A Smattering of Sugar
Summary: One little girl, and one event that changed her life. The truths of the life of Dolores Jane Umbridge.
Okay, here is my least favorite character. I would love her to die even more than Voldemort. But one of the points of fanfiction is to explore new ideas, and this one popped into my head months back. Here it is, I hope you enjoy, and I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER! IT ALL BELONGS TO J.K. ROWLING BECAUSE SHE IS SO AMAZING!
Chapter one: The Little Cottage
There is a little cottage on the outskirts of Wiltshire. The gardens have long overgrown wild, the door to the little building is hanging from one forlorn hinge. The windows are broken and the paint around the house has peeled off in long strips. You can hear birds calling to each other from within the dark house, as well as bats rustling as they sleep. There is a grey gravel path that winds up to the steps, and lizards and bugs scurry out of your way. Beyond to house you can see a swing set; but it has rusted and the seats have rotted away.
You carefully approach the steps leading to the door. The three slabs of wood creak in protest as you trod carefully up, near the left side which has been sheltered from the elements more. You barely need to push the door open to gain entry. Inside is cool and damp despite the rising heat; it had rained just last night and little puddles of water have collected under the holes in the roof. Birds erupt from their hiding places, appearing as ghosts, their shrieks seem, to your ears, to cry 'turn away, turn away!'
After your heart stops pounding, you can see the room more clearly.
It is covered in bird and bat droppings, but there are some stairs to your right. You don't move towards them because you can see from you position that the stairs in the middle have collapsed and you can hear something that sounds suspiciously like rats scuttling around. Pictures hung on the walls like many houses have; but some of the glass has shattered and the frames have broken, leaving the photos inside to be blown away or torn away for nests.
You are standing in the kitchen. There are cracked sinks and crumbled cupboards in front of you on the back wall. The sink's plumbing has been long cut off, but the water from last night's downpour drips slowly down into the weed-filled base. There in a dining table a few feet in front of you. It is just a square of wood that is covered in excrement and some dark substance. The legs have been ripped away and covered in . . . are those claw marks? With dread creeping into your throat you pull out your wand. You whisper a hasty spell and bats squeak as a small, warm beam of light appears. The dark substance on the table is blood, you realize in horror. Claw marks and blood? What happened in this little cottage? What stories do the moaning beams beg to tell?
Shaking your head you proceed cautiously over to the left side of the room where you have just spotted a doorway. Stepping carefully over the remains of four chairs that have clearly been savagely thrown into the wall, you see a sitting room.
Lying on their sides or backs, there is a sofa and two chairs. The cushions have been split open and the stuffing has long since disappeared to line the nests of the generations of birds. There's a fire place, a simple stone hearth. The grate lets in the light wind that has picked up outside. The weakened metal groans as you approach. You bend over to look closer, but recoil in horror.
There's more blood.
And it's not a few droplets like on the table, which look as if someone might have cut their arm. It's an entire puddle, and though it's dried it's messed in such a way as to show the owner of the blood was trying to crawl away, fingers scrabbling desperately.
You back away, wanting to leave this cottage. You want desperately to be at your own home and leave this mystery. Somebody died here. Somebody was murdered, and you can almost imagine that person crying, screaming, and trying to crawl away and hide from their ruthless attacker. It's clear they didn't survive. There's too much blood.
As you back away, something under your foot crunches like the gravel lining the path outside. You glance down, hoping you didn't step on a bone (or a skull . . .) but no; it's just broken glass. You lift your feet, you curiosity peeked again. It's the glass from a frame. There's a photograph underneath. You pick it carefully up and study the four people in the picture.
There's a warm faced man, whose hair is black and his skin tanned. He seemed to be about 5'11'', and wearing simple Wizarding robes. He holds himself as all Pure-bloods do; with authority and power. He holds none of the usual (and expected) arrogance of the ancient Pure-blood families. His eyes twinkle kindly, his arms wrapped around his wife.
His wife has mousy brown hair that cascades in small ringlets down her back. She was quite beautiful, even with the apron on. Her eyes are bright blue like the clear sky behind her, and her smile is as warm as any mothers' should be.
There are two girls in front of the couple.
One is clearly not the couple's daughter. Her hair is so blonde it's nearly white, her eyes are a deep sapphire and she holds herself with a willowy grace that is only found in non-humans. Her features seemed to be carved out of marble or glass; perfect in every sense.
The second girl is the couples. She had her mother's brown hair but her father's dark eyes. She was short, like her mother, but held all of the kindness and compassion her parents did.
It was a Wizarding photograph, so all four were waving energetically at the camera. Every now and again the man and the woman would smile at each other, or the woman and her daughter, or the two girls.
This was clearly a loving family, but you can't remember something like this happening. Clearly this family would have been loved by a lot of people; they were happy with their lot in life and with all that love in their eyes they couldn't not help others who were less fortunate. You think back to the claw marks and the blood and wonder;
What could have happened here?
