PART II
Chapter 11
The Sombre, the Unquenched & the Pitied
For the life of her she could not figure out how the thing worked, or why she wanted to.
She stared the thing down in her hands, with a glint in her eyes proud enough not to let it make her swear at it aloud but stung by being fooled by something many times her own intelligence. For certainly not just any person's touch could make her face light up, nor could she see anything needle-like inserted into her, "charging" her up as either necessary or desirable. Her nostrils were flared delicately from the restrain she was exercising against flinging the thing aside out of sight, for she did not need the insult. No, she would not grant the thing such dignity as to find it lying on the floor in gracefully quiet inertia.
How Muggles managed to design it and why they bothered communicating with it was beyond her, and at this point she satisfied herself by travelling back to her Hogwarts-going days when she was almost always in the top two of her classes, finding certitude in her proven cleverness. But beyond her as well was why her Muggle escort wanted her to learn to use the "cell phone" because it would be fine if they talked when they saw each other. Perhaps her vibe had been a touch too strong. Perhaps she had lost some of the grace she exuded in her younger years that allowed her to make lesser men want to kill themselves just so she could look their way but suaver ones to die equals deaths in the gaffes she managed to make them perpetrate.
Either this or French men had more gall than most nations, and she has visited her fair share of the globe. Of course it was his fault.
If she could ever know how to use it, it would be of no use to her, for she had no overwhelming desire to contact Darry. Unlike him she was less interested (but perhaps not entirely uninterested) in having a relationship outside of that which will see that he makes her stay in Muggle France smooth and enjoyable, courtesy a clinking black satin sack presented to the French Prime Minister. But she certainly had not anticipated his advisor handing her a cell phone so they could have some pillow talk miles away from each other. Fortunately she had an inkling the device would not work while she was back at the villa, where she now raised her head and peered towards the horizon of the Celtic Sea.
She was not inclined to spend much of her time at the villa, for, apart from being in Wizarding France – a part of a Wizarding world in simmering unease with the waves of MAV testing, which were undignified at best and brutal at worst – it brought memories of her stay here together with Lucius, and Draco… Perhaps she could make another use for the phone – to call her son, back in Wiltshire. But it was surely impossible; though she did not know how calling with the device worked beyond entering Darry's number and holding it to her ear, Darry told her he had a copy of the device waiting for her call, implying the necessity that both parties needed devices, and Draco did not have a copy.
Being strongly advised to go on holiday by her son was something she had somewhat seen coming. It was simply a feature of a pattern, one – definite than ever before – that once one drew back from to look at it in its entirety spelled out her separation from the two leading men in her life. The destruction of her family was spelled out imminently in the moment Lucius stared at her rigidly before her bed, a mask in his hand – a mask she had not seen for fourteen years. She knew the fact in his words before he said them, and heard the footfalls of his boots heading towards the Apparition chamber. Before slipping into her slippers and heading to her study, her last thought was her son at Hogwarts, enjoying the tournament.
She still struggled with the anger, indignation, and disappointment at being removed from her house by her son even though it was not heavy-handed. The emotion in Draco's eyes as he explained he did not want to see his mother hurt did not fool her. It may have been true, but partly, for she had always known an ugly, nasty, and childishly vindictive side to her child. It looked harmless in the prevalence of such traits in other high families. It looked harmless in the face of a cute nipper setting embarrassing traps for Crabbe and Goyle. But it looked disturbing on a growing adolescent whose psychological architecture was patchy, immature, and in constant flux and one whom possessed a kind of pride inherited from but not lesser to his father's. She imagined, and knew, it looked dangerous as well in the eyes of his subjects.
The letter that removed the necessity to imagine it lay on the round marble table in front of her, taken from its place in her drawer by the sentiments one felt on New Year's Day, the first one she was spending without Draco.
Dear Mother,
Happy New Year. I hope you're having a wonderful time at Cap Auger. Promise to collect a leaf from every tree there so we can finally complete our album!
It has been busy here back in Britain. People cannot seem to sit still, they are always talking. I thought I would also travel and escape the noise. I think I'm going to see America, for myself once and for all. I might even pay a visit to whoever runs their kind of ministry there and say hello.
The slaves have been fine, if you're wondering, but I think too fine for too long. It is my opinion they need more discipline because they have shown themselves to be capable of disrespect to their master. I simply cannot turn a blind eye to that, Mother. I had to stamp my authority, but you would not let me do it effectively. I promise still that I am not making myself a pill too bitter to swallow for them, but there certainly is some swallowing happening.
All my love
Dragon
Narcissa let the letter fall onto the table and once again squinted at the horizon through the door, over the balcony. She stood up, padded across the room barefoot onto the balcony and leant against it. Her son's words were still respectful to his mother but nevertheless recently cognisant of his imagined authority, and, perhaps in the moment, drunk with it. It might have been real in the capacity of his lordship of the manor, but it withered in the face of the question of whether he had autonomy over his own life or another force had it in its hands.
