Finally joined HPFC! And, as a first challenge, I chose the Greek Mythology one!
Mortal: 9. Hermes – God of boundaries, travel and language. Hermes is the messenger of the gods, and the one who leads the souls of the dead into the afterlife. He was depicted as either a handsome and athletic beardless youth, or as an older bearded man. Write about somewhere other than Great Britain. Alt; write about Owl Post.
Overseas Invasion
Russia. The Minister had always liked the country.
Of course, not the Muggles. They were too stained in blood, the blood of their own. Stories of the strange politics that were "Communism" and "Marxism" were commonplace tales for him. And he would have to tread lightly.
"Ah, Minister!" The Russian Minster for Magic greeted Fudge, extending a gloved hand and shaking Fudge's own pale one. "It's good to see you again my dear sir!"
His voice was suspicious enough as it was – hardly a trace of a Russia accent – and Fudge looked around gingerly, like the "Communists" were about to jump out and shoot him dead with the meagre Muggle weapons that could do so much belated damage.
Fudge took a deep, calming breath, smelling the scent of some type of Russian roasted bun on the air. It was good for him, all the travel. Getting away from… Britain. Dark, dreary, cold… Lovely warm… No snow…
"Are you quite alright?" Ah, now Fudge could hear the Minister's accent, however slight. And he relaxed.
"Yes, of course." Fudge brushed off, with a weary smile. "Long journey, you know how it is. What did you wish to show me?"
The Minister (Fudge realised that he did not know the man's name. Ah, well. It was probably something unpronounceable) smiled, showing Fudge rows of bright white teeth. "I understood you were here to see the ministerstvo?" He asked politely.
"Hmm?" Fudge raised an eyebrow, scanning the street eagerly for any sign of an ambush by those dreaded "Communists". "Oh, yes, yes of course."
After all, the word sounded a little like 'Ministry', didn't it?
The Ministry in Russia wasn't underground, like the one in Britain. That made Fudge uneasy. And it was shaped like an odd house, like the ones Muggles lived in. When he voiced this to the Russian Minister (he was probably called Slovak, come to think of it), Slovak simply laughed heartily.
"We are one with the Muggle community!" He explained, with a dramatic sweep of the arm. "In our Dark Days, the leaders came running to us, and we helped them. Do you not help your Muggles?"
Now Fudge was feeling sick. He nodded, however, and pretended to be sincere about it. He eyed up a rubbish bin on the street corner, but they were walking into the strange house and he had no time to empty his stomach.
"Natasha!" Solvak called heartily, waiting until a pretty, pert woman with long red hair had run over and then commencing to talk to her in fast, unimaginable Russian, full of vowels and hand gestures.
Fudge, on the other hand, let his gaze sweep over 'Natasha'. She was short, but not enough not to make her attractive. She seemed to have a more than ample bosom, and her high heels made her long legs look even longer, and they probably would do without the fishnets.
"Come this way, my dear sir." Slovak said, leading the way to the back of the room. Fudge nodded at Natasha as he left, letting himself feel a thrill of satisfaction when she looked down at the plush carpeted floor. "Natasha is excellent, of course. Just one of our many Muggle employees."
Fudge pulled a face to himself and ignored the image of Natasha giving him a lap dance in his mind, pushing it away with brute force. Probably a scheming harlot. No one he need be concerned to pay for.
He could see Muggles to the left, to the right. Fudge tried to take it all for granted – thinking like You-Know-Who used to would bring no luck in his term of office – but he kept thinking about the black marble hallways of the Ministry, full of Wizards and only Wizards and posters that stated who they were trying to catch lately and Auror Shacklebolt tipping his hat to him…
"So, how are you enjoying Russia so far?" Was the next question asked, by a Witch with a thick accent. "Not too cold?"
In fact, that seemed to be all they ever asked him. And, each time, Fudge forced himself to nod, smile, and make a comment about how he was sick of rain.
Maybe he could get Auror Shacklebolt to take over tomorrow. Yes, that would be adequate. And then he could go home, to the glorious rain and the oh so lovely piles of parchment that would await him. To his large house and Gringotts vault and the lack of "Communists" and…
How he detested Russia. Anywhere would be better than here. Even the grubby little Ministry in Las Vegas, covered in beer tables and bars. And that was a stretch, considering that a Muggle had puked all over Fudge's shows after he left on the first night.
Travelling, that was it.
Travelling, if he could bring himself to use the common term, being Minsiter for Magic and all that, was absolutely pants.
And he hated Russia. And he always had.