XoX
Forty three years ago
"Mum!" A little girl shrieked "Mummy!"
A woman looked up from brushing her teeth in the bathroom. Spitting out the toothpaste, she called back; "What is it, 'Lores?"
"My Hogwarts letter!" Dolores called back, racing for the stairs. "It came!"
"Excellent!" Milane Umbridge rinsed her mouth and walked quickly to the stairs to her excitable daughter. Dolores, who had been up for quite a while waiting for this exact moment, pounded up the stairs and both mother and daughter met in the middle, hugging good morning and giggling.
"It came just like you told me!" Dolores broke off the hug, breathless, and waved her hand in front of her mum's face. In it was a slightly crushed envelope, the red wax seal already broken. "The owl looked so serious, too!"
Milane smiled and kissed her daughter's head as they wandered down the stairs. Dolores was talking like most eleven years olds do; non-stop. She had refrained from voicing her fantasies about the great castle in case she did not receive the letter that she clutched so tightly in her hand. She now spilled them out, wondering if the classes and their teachers would be like and if her class mates would like her. She also wondered what nearly every eleven year old in the Wizarding World wondered—what House she would be in.
"Will I be in Ravenclaw like you, mummy? Or Slytherin like daddy? Or What if I'm in the other two—Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?"
"Then we'll love you anyway!" A voice from the front door boomed. Dolores' dad stood there, having snuck out while Dolores was waiting for her letter. Her dad loved taking long walks in the mornings, and often brought Dolores with him—when she wasn't waiting for the biggest moment of her life.
"Daddy!" Dolores sang, jumping off her perch on the counter. She bolted over to her dad, giving him a hug while babbling about her Hogwarts letter.
"Uliah!" Milane scolded. "Don't keep sneaking up on me. You'll give me a heart attack!"
"Then I shall kiss you, Cinderella, and awake you from your slumber!" Uliah Umbridge struck a noble pose, bent on one knee, hands clasped to his heart. The ridiculous pose was somewhat ruined by Dolores clinging to his back.
"Nice try!" Milane threw a dish towel at him. "It's Sleeping Beauty, not Cinderella, who gets kissed. Try again, Prince Charming!"
The towel hit Uliah's face and slid down to the floor. Withdrawing his wand, Uliah flicked it and sent the cloth back to his wife, clean. "At least I'm reading Muggle fairy tales!" Dolores giggled and chimed in;
"Daddy's been reading Snow White to me. I love her seven little goblins!"
"Uliah!" Milane threw her hands up. "It's the seven little Dwarves!"
"But 'Lores won't run into Dwarves." Uliah argued, swinging Dolores over to her chair and setting her down. "She'll run into goblins."
"I wish you'd stop treating her like a four year old." Milane sighed, changing topics. "She's so young for her age."
"Umbridges grow up slower than others." Uliah said proudly. "'Lores will overcome that soon, and she'll be right up there with the rest of them. Besides, there's nothing wrong with being a little young."
Milane looked at him before deciding that her energies would be put to better use tending to the eggs, bacon, and waffles she was attempting to cook. Uliah grinned and turned back towards his daughter.
"So! Your Hogwarts letter come. What House do you want to be in?"
"I don't know," Dolores frowned. "You won't mind if I'm not in Ravenclaw or Slytherin?"
"No," Her dad answered her. "Lots of families like ours make sure to force their children into their own House, but you are not me, 'Lores, and you are not your mother. You go into the House you feel most comfortable with, okay?"
"Okay!" Dolores chirped. She had her dad pulled out some plates and loaded them up with Milane's cooking. The three of them sat around the well-worn table and dug in.
"So, when are we going to Diagon Ally?" Dolores asked.
"When would you like to go? If it's today, we'll have to wait for the afternoon. I have to do some work for the Ministry again." Uliah looked apologetic, but Dolores nodded.
"This afternoon sounds good." She said as she finished her meal. She pecked her mother's cheek, skipped over to the sink, and carefully washed her plate before putting it out to dry.
"Now be a good girl, 'Lores, and go gather some blueberries. I'll make my pie to-night so we can celebrate your letter!" Her mum called as Dolores raced over to the stairs. Dolores smiled brightly before grabbing a basket near the door. She and her mum made it years ago, but they still used it. She wandered out the door into the cool summer morning, smiling happily.
Forty nine years ago, the little cottage was full of life. A lattice work surrounded the door, honey suckle draped over it. The white sides had chalk drawings that Dolores and her parents drew—flowers, trees, birds, and rivers. Behind the windows were dozens of (currently unlit) candles that lit up the garden at night. Flowers like cosmos and wild roses lined the gravel path, which started at the gate. The gate and fence was lined with herbs for potions and medicine. There's an orchid in the distance, with a swing set in the center.
Forty three years ago, the cottage was home to Dolores Jane Umbridge.