Moments later she scrunched her eyes shut and bowed her head, as though praying or crippled by pain. But the source of the real pain was from how startlingly similar the path her son was taking was similar to that of his father, and look where it got him. She saw the death of her son, as hazily but as clearly as she saw her husband's.
Her fear for his life as he walked out with that mask in his hand towards his resurrected master, a master he was due to meet whose regard for Lucius was unknown and unpredictable. Fear for his life as the toll of his missions mounted on him. Finally, fear for his life as he lay there in their bedroom, she standing at the window staring across the sprawling garden of the Manor, and the both of them waiting for their son's return to be requested to do the unthinkable task of murdering his own father. Only now Narcissa did not know which faceless adversary was going to take her son's life.
She had been at the villa hours before, staring at the sea, so vast and blue its shadeless canvas collapsed its depth and reared it into a solid wall on which she painted her worries and joys. Now she found herself again at the same villa, staring at the same sea, as solidly reliable as a wall upon which the balcony door opened, its sight so pure it seemed incapable of deceiving her but only being the sublime truth of the pattern in the tapestry. All she had to do was draw back and trace the lines against the clarity of the solid blue of the unchanging sea before her.
Mr Donald Grassley was every man's man, in every respect of the phrase. He was also every woman's man, which explained the foolish pride clear as day in his wife's eyes as she bade him farewell for the day after giving him a kiss. Mrs Grassley had also grown a habit of lingering on the veranda and looking around the neighbourhood, with a beaming light in her face so profane it looked a little sickening.
However, it was not long before one satisfyingly noticed the light dim and lips stretch to one side of her face in jealous reproval at the woman next door blowing through the door in a skirt suit, as if its skirt somehow redeemed her from this slight against convention. The grey skirt billowed urgently across the lawn and hiked up her thighs (Mrs Grassley's lips drew sideward more severely) as her neighbour pulled up the garage door, jingling her keys loudly and pretentiously as only Brenda Myers could achieve.
Brenda took care to have enough graciousness to wave at her before disappearing in her garage to start the engine, to be followed seconds later by her husband as he slammed the door ("George! That's not a cab door!" Brenda could be heard chiding in a rather tired voice, after she opened her car door again). There was no set of children to precede or follow them.
Mrs Grassley, the muscles in her neck twitching even after so many years and still with the shadow of the diplomatic smile on her face, turned to her husband hiking on his jacket, opening his door, and throwing himself into the car. It seemed he had long ago foreswore attempts to squeeze himself into his car discreetly but had rather admitted to himself that he no longer possessed the finesse and balance of a young man, and his paunch did not allow him any nevertheless. Mrs Grassley swiftly hitched up her smile more decisively and waved serenely at the car taking off their driveway.
The smile lingered for several seconds, but Mrs Grassley could not pretend any longer to be pleased by the sight of a woman pulling out of the driveway in her own car while her husband followed, as if she felt herself entitled to stand amongst men as an equal, skirt suit and all. Mrs Grassley still could not master the sting of the sight after all these years. She, as always, remedied it with a healthy dose of the certainty of her place in the home, and she turned towards the house to make the children lunch.
It was easy to see by anyone that Mrs Grassley was not hard to figure out, and much less hard to fool. But perhaps what worked out for her was the immodest but not stupendous respect her husband had amassed.
Mr Grassley was liked by everyone within and out of earshot of their house. He was known as a diligent worker, an entertaining converser, a more-solid-than-usual acquaintance, and a reliable friend. Someone who whenever there was an accident, or a burning house, or a cat stuck in a tree, though the natural protocol with which to proceed was known by many, took the lead, and in doing so demonstrating a gifted, pragmatic genius.
For instance, ever since there was a suicide at the Keaton house, and Mr Grassley had sent two of the young bystanders to run to his home – one to fetch a bottle of his wife's vanilla essence and another to look for any nozzle spray bottle and empty it (even though his own son and daughter stood attendant beside their mother) – and burying the unbearable odour of decay under the pleasant aroma of vanilla as he sprayed it in every corner of the house, everyone and their distant relatives added the trick into their list of remedies, family secrets, and pools of general knowledge. One had the feeling they just waiting for a tragedy just to have their own moments of genius. They, however, did not appreciate the haunting connection to death thereafter made whenever they had a nose tickle of vanilla even from their favourite confections.
Or when a seventeen-year-old boy was knocked off his feet during the late afternoon rush home as he ran across the road to fetch his basketball. It was a curious and quietly frustrating sight for Mr Grassley to arrive at the scene and watch residents yapping over each other as they crowded around the injured boy, depriving him of room for air, some speaking into their trendy but no less bulky cell phones. Sometimes one would think the suburb was too rich for its own good. Literally.
