cheap tricks with magic wires. Paul Delgardie straightened his creaking bones.
‘No. I insist upon seeing Mr Riddle.’ He assumed an expression of fastidious distaste. ‘It is a matter of financial business. I have been more than generous. If he will not see me, I am afraid shall have to instruct my legal man to commence proceedings immediately. I should much prefer to settle things amicably.’ He gestured widely at the hall and stairs rising into the gloom of the gallery above. ‘I believe the house to have been in the family for generations. I should hate anything to happen…’
He was interrupted by a sudden laugh, oddly high and unpleasant. Surely Riddle had never laughed like that? What had happened to his old friend?
‘Bring the Muggle to me.’
*
The drawing room of the Riddle House had never been the most charming of apartments, but Paul Delagardie could not consider the snake an improvement. It was two feet long and lay along the back of the seat into which he had been none too gently pushed. Every so often its tongue flickered in his ear. Theosophy, Delagardie had immediately decided on seeing his interlocutor, was evidently the least of the problems here.
Paul Delagardie had never considered himself a particularly courageous man. In the privacy of his own head he knew that his nephews’ courage was a Wimsey attribute, compounded of sheer physical nerve and an ability not to look to consequences, that could spill over rather unfortunately into other aspects of life. Paul had, however, a strong sense of both survival instinct and the ludicrous, and seated in a claw-foot chair with a snake behind his head, facing a man whom he strongly suspected of having been aided a great deal by the plastic surgeons in the recent war, and not at all by the mental chaps he sat calmly in its over-stuffed embrace and listened.
His host had impressive stamina, but denunciations could only go on so long. Authorities were divided on whether it was best to humour a lunatic in his delusions, or to confront him with the realities of the world, but Paul recalled that waking his sleepwalking nephew had never had particularly satisfactory results, and that confrontation is not an easy option for a man in his eighties. Besides, he suspected that the snake was talking about him. At length, the queer, hissing voice wound down and a reply seemed to be expected. Paul seized his chance.
‘You are passionate. It is to be expected of great men.’
‘Do you think flattery will save you, Muggle?’
Paul forced a laugh. ‘No. If I did, I should try it. I only note facts for the record. You are a passionate man, but not, I think, a man of many passions. Perhaps it is for the best. Wine, women and song are all very well in their way, and the man who can enjoy them and his ambitions is all the greater for it, but those of us who know our limits occupy ourselves within them.’
‘You may. I have not reached my limits. I shall be the greatest wizard of the age! Grindelwald is dead, and Dumbledore a fool, I have achieved so much already and yet my studies have only just begun!’
‘What a world of profit and delight
Of wealth, of power and omnipotence
Are offered to the studious artisan.
A pity - I could have introduced you to some very suitable young women.’
‘What did you say?’ The madman waved his wooden wand and despite himself Paul flinched back in the chair.
‘Only a bit of Marlowe, Dr Faustus, you know. The great wizard of medieval times; they say he took Helen of Troy as his paramour. Funny, how great men in the past always seemed to have more strings to their bow than we manage in our time. No doubt you don’t make that sort of foolish comparison, but I’d always wonder - a field I had never essayed - could I know it wouldn’t beat me?’
‘Nothing defeats Lord Voldemort.’
*
She had thick brown hair, a prettily pointed chin, and the talents of Aphrodite. In another age her breasts would have inspired poets, her thighs damned cardinals. She also had a fat Swiss bank account and a firm head on her shoulders, and when as Paul Delagardie had arranged she disappeared at the end of two months on a liner to the United States, Lord Voldemort, never one to underestimate his own abilities, sought a replacement. Alas, there are some walks of life for which a Hogwarts education does not prepare a man, and by the end of the year, his raving was no longer for carefully controlled effect.
There are few men whose personalities are improved by syphilis, but Tom Marvolo Riddle was one of them. As a patient on St Mungo’s Baldwin Rosier ward he became a popular figure with the Healers, who even bent the rules to allow his pet snake “Nagini, Mistress of the Heir of Slytherin” a tank beside his bed during the few brief years that remained to him.
Paul Delagardie never told a soul of the events of that night. Only sometimes, remembering more innocent days of his youth, did he turn to a turn to a fading photograph of the pretty girl whom he understood at last even magic could not save and wonder how different his life would have been in ways he had never hitherto suspected, if Sidonie Delacour had lived.
A gentleman is at home in any company. Hence if the Hon. Paul Arthur Delagardie was surprised when the door to the house of his old friend Sagar “Budgy” Riddle was opened to reveal not the familiar profile of Andrews, but a man robed for a fancy-dress party, he did not show it. He presented his card and the man took it silently in his black-gloved hand.
The other hand, Delagardie could not help noticing, held what looked like a magician’s wand. Ah, one of those people.
He waited in the hall, sighing inwardly for his old friend. It had been years since they had met, Riddle having become something of a recluse, and Paul spending most of his time before the war in the more clement climate - in every sense of the word - of France. Rumour had reached him of the son’s disastrous marriage and he had almost written, but had felt too much time had passed to make a man’s misfortunes the excuse for a letter. Now he bitterly regretted his lack of action, that he had left his friend for so long to become the pray not only of melancholy, but of Theosophical frauds.
