December, 1918
Phineas Nigellus Severus Priscus Aquarius Leo Amalric Black, Head of the House of Black, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Order of Merlin 1st Class, Chevalier de l'Ordre du Bâton d'Or, Titular Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Vice-Chancellor of the Diet of European Wizards, and Chief Commissioner of the International Confederal Commission for Magical Finance, belched loudly, much to the disgust of his wife. As she sniffed haughtily, the elderly wizard grinned, revealing discoloured teeth punctuated by the occasional gleam of gold.
"At my age, Ursula, I think I have earned the right to enjoy my tea however I please," he said, cackling.
"You are seventy-one, Phineas. My late, dearly lamented father lived to be a hundred and nineteen, and maintained impeccable manners right up to the threshold of his grave," she responded snidely.
"That's true; he's probably oppressing some unfortunate poltergeists somewhere, even now." He plucked another cake off the platter resting before him.
Phineas enjoyed the weekly visit his wife paid him at Hogwarts. Quite apart from the (admittedly scant) pleasure it gave him to meet his wife of fifty-two years, he immensely enjoyed catching up on family & society gossip. It was also a pleasant reprieve from the tedium of day-to-day schoolwork, and the supervision of his utterly insipid staff.
Ursula chose to ignore this remark. "Elladora beheaded Mitzi the other day. She finally spilt your mother's evening tea on the drawing-room carpet."
"At last! That's good news, considering how long she's been training Betsy to carry tea trays. I'd almost begun to think that Betsy would have to be beheaded before her mother."
"Oh, and Isla sent me another letter. I do believe that she genuinely does seek reconciliation," mused Ursula.
"Pooh!" snorted Phineas. "Tell that to Elladora. She swore to scratch Isla's eyes out if she ever set foot in the house again. Has she finally tired of her dirty muggle? I knew it wouldn't last."
Ursula pursed her lips. "It has lasted, Phineas, for thirty-six years, until the man died, eleven years ago. I hardly think Isla can be blamed for loneliness in her old age."
"It's not my fault if the old bugger kicked the bucket and left her in the lurch," said Phineas petulantly. "Didn't she breed at all with the creature?"
"For goodness' sake! Must you be so inexorably vulgar?" exclaimed his wife. "I believe there's a son, who attended here some time ago, but a grown son is hardly the comfort that one's flesh and blood siblings are."
"Exactly what I could have told her myself, and did tell her!" snapped Phineas. He was no longer in the mood to deal with Isla and her worries. "We all warned her, she could have come back, but she didn't! She has made her bed, and she can lie upon it."
"But-"
"Well, this has been very pleasant, Madam, but I'm afraid I have a great deal of work to bestir myself to do. I bid you a good evening." he cut in.
Ursula rose stiffly to her feet. "Until next Sunday, then, Phineas."
"Wickes will show you out," he responded curtly. Reaching for a tasselled rope hanging by his desk, he pulled, and a bell sounded. Almost immediately, a narrow door in the wall opened, and a stooped, thin man in brown stepped out.
"Show Madam Black to her carriage, Hiram," instructed Phineas. The caretaker bowed creakily, and shuffled out the door, followed by Ursula. Phineas clapped his hands, and the tea tray and its contents vanished. Moving back to his desk, he sighed, and sank into the armchair, heaving. He felt quite displeased with Ursula for ruining his evening in that inconsiderate manner of hers. Talking about blood traitors always made him think about his son, also Phineas, which put him in an excessive ill-temper. Outside the window, the sun had set, and a storm seemed to be brewing. Pensively, he stroked his pomaded beard. Without warning, a sharp rapping came at the door, and Wickes stepped in.
"Madam Black has departed, sir. Will there be anything else?" he inquired.
"Any punishments to dispense with for the week?"
Wickes looked uneasy. "Well, Master Arcturus, your grandson, he was – er – fiddling about with one of the young ladies in his house, sir."
"Would you care to explain why I'd be interested in so mundane an affair, Wickes? No? I thought not. I was referring to people I might care to take personally in hand. Anything else?"
"I did catch Rosier and Watkin in a broom closet today, sir. They – ahem – I doubt you'd be pleased, sir, but they – well, Rosier had has trousers-" stammered Wickes.
"I quite understand, Wickes. How perfectly repulsive. Send them up to me for a whipping tomorrow afternoon. I must say, I'd expect better of a pure-blood such as Rosier, but what can one do? Degenerate times we live in."
"I'm not in the humour to dine with the students today, Wickes. Have dinner brought up here, will you?"
"With all due respect, headmaster, do you think that's wise?" asked Wickes. His voice was hesitant.
"What? What do you mean? Why shouldn't I take my dinner wherever I please?" Phineas' nostrils had begun to dilate and then flare, alternating rapidly. Wickes, looking nervous, removed his shabby cap and began twisting and turning it in his hands.
"Well, sir, malicious people already say you don't pay enough attention to the school and the students. Not, of course, that they're in any way right," he added hurriedly. "But perhaps, just for appearances, you should consider dining with the staff, sir?"
"Who are you talking about, Wickes?"
"Just some rubbish in today's Prophet, sir. But what about your dinner?"
Phineas restrained his temper, and nodded curtly. "Well, one may as well eat downstairs as well as anywhere. You may go, Wickes." The moment the door was closed, Phineas seized a heavy bronze inkpot, and hurled it across the room. It hit a glass vase and smashed it into a thousand fragments that fell on the floor, and glittered, reflecting the light of the lamps. Outside, the storm broke, and hail began to hit the windows. Trembling violently, Phineas' hands clawed his robes. So they thought they could force him to admit mudbloods and allow every kind of filthiness in his school, did they? He wondered who had had the audacity to criticise him openly. Someone had it coming badly, and Phineas strongly suspected that it was his eponymous offspring. Stamping his feet, he sent a paperweight to join the inkpot, and stormed out of the study. With any luck, a bit of whipping tomorrow would relieve his nerves. Perhaps, if he found the time, he could visit the buxom Ulrica down at the three broomsticks, too.