Mr Grassley, himself a humble "rag to riches" story, ordered everyone to back away from the boy and, again, singled out some of the youngest bystanders to capitalize on their speed and energy. He sent them to find two pieces of wooden blocks or cardboard boxes, mutton cloth from his wife's tall cupboard, a razor, and a stapler. When the boys arrived with the items, he bestowed upon them a grateful smile, and told one to help him bandage the injured boy's leg. He threw a glance at his son and then called him over as well, almost as an afterthought. They wrapped up the boy's leg as tightly as they could with what they had, and later when the ambulance arrived the paramedics did a double-take at Mr Grassley and praised him repeatedly for the brilliance of his first aid. Mrs Grassley's face glowed with foolish pride.
Or, a less serious situation, when someone's drain was blocked and calling the plumber did not help because they were usually in for the long haul to milk from the rich as much money as they possibly could because they felt their clients had too much money anyway. Or claim that the drain needed special chemicals which needed to be brought in from a far-off branch of their shop. Though the money was not the question, the principle was. Or after some neighbours grew distrustful of plumbers after wizening up enough to figure out the plumbers' tactics – realizing that they were being charged $70 for the plumbers to simply reattach the washer to the rod – they began calling on Mr Grassley.
Mr Grassley taught them to open their toilets and reattach the washer. To use a vacuum cleaner to clear the shower drain of hair build-up a plunger would otherwise sometimes struggle to remove. And use a hooked rod made of hangers to slip through the window and fish up the key if a neighbour's child locked the door to go play with friends and threw the key back in in anticipation that he would lose it while he played but not realizing in that moment of excitement that the key would be required to open the door again.
Mr Grassley's Midwest humble beginnings, over-appreciation for the mundane, and patience for the needy threw into stark relief their falsehoods of diplomatic veneers and irreverence for wisdom that did not lead to a sizeable bulge in net worth. But, because he learned to speak in the dialect, danced with the gyrations of greed, grandiosity, and the need to have the latest technology first, not so much as to unsettle them and had managed to endear himself to many in the neighbourhood.
But they all saw how much better success looked in a suit of humility. Pity they knew just how ugly they were inside. They sought satisfaction – much like Mrs Grassley – in their unfailing belief that heroes were not allowed to be judged upon a spectrum of virtues and vices – only virtues. No, in their vocabularies, Mr Grassley was no hero – simply a slightly better version of themselves. A version soon to be updated to theirs. It was just a matter of time. Indeed their arms were wide open for him.
Yes, Mr Grassley was every man's man and every woman's man. But Mr Grassley did not actively aspire to be all this. He just wanted to be every boy's man.
The sordid parts of his mind rebooted as soon as he left the house – more precisely later when he stepped into his car, for the most part a private space – and again his conscience assumed a familiar face. It was textured by the constant calculations of mitigation and rationalizations – all solely connected to the attempts to redeem himself and find himself even just slightly comfortable in his skin, a feeling he had last felt in his innocent childhood. That he could find his innocence only in his childhood was the dirtiest slight to stain his life so far, he felt.
It disgusted him immensely to think that ever since his late teens he had always cherished this attraction for them, as if he were trying to make himself sound less guilty or vile; yes, a paedophilic teenager was a far less disturbing thing to hear than a paunchy man twinkling his eyes at young boys. Oh yes, he certainly felt at ease with himself then. He half had not and half anticipated that this attraction would follow him into the latter of his middle age. A paedophilic teenager would be looked at like someone easier to purify. But a fifty-eight-year-old man would be looked at like something stuck on the bowl of a toilet even water was unable to remove, something incapable of being cured, something that needed to be removed more forcibly with a tissue or brush. His immediate removal from society would be the only solution.
It disgusted him immensely to think that as he drove along Wolmera Street, his favourite for quite some time now, he looked for one particular red low-slung backpack among a legion of others, as if his singular attraction to one boy and not any who passed under his eyes redeemed him in any way. A futile attempt to reduce his paedophilia into a seemingly curable and isolated pathology.
More pathetically, he knew this attraction only had phases: sometimes he preferred blonds over auburns and blond again, the delicate and dainty over the suggestively masculine and petites again, the freckled over the dimpled and back to the freckled, the alabaster skins over the tanned and back to the pales. And he knew he would dismiss the (apparently) cutest sandaled toes and deepest brunette cap under the (apparently) prettiest nose and eyes he had (apparently) ever seen for a far prettier boy according to his fickle fancy the minute he should appear. Every boy and every defence he attempted to build was a temporary state as he had always known it.
It repulsed him that he had to resort to a shaky resolve to maintain the arrangement of his children catching the bus rather than dropping them off at school, as if bathing in the squalor of his own mind around his children as he ogled at their schoolmates were some artificial moral low he had created. It was in fact a low within a low, a low within such decadence that it assumed the proportions that rendered the act of falling in space – even if it had gravity – meaningless: space is so vast one simply cannot fall; where would one fall to? More space? One does not, effectively, even move, but floats; every day he floated in the brown scum of his bathwater (he was adverse to the shower).
