Singing Sirens

"Macalister! Get back to work! Those forms aren't going to file themselves, you know!" An irate voice pulls me away from studying my oh so interesting cup of coffee.

"Yes, Mr. Fudge. Right away, Mr. Fudge." I school my features into one of a simpering Ministry brownnoser. Inwardly, I mock the man who had never really given up on his love of feeling power.

Urgh. The things I do for the Light.

Lord Potter ought to give me a medal for having to deal with this sorry son of a gun on a day-to-day basis. Hah. An Order of Merlin for 'Dealing with Ministry Incompetents in Order to Help Them Engineer their Own Falls' sounds nice. Never gonna happen, but amusing to think about.

I continue to scrabble for a specific manila file folder, giving at least the appearance of doing something for my blithering idiot of a boss.

What was it again? Oh yeah, something about new data of the comparative power of Muggleborns versus purebloods…

A sound breaks me from my train of thought. And, for once, it isn't the sound of a fresh pot of coffee in the pot.

"Oh, my bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea…"

Is that… singing? Gads, that's awful. Sounds like a rusty trumpet on steroids, in my opinion…

"Oh, just SHUT UP!" Fudge loses his temper at whatever the singing object is, but instead of trying to finite its charm(s), he slams an upside-down coffee mug on it in an attempt to muffle it.

"My bonnie lies over the ocean, Oh bring back my bonnie to me!"

Fudge's attitude changes in a millisecond. A slightly eerie smile grows on the elderly man's jowly and normally scowling face. "Oh, Dollie-poo?" He calls into the hall. "Where is my lady Dolores?"

"Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me, to me!"

And then he starts singing along to the children's tune.

"Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me, to me!"

Fudge really cannot sing. No wonder he always hated the opera.

And then I see one of the weirdest things in my life.

Cornelius Oswald Fudge, former Minister for Magic, age 86, starts skipping down the hall, calling in sugary tones for Madam Undersecretary Dolores Umbitch… er, Umbridge. Not to mention he's still trying to sing along to the tune of 'My Bonnie lies over the Ocean.' His voice sounds more like an old piano in the process of being tuned than that of a human's vocal range.

Being of an age in which one does not skip, nor sing little children's tunes unless one is playing with the grandkids, I strongly suspect that Fudge is under a combination of souped-up cheering charms, a minor compulsion spell, and a modified Confundus hex.

Oh dear. More paperwork for us.

I snap my hanging jaw shut before I attract flies.

I really did not need to see that. I think I may be permanently scarred.

I sigh, and dive back into my office space on the pretext of finding that file again. Once there, however, I get myself a new cup of coffee and the weekly word puzzle out of the Quibbler.

Let's see… What is a four-letter word for a Dog of Death, Doom, and Destruction…?

Later…

Fudge returns a few hours, covered in cotton-candy colored lipstick and looking both a bit elated and mildly disgusted.

Is that combination even possible

Oh well.

I think that he's still partially under the influence of whatever charm that was. Otherwise, he'd be looking totally revolted.

By the moment, the elderly Fudge's complexion grows more and more ruddy, and his light brown eyes more and more bloodshot. His chest wheezes a bit with every breath, even as his musculature works its hardest to move his paunch up and down, in and out. The old man's hands shake, and beads of sweat form upon his brow.

I'm a little concerned. After all, I don't want the former Minister to pass out in front of me, suffer cardiac arrest, and die before he reaches St. Mungo's. "Are you all right, Mr. Fudge?"

"I'm fine, Macalister. Or, at the very least, I will be. I don't think my reputation will recover from this, however. I know I passed the good Ms. Skeeter on my way to the Ministerial offices. It will be all over the papers by tomorrow morning."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Yes! Now I can go back to the Department of Mysteries where I belong, and away from this blasted fool.

"I believe I shall resign this afternoon, and cite my ailing health as my reasoning. Maybe I'll take a vacation in the Bahamas, I hear it's wonderfully warm this time of year…"

"Sir? What happened, exactly, if you don't mind me asking?"

Emotions war in Fudge's face before he answers, from shame to resignation to disgust to that sickly-sweet smile he wore before he left the office. He opens his mouth, however, and says, "I believe the most accurate words to describe my last few hours would be that I put myself in a rather compromising position with Madam Umbridge. And I didn't have the sense to, well, snog her brains out in her office. Of course it would be in full view of Aurors Proudfoot and Shacklebolt, and most of the rest of the Ministerial floor once word got out of my… temporary insanity."

"Ah."

Just then, the bell tolls five-o-clock, the most sacred hour of the working Ministry.

Saved by the bell.

"I'm afraid that I have an appointment, Mr. Fudge. I must take my leave."

"I must do the same." Fudge rises from his chair. "I'm going to give Scrimgeour my resignation. Goodnight, Macalister."