Murmurs came through the heavy oak door, but Delagardie could not make out what was said. Perhaps Riddle would refuse to see him. Looking about him at the ill-kept room, a faint scent, odd, dusty and sweet drifting through from what he remembered as the direction of the kitchen, he resolved that in that case he would insist nonetheless upon seeing Riddle. Heaven only knew under whose malign influence the man now suffered.
The black-robed man returned.
‘You can leave,’ he said brusquely, and the door opened by itself: one of the greatest minds of a generation reduced to cheap tricks with magic wires. Paul Delgardie straightened his creaking bones.
‘No. I insist upon seeing Mr Riddle.’ He assumed an expression of fastidious distaste. ‘It is a matter of financial business. I have been more than generous. If he will not see me, I am afraid shall have to instruct my legal man to commence proceedings immediately. I should much prefer to settle things amicably.’ He gestured widely at the hall and stairs rising into the gloom of the gallery above. ‘I believe the house to have been in the family for generations. I should hate anything to happen…’
He was interrupted by a sudden laugh, oddly high and unpleasant. Surely Riddle had never laughed like that? What had happened to his old friend?
‘Bring the Muggle to me.’
*
The drawing room of the Riddle House had never been the most charming of apartments, but Paul Delagardie could not consider the snake an improvement. It was two feet long and lay along the back of the seat into which he had been none too gently pushed. Every so often its tongue flickered in his ear. Theosophy, Delagardie had immediately decided on seeing his interlocutor, was evidently the least of the problems here.
Paul Delagardie had never considered himself a particularly courageous man. In the privacy of his own head he knew that his nephews’ courage was a Wimsey attribute, compounded of sheer physical nerve and an ability not to look to consequences, that could spill over rather unfortunately into other aspects of life. Paul had, however, a strong sense of both survival instinct and the ludicrous, and seated in a claw-foot chair with a snake behind his head, facing a man whom he strongly suspected of having been aided a great deal by the plastic surgeons in the recent war, and not at all by the mental chaps he sat calmly in its over-stuffed embrace and listened.
His host had impressive stamina, but denunciations could only go on so long. Authorities were divided on whether it was best to humour a lunatic in his delusions, or to confront him with the realities of the world, but Paul recalled that waking his sleepwalking nephew had never had particularly satisfactory results, and that confrontation is not an easy option for a man in his eighties. Besides, he suspected that the snake was talking about him. At length, the queer, hissing voice wound down and a reply seemed to be expected. Paul seized his chance.
‘You are passionate. It is to be expected of great men.’
‘Do you think flattery will save you, Muggle?’
Paul forced a laugh. ‘No. If I did, I should try it. I only note facts for the record. You are a passionate man, but not, I think, a man of many passions. Perhaps it is for the best. Wine, women and song are all very well in their way, and the man who can enjoy them and his ambitions is all the greater for it, but those of us who know our limits occupy ourselves within them.’
‘You may. I have not reached my limits. I shall be the greatest wizard of the age! Grindelwald is dead, and Dumbledore a fool, I have achieved so much already and yet my studies have only just begun!’
‘What a world of profit and delight
Of wealth, of power and omnipotence
Are offered to the studious artisan.
A pity - I could have introduced you to some very suitable young women.’
‘What did you say?’ The madman waved his wooden wand and despite himself Paul flinched back in the chair.
‘Only a bit of Marlowe, Dr Faustus, you know. The great wizard of medieval times; they say he took Helen of Troy as his paramour. Funny, how great men in the past always seemed to have more strings to their bow than we manage in our time. No doubt you don’t make that sort of foolish comparison, but I’d always wonder - a field I had never essayed - could I know it wouldn’t beat me?’
‘Nothing defeats Lord Voldemort.’
*
She had thick brown hair, a prettily pointed chin, and the talents of Aphrodite. In another age her breasts would have inspired poets, her thighs damned cardinals. She also had a fat Swiss bank account and a firm head on her shoulders, and when as Paul Delagardie had arranged she disappeared at the end of two months on a liner to the United States, Lord Voldemort, never one to underestimate his own abilities, sought a replacement. Alas, there are some walks of life for which a Hogwarts education does not prepare a man, and by the end of the year, his raving was no longer for carefully controlled effect.
There are few men whose personalities are improved by syphilis, but Tom Marvolo Riddle was one of them. As a patient on St Mungo’s Baldwin Rosier ward he became a popular figure with the Healers, who even bent the rules to allow his pet snake “Nagini, Mistress of the Heir of Slytherin” a tank beside his bed during the few brief years that remained to him.
Paul Delagardie never told a soul of the events of that night. Only sometimes, remembering more innocent days of his youth, did he turn to a turn to a fading photograph of the pretty girl whom he understood at last even magic could not save and wonder how different his life would have been in ways he had never hitherto suspected, if Sidonie Delacour had lived.