But however temporary his fixation on the boy was, that fixation was as potent as any he had harboured for any other previous boy. He waited, for as long as he had for the past three weeks, fifteen minutes, tapping his steering wheel, and half-heartedly scouting for new boys to lust after because, of course, his conscience was invested in keeping his affairs consecutive and untangled: it felt more forgivable.
And, as usual, it was not long before his eye spotted him with such a talent that it seemed as naturally gifted as the eyesight of an eagle. Again for twenty, glorious seconds he lived and he glimpsed into the divine beauty of the boy, whose features always seemed slightly altered with each fresh take of his eyes despite the fact that he had dreamt of the boy for so long and in so many ways. Far from frustrating, this constant rediscovery of how the boy really looked was an inexhaustible pleasure. It was the (apparently) most exhilarating twenty seconds of his life. Again, he took off the block with his heart racing.
"The speech for next week, Dan. And you-"
"It's Don – or Donald, Elliot," Mr Grassley said, cutting across his secretary, his voice harsh and unforgiving. He ignored the papers that landed on his desk.
He preferred his colleagues and his wife call him Don. He liked the boys to call him Dan. His childhood friends called him Dan.
"Sorry," said Elliot impatiently, as if long used to the correction, which may have explained Mr Grassley's harsh tone. Or maybe not. "You also have an appointment today. It's—er…"
"What is it, Mr Secretary?" asked Mr Grassley, as he flipped open his laptop. He then all but disappeared as he bent low behind his desk to reach for his suitcase, emerging seconds later with a floppy disk.
Elliot rolled his eyes. "I'm not your secretary," he sighed. "I'm your PA. I thought you will have learned that now after nine years. We say postal officer, not postman. Human resource manager, not recruiter. PA, not secretary."
"Whatever blows your skirt and the rest of it," Mr Grassley replied vaguely. The Windows 95 logo appeared and gave him a deflated thrill of superiority to those still stuck with the previous version. He had inserted the floppy and began browsing through some of his favourite pictures. "It's been nine years? Huh. How time flies… Nine years, what I would do with one… What appointment is this now, Elliot?"
"Er, hang on. I had it here yesterday…" Elliot muttered, frowning into his diary as he ran through it. "Ah, yes. Here it is. Almost thought I was Delusional Jaymore. But in another way he's a godsend to us right now, I daresay; nothing like a democrat that can't keep his clothes on; Bill's set for at least a month. Right. An appointment in a few minutes in fact, with a certain Mr Severus Snape. I swear this penchant for alliteration is getting out of control. Making your child's name an alliteration like some detergent slogan? Isn't that taking things a bit too far?" he scoffed.
"Snape? Is he right?" Mr Grassley asked, without looking up from a picture of a young boy, perhaps eleven, penetrating his friend and smirking childishly.
"Never heard of him…" Elliot murmured. Forehead still creased, he paged through his diary, perhaps looking for another instance of the name. He returned to the appointment and seemed to read the rest of it as he went on, "Preservatist seeking private audience…" Elliot's frown grew more severe at the words he had written as he recoiled from his diary. "Can't figure out when I wrote this down… Preservatist? He's definitely not a rightwinger."
"The hell is a Preservatist? Who is this guy?" Mr Grassley finally looked up to his PA. "Let me see."
"It just says Severus Snape, Preservatist seeking an audience with the Senator," Elliot sniffed.
"Give it here," commanded Mr Grassley.
Elliot's reluctance to give up his diary seemed to be that of a man about to give up a vital, powerful part of himself, like his manhood.
Mr Grassley took the diary and squinted at the near horizontal squiggles.
"Severus Snape… Never heard of him. Well, we'll see when he gets here."
There was a clearing of a throat in the room. Mr Grassley reflexively looked up at Elliot, who had also quickly turned his gaze onto Mr Grassley. They realized in the exact same moment that neither of them had cleared their throats. Elliot peered over his shoulder towards the door, but no one stood in its frame and had found it decent to announce his presence so. When there came a second noise, a cough this time, Elliot, in all his spindly, flamingo-like form, slid to the side of the table and steadied himself with it.
"What building was this House first?" Mr Grassley enquired.
Elliot snorted rather nervously, his sharp olive eyes darting across the walls of the office. "I'm afraid you won't find any legend here of this building built on a morgue like Oprah's studio. No, no. No such legend exists here… No such grand ironies here…"
There was another cough from somewhere inside the room. Mr Grassley became rather fixed his in his chair, and Elliot's eyes had bulged at the portrait of FDR scratching his temple, turning in his chair, and preparing to make an announcement.
"The Minister of Wizarding Britain wishes for an audience," declared the portrait.
"Wizar-" spluttered Elliot. "I beg your pardon?"
Roosevelt bowed his head to fix his disapproving stare more squarely on Elliot, who flushed.
"The Minister of Wizarding Britain would like to see the Senator. I believe that is the gentlemen behind you."
"Of-of course, Mr President," Elliot gasped, even as he slid further away and tucked himself behind the side of the desk.
Mr Grassley had been quiet all along. Never in his mind would he have envisioned a day that he heard from a speaking oil painting of Franklin Roosevelt that the Minister of Wizarding Britain was due to meet him any minute now. Dizzy with disbelief, he mustered all the courage he could to form his response to his hallucination: he stacked up the papers Elliot had handed him earlier and made himself look busy. A moment later the papers flew into the air along with Mr Grassley's feet and floated onto the floor after the fireplace had surged with green heat. Out it stepped a dark figure.
"Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus…" Elliot was rapping out a prayer furiously under his breath as his huge eyes fixed on the line of cloaked figures his boss' fireplace was spitting out. Behind him Mr Grassley had scrambled to his feet and was clutching the wall behind him for balance, his jaw still on the floor among the papers.
"You have—You have no right intruding into my office," were the first gasping words of Mr Grassley, as he sort of limped around his table, apparently seized by more courage than he had earlier shown.
Elliot now stood squarely behind the desk, arms nearly tucked behind him, his form slightly shaking, and his eyes roaming around the strange attire of the new people in the office.
"What are you doing here in my office?" Mr Grassley demanded, before the line of figures arranged themselves. They, all dressed in dark robes, seemed to bubble forward and spew and retract like simmering ore before a space was formed in the middle from which one figure emerged and came forward. And Mr Grassley felt the thundering of his heart, caught the sight so rapidly that he thought he knew it was going to happen: he spotted a sliver of a tiny striped suit behind the main figure. It was a split second before it emerged into full view, but the height of that suit was instantly recognizable to Mr Grassley, whose current fancy remained petite boys.
But the deep, slow, menacing voice of the main figure snapped Mr Grassley's eyes away from Draco to a sallow hook-nosed face. But not for long, as he could not but could not fight to resist snapping back to the young teenager in a black striped suit, a pair of what looked like crocodile-skin shoes peeking from under the legs, and three barely visible black buttons of the folded arms leading the eyes to the most delicious pair of pale, delicate hands which any man could ever hope would caress him.
"Mr Grassley, I would like for us to make this visit short," Snape said, looking down at the man in front of him. "It is our understanding you wield a significant amount of influence among your peers and other members in the Congress. And I am sure, Senator…"
Snape stressed the name to regain the man's attention after it went wondering to the backside of Draco, who had left Snape's side, strutted across the room, and picked himself up onto Mr Grassley's table; Mr Grassley's lips went white.
"…You'd prefer a bloodless coercion, so please, do pick up that foaming device and delicately communicate to very member of the House of Representatives and the Senate you believe you can sway your desire to see the Secretary of State deposed and replaced by a Pius Thicknesse, for whom you will vouch."
"You're mad!" Mr Grassley barked. "Who the bloody hell are you people?" His astonishment was however so great it managed to remove his eyes from Draco and again run them down the men's strange clothing. "First it's FDR's painting speaking, then a mob of—Are those wands?"
"Of particular importance would be…" Snape continued, before another cloaked figure stepped up and produced a scroll. His voice sounded rather boyish to Mr Grassley.
"Bob Dole, Trent Lott, Tom DeLay, Newt Gingrich, and John McCain."
With every name uttered by the cloaked figure, more lines sketched Mr Grassley's frown. He quickly threw a glance at his PA, who stood enthralled by the scene in front of him. He looked back at Snape, who stared back at him quietly. He quietly making his way to his seat, dropped himself into it, and rested his hands on his table.
With the corner of his eye he caught the silvery beam of the sheet of platinum-blond hair lying against a black jacket, and a hand held up to let the boy's lips close around his fingers to trim his nails, all in an express will to seem nonchalant. Yes, he was familiar with that adorable brand of naivety from adolescents. But he was acting no different; he too was trying to regain control of the situation by appearing imposing behind his desk.
"Here in the United States we don't yield to threats, Mr Snape is it?" Mr Grassley declared, apparently picking up on the British accents of the intruders.
"Then consider it while you yield to this," Snape replied. "Draco."
Draco looked up at Snape and stared at his expressionless face for a moment before he glanced at Mr Grassley. He looked back to Snape, a nail still hanging on one wet middle finger. He uncrossed his legs and scooted off the table, walked around it, and drew his wand. Elliot's head whipped around as if looking for somewhere to dive into for his safety.
"Young man, what are you doing?" Mr Grassley demanded, as he lent away from the stick – knowing exactly what it was. "Get that thing—Stop pointing that thing at me, godammit! Clarkson!"
"Daddy! I mean—Excuse me, young man! Do you know who you're pointing that thing at?"
"Draco, any moment now," chided Snape. "You took your father's life. This is hardly homework."
"Silencio," said one Death Brother, as he waved his wand in the air.
"Very good, Mr Felton. You learn fast," Snape drawled.
Before Draco could make up his mind, as he seemed to be trying to do, Mr Grassley lunged off his chair and was diving before orange spell-light ripped out of Draco's wand. Though Mr Grassley landed on top of Draco as he took them to the floor he did not enjoy the velvety push against his own flesh of his small body as a pain beyond any he could imagine stole the breath in his lungs and flung it out his mouth as a howl.
"Donald!" Elliot shouted in alarm as he saw his boss thrashing on the floor. "Young man, have you any idea what you're doing?"
"Finite Incantatem!" Draco shouted, as he kicked out until he was back on his feet. The man stopped writhing, his breath raspy, much like the rattling breath of a Dementor.
"Oh my God," Elliot was saying, as he rushed over to Mr Grassley. "Donald, are you all right?"
"You'll need to learn as fast as Mr Felton here, Draco," Snape advised, his black pits for eyes as dead as ever, but he had approached Draco at an intimate distance. "It's easier to cast spells against your peers. But that is fairly useless in a world controlled by grownups. You need to learn that you are now bigger than them. You have the power. Understand?"
Draco nodded, keeping his eyes on Snape, who nodded back and rounded the table halfway.
"Mr Grassley, are you now in a better position to oblige us?" he asked.
Elliot was helping Mr Grassley in his chair. Mr Grassley was waving his arms wildly and dreamily, his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, chest heaving. Elliot whipped out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the drool running down Mr Grassley's chin. It took several minutes before Mr Grassley's breathing normalized as he sat still in his chair, his hands and the muscles in his neck twitching violently.
"Mr Grassley," Snape drawled.
Mr Grassley remained relatively still for another few seconds before, slowly, he raised his head slightly, staring into Snape from under his forehead, and, voice still rattling, said, "America does not dance to the tune of terrorists."
"Ah," said Snape, as he began striding back to his original position. He eyed a Death Eater, who, as if acting upon a wordless order, moved out of the pack and approached the table. "Draco."
Draco threw a curse over his shoulder from where he sat on the table, before the piercing scream of the man rented the air. He quickly muttered the counter-spell and resumed inspecting his cuticles.
"Do you still feel the same, Mr Grassley?" Snape enquired, his back to Mr Grassley, the silky upstroke of his lilt telling of a vicious satisfaction on his part.
The sound of the screaming was replaced with more heavy breathing.
Hunched over his desk, his assistant's hand clamped around his shoulder, Mr Grassley again looked up from under his forehead at the greasy curtain of hair ahead of him. For rather longer than an instant his eyes then darted to the cashmere-suit-clad bum curving against his desk an arm and a half away from him. Anticipating his murder in his own office, he was determined to quench every desire for a boy he had ever harboured. A life filled with orgasms induced by images in magazines and videos in front of a computer was half a life. It was time to live. And he refused to believe this beautiful creation resting its bum on his table could ever take a life.
"Hurting me is not gonna help you," Mr Grassley gasped, resuming his glare on Snape. "I am a man who wears his country's colours on his sleeve."
"Crucio."
Snape's left hand twitched. He glanced over his shoulder.
"Finite Incantatem."
"I beg to know why you imagine that I am threatening your country, Mr Grassley. The patriotic talk is rather overdone and presumptuous. But yes, it seems to be a behaviour rampant even across Wizarding America. You people seem to have a compulsion to qualify all your arguments with the name of your country. Granted, your methods are concise and effective, but they lack flavour. I for one despise your potions. They flood our markets with flat generics with no other interesting properties but are strictly manufactured to perfection. It's almost unnatural. It's a colourless kind of efficiency of a colourless country."
The Death Brother who had walked over to the table slammed the receiver in front of Mr Grassley.
"Your answer will have to wait. Now, we must hurry with our dealings." Snape turned around to face Mr Grassley again. "You will pick up the foam and do as I requested. I haven't the luxury to wait any longer."
Mr Grassley had closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, his shaking arms still bracing him against the table. His hand reached for the rest of the device and brought it into arm's length. But the next second he flung it across his desk, pinning his glare on Snape again with even hotter fire.
"Is that a no?" Snape asked.
"It's a phone," Mr Grassley managed to squeeze out.
Snape raised his eyebrow. "Noted." And Mr Grassley sprung across his desk and threw his arms around Draco, who screamed at the top of his lungs.
Snape looked tired. "Plan B," he harrumphed. He turned on his heel and headed for the fireplace, muttering, "Draco, what is it with you and old men…?"
"Imperio!" the Death Brother shouted, after which the spell hit Mr Grassley squarely on his spine and he stopped molesting Draco. The Death Brother looked up at Elliot, who stared back into his eyes. One was just about able to register the soft jerk of Elliot's head sideways in silent entreaty.
"Avada Kedavra!"
There was another eruption of laughter from the table towards the back of the tavern. A man with a turban leaning over the counter with a tankard in his hand glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the boisterous patrons at the back.
"They're an amused bunch surely over there," he remarked. "They're really entertained by the beer." He had a jaunty, fruity voice which sounded capable of capering around and ahead of a conversation. It sounded like it bore all the energy and dexterity of an over-eager and precocious eleven-year-old desirous of proving himself competent in talking among grownups.
"Indeed," the bartender replied, in a grainy but no less fruity a voice than the one which preceded it. He spoke as he wiped a glass with a thick, grimy cloth that could pass for a fabric sash. "They've been at it for a while now. That man in the middle can never get enough drinks in him. Hold on, my friend, I'll be with you now."
The bartender left his customer shaking his head and smiling into his tankard as he went to serve another customer.
The table which was the subject of their quandary rattled again with laughter as the one man in the middle scratched his shining hooked nose in mischief. A row of yellow teeth could be seen peeking through his grin.
"But, alas, they never believe me until I show them the roadmap on my knee," the man was saying. The men around him wiped tears out their eyes. One of them, even as loud and drunk as he was, kept his words very polite as he asked for another round. No more than a minute later six more foaming tankards dripped beer on the table.
"There it is, my friend. There it is," praised the man that ordered. His voice sounded much younger and even fruiter than the pair at the counter.
As the drinks were distributed, the man in the centre of attention asked, "So tell me, my friends – onto serious matters – how did you experience the bombings?"
"The bombings?" said the one who had ordered. He enquired as if he were left breathless by the speed with which his fellow drinker had changed subjects. "You're asking of the bombings in Baitadi and, er, what's that other name? There's another office taken out in some other place. But they're far from here; I only heard about it. The Death Eaters, you know, You-Know-Who's people, were trying to get some information on the Indian government."
"Yes, I read something like that too," muttered the centre man.
"But it's a fool's quest to try to destroy the Indian government," said a drunk patron on the centre man's left. "They don't understand how we do things here. Merlin is with us. He'll keep the chests of our treasures safe. We trust in him more than the West does. He'll favour us more in the end." He began humming a sombre, rather sobering tune. The effect was immediate upon the crowd.
"Aaye," protested another man around the table, after several minutes of song, "we're spoiling the beer on sadness now. What kind?"
Meanwhile the man in the centre of the table spotted a patron at another table reading a newspaper.
"Do you want to read the paper?" asked the loud man. At times the bounce of his youth and the bendy intonations of his voice became rather grating to the hook-nosed man.
"No, that's not necessary, Aziz," replied the man, rather embarrassed.
But Aziz went over and again spoke to the reader of the newspaper in the politest tone ever that made it dangerously easy for any foreigner to underestimate him, as with many around the bar, and possibly beyond its walls. The reader, amazingly, obliged with a smile and handed the paper over. Aziz returned to the table and handed the centre man the paper.
"There you go, my friend. He didn't mind at all."
"Ah," hissed the man in delight, as he gave the paper a cursory glance, his face breaking into a wide smile. "Nothing like the feel of a fearless and objective paper in your hand – quite the rarity nowadays."
"Don't worry, my friend. This side of Magical India is not afraid of anyone," Aziz boasted, trying to frown as if serious, but the corners of his mouth were bursting wide with mirth. "They can tell you how we did the four previous premiers. Scandal after scandal! Hey, my Merlin! We're not afraid of calling a spade a spade! Don't you wonder why they call them premier-rovers? Mr Premier-Rover Gordhan is next to go soon after his scandal. There'll be one, don't worry. Wait, you."
The table burst into raucous laughter once more. The man holding the newspaper gradually disappeared under the table's renewed merry conversation about scandalous politicians, and too did his yellow grin as it faded while his eyes made their way down the front page.
MAV Testing for 'Your Own Good'
With new department unveiled, Ministry urges citizens to submit themselves for blood testing before crackdown
Barkha Sardesai, Chandra Singh & Spooner Langley
NEWLY appointed Minister for Magic Severus Snape has appealed to all witches and wizards to go for Magical Ancestry Verification testing, saying it will lead to a more harmonious citizenry.
"The time to bring to light those who have purported to be of our creed has come. No longer will Muggles, half-bloods, and Squibs languish comfortably in their skins knowing they are well concealed by how deep their roots penetrate the soil of our country. Britain has waited a long while to exhale," the Minister said, to stuttering applause. He was speaking at a public press conference at the Village Square hosted by the Ministry.
The call for testing is part of an initiative led by a new division in the Ministry specifically tasked with the rolling-out of MAV tests across the country: the Department of Magical Integrity. The new department as already set off on fulfilling its mandate, having reached several towns and villages.
Minister Snape said the Ministry, via the Department of Magical Integrity, was undertaking a consensus to find the makeup of the country's population and assured non-pureblood folk they were in no dangers of being ejected from Wizarding Britain or their possessions taken.
"For the better of the country and the promotion of the harmony of its citizenry, submit yourself to testing at the Ministry. It's for your own good," he said, falling short of calling the operation a purge. He added that if citizens failed to get themselves tested, for "the greater good the Ministry will come to the citizens".
Details remain sketchy of the exact process of the testing. However, there have been several reported cases of intimidation in mainly rural areas across Britain, including Hithergale, St Hedwig's, Crockertown, and Budleigh Babberton, where the arm of the law barely reached in previous dispensations. Minister officials maintained that these incidents were only in cases where citizens became unreasonable and defensive upon inquiry of their magical statuses before administering the test.
"People think it's a basis of humiliation for them, which is totally unnecessary," said Lox Winston, previously Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but has since been reshuffled into the new Department of Magical Integrity as its head. He outright rubbished surfacing claims that villagers were tortured.
Known for his blunt tongue and fearless impartiality, Winston's seeming cowing by the new regime was taken as a serious blow by many. Winston had a talent of chastising the Ministry and even his own department (Law Enforcement) if it stepped out of line or did not satisfy its Statutory mandate, a situation which became increasingly frequent after the retirement of acclaimed ex-Auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.
Minister Snape stepped up to take office after the sudden death of the previous Minister, Lucius Malfoy. Consequently several measures undertaken by Malfoy threatening to reverse the current economic system of the country to one of feudalism so cherished by the aristocracy lost legs. Malfoy owned several vast stretches of land across Scotland, Ireland, England, and even France that would have seen him and other old families regaining the economic stronghold. Snape has instead approached the job circumspectly, focussing mainly on warming relations with foreign nations, including Muggles ones.
[additional reporting by SPAM (Scottish Press Association of Magic)]
The room was dark save for small crescents of light seeping through the barred openings in the wall primitively made to serve as windows. In addition, torchlight from several blazing torches lining the circumference of the dungeon threw into relief three manacled figures lying against the grimy walls. Two stood on a patina of hay centimetres apart but both yards from the third figure, which sat alone on the other side of the dungeon. A person stood in front of the seated figure, hips cocked sideways.
"You're the most pathetic eyesore I've ever seen in my life!" Pansy Parkinson cackled at Harry below her. "Merlin, I didn't think you could top that moment when you were sitting there with your friends on the floor! But I find you here covered in your own vomit and crying your eyes out. Merlin's corns. After everything, after you lost, don't you at least hate yourself now, Potter?"
Harry did not answer. Neither did he look up at the girl. He kept his gaze in the hay next to him. Besides, it took all he had not to swallow. Being consciously watchful of his throbbing throat made the task that much more difficult. If only he could forget about it and act naturally. But he could not. He did not know if he ever could forget.
"Get the fuck away from him, Pansy!" roared Ron.
"Shut your cakehole, Weasley!" Parkinson shouted back. "I'm trying to talk to your boyfriend over here!"
Long used to the homosexual slight as a result of being close friends, Ron looked furiously on beside Hermione at the mop of blonde ringlets.
"Can't you see he doesn't want to talk, never mind to you?" Hermione yelled.
"Come on, it can't be that bad, Potter," Parkinson laughed viciously. She kicked at his feet and sneered at Harry but could not enjoy the taunts so much, as he was hardly responsive. "You've been round here a while before. Remember Hogwarts? Isn't it the same? Or is it different? I'd never know. Maybe it's smaller."
"The ugly cow won't get away from him," Ron hissed.
Hermione exhaled through her nostrils while her lips pressed upon each other in a familiar sort of way.
"Pansy, why aren't you off with Draco to America?" she asked suddenly. "I've heard it's a wonderful place for a holiday. Why leave you here in charge of us?"
"Draco's not in America on holiday, you daft bitch!" Pansy snapped, spinning around, and with rather more severity in her voice than usual. Her cheeks flushed as an almost petulant snarl grew on her face. "He's on some mission for the Dark Lord with the others. Of course I couldn't come."
"So he left you, to look after us," added Hermione, dropping the loft of her words at the end to affect a sad note in her tone.
"I know what you're trying to do and it's really pathetic!" Pansy shouted from across the room. But this was all she could say, for she turned around and kicked at Harry's foot again like a dead carcass.
Unlike Ron and Hermione, Harry's robe had been untied open and left him exposed; and unlike Ron and Hermione, he had been sitting on the floor, for days.
"How come your hero over here lost his voice?" Parkinson asked, almost breathlessly. She bent her knees to get a closer look at Harry. "Did you bite your tongue off when Draco was Cruciating you, Potter? Did you enjoy that?" Again, she was speaking fast but had lost her breathlessness, but clearly trying to forget Hermione's words.
Nostrils flared in disgust, Parkinson leaned closer into Harry as if by this she would find the answer she was looking for in his eyes, but Harry continued his deadpan stare at the ground. She turned her eyes on Harry's chest and traced it to the dried vomit that had run down to his groin, pooling there almost colourlessly, but with a tinge of green – mucous green. Parkinson also took in the fading pink of Harry's eyes, the moisture around them, and the tell-tale tracks of dried tears along his cheeks. She also noted Harry's engorged, bright-red lips, and looked again at the congealed mucous whose path was broken by Harry's pubic hair.
"Potter," began Parkinson, and for the first time there was a tiny note of sympathy and horror in her voice towards Harry, "what was Draco doing to you?"