House: Gryffindor
Class: Muggle Studies
Category: Themed
Prompt(s): [Pairing - Romantic] Dolores Umbridge and Albus Dumbledore.
[Discovery] Finding out something new, going on an adventure to discover something. Discovering yourself.
Word Count: 2557
Thank you, NightRaven789 and CelesteMagnolia for editing. All other mistakes are my own.
A table set for fifteen guests, for fifteen little creatures.
Fifteen small, painted saucers were polished clean and filled with painted goods. Oh, the goods that filled them!
Five crème brûlées with crusts so crisp that when they cracked, their sound was like a sharpened quill on parchment. In four, tasty condensed milk so thick it stuck to the back of one's tongue. Three saucers held vanilla pudding and smelled like fresh vanilla beans. In two, whipped butter on two silver spoons- a finely picked assortment. In one was the crown jewel, the finest of desserts: a fine rose mehalabya with essence and orange blossom water.
Here to host this feast was a doting, painted woman. Her name? Dolores Umbridge. Occupation? Mother.
She lay a freshly-pressed silk painted napkin under each painted place and fluffed the painted pillows on the wooden stools. Then sat, but did not cross her legs, so as not to mar her finely painted coral pink tweed suit.
She checked the painted clock. A quarter past twelve. She sighed and stood and paced about the painted room.
We are off schedule, no doubt. If tea starts at twelve-thirty, then we will miss Coronation Street at one.
She opened up the painted door. No painted kittens. Not a single fluffy, pointed eared, fuzzy tailed, mewling kitten stood behind it.
"Again," Dolores said. "They're late again. Where are those little rascals? Where are those naughty kittens?"
But like a curse, the kittens did not come.
She waited but five minutes more, then ten, then thirty.
I do it all for them. I get the most delightful desserts, the richest creamiest of treats, I lay my best linen and I fluff up their cushions just so and still, they do not come in time for tea.
She paced the room and picked their little painted hairs off the cushions.
Those pesky things. I ought to never feed them! Why back in my day cats would eat whatever scraps fell on the kitchen floor and they'd demand no more!
Only when the clock struck two did they come waddling back into her painted room, their eyes drooping. They settled on the pink cushioned sofa, they curled on the warm window ledge, they stretched out on the persian rug and fell into a full-belly sleep.
"My Mabel, darling," said Dolores, picking up the painted tabby, "some mehalabya? You'll like it."
She held a spoonful of the treat before her lips, but Mabel turned her head from left to right and squirmed right from her grasp.
Someone is feeding my kittens, my babies, my precious little furballs, Dolores thought. I must discover who it is if only to satisfy my nerves.
So the following day, Dolores set the table once again for tea and acted like there was no problem. She hummed away and turned an eye as every little kitten snuck out the portrait's door crack. This time, Dolores followed suit.
She slid along her painting's frame and found herself inside her neighbour's room. It was difficult to see the quaint paysage behind its striking subject. The Fat Lady, an opera singer, squealed and spread her arms.
"Dolores? I expected you next Friday for my concerto," she said, waving her pretty fan before her cheeks. "I'd offer tea. Alas, you see, I am rehearsing now. Rossini's aria, if you care to know, requires full attention."
Dolores huffed. "It's bad enough my portrait hangs an inch above yours, Lady Spriggs. I must endure your incessant wailing daily."
With that, she brushed right past her.
Her kittens slipped past every paysage, they navigated around every naturmort, they gripped on every gravure and pittered past the portraits. Dolores had to endure unpleasant conversations around each corner. Here, Anne Boleyn tried to twine about her devil-husband. There, Merlin could not find his sword (again). How inconvenient their problems should arise when she had plenty of her own.
Finally, the little felines stopped and snuck into a slightly opened door.
At last, I will discover where they go, Dolores thought with glee.
What did she see through the brass peephole?
A tea party, set for sixteen guests. Her kitten brood sat on the floor and lapped away at fifteen tiny china saucers of every shape, size, and colour imaginable. Not like her fine Royal Paragon. And in those saucers? Milk. Plain and ordinary.
At the foot of this charade sat none other than a finely dressed fiddle of a man. Of course, old Albus Dumbledore, the twinkle-eyed jester of the school. He tried to trick her once into a harmless glass of ratafia in the newly hung Matisse, but Dolores was no fool. Any Rendez-Vous inside Matisse at eight in the evening was bound to end in footsie games underneath the table.
She would not let that fiddle play her twice. To think she suspected a mighty heist led by a conniving master? Ha, and ha again! But did he change his beard? It was much longer than when last she saw him. No? The less she saw of him, the better. She'd show that gaffer where lobsters spent their winter, and so she gave a little knock on the door and cleared her throat.
At once, those fifteen little faces scrammed about the room. They hid beneath the fallen books and snuck behind the knick-knacks on the shelves. Then, the host himself came to the door.
"Ahem, am I interrupting?" she asked sweetly.
You should have seen that gaffer's face. It feigned a child-like surprise.
"Why, Dolly? To what do I owe the pleasure? A spot of tea for you, since ratafia is not to your liking?"
"Dolores…and I take my tea without deception."
"Deception? Where, my dear? Perhaps my spiff new beard offends you?"
"You had a beard?"
"Oh, Dolly-"
"Mr. Dumbledore-"
"So formal. This is no grand occasion. Just an old man and these delightful kittens enjoying each other's company. Although, it seems not at present."
"And that, my respectful colleague, is just the issue. These are my kittens you have snubbed."
"Snubbed!" he said, amused. "Assuredly, I am too old for snubbing. Your kittens come by their own choice. I only pour the milk-"
"Last month, a small glass of ratafia between old colleagues, and today, a plate of milk inside your chambers. Will your devices ever stop emerging? Don't look at me. Although my eyes are painted, you still vex them."
The man laughed gently, "So I do vex them after all. Dolly, dear, is that a compliment I hear?"
Here, a blush crept on the woman's cheeks and they became as pink as her tweed jacket. "I'll come in now and take my little ones back home. And mind your tongue, I once held a higher post than you inside this very school."
"My neck is sore from all the looking up I do with you," he said with a wink. "You aim to herd your kittens by the lot? This method I observe and note. "
He let Dolores walk into the center of the room with strong intention in her pose. She cleared her throat and crouched.
"Minou…Muffy….Melvin….Molly….Minnie…."
She clapped her hands and cooed, "Oh, Mitten….Mipsy…Mitzen…Mooney…Martin…Merlin…Marbles….Memphis…Milly…Mabel, darling!"
Not a single pair of eyes blinked from the shadows.
"My littles, mummy set your favourite morsels out. The creme brulee, the sweet condensed milk…if you come home now, I won't be so cross."
This certainly was no reward for fifteen sated kittens.
"Dolly, despite your good intentions, I wonder if such sugar-filled desserts are foods the kittens will enjoy," the fiddle whispered in her ear. "I, however, am intrigued by your desserts."
The shiver that crept up her spine was certainly a trick of her imagination. She clenched her fists and called again.
"Kittens, come out right this instant. Or else I'll tie your tails into a knot."
The kittens whispered a collective mew. It was as though they plotted, too. And then, like one collective bunch, they sprang out from the shadows and ducked between her legs and bounced out the door. They ran so fast, that the woman tipped right on her bottom and kicked her heels straight up into the air.
She had to stand, but standing did not come so easy. So when the old fiddle's hand reached out to help, she had no choice but to accept it.
"This is not over, Dumbledore," she cried. "There will be consequences."
"I wait in stark anticipation. And next time, perhaps, we can discuss this over tea. Do bring your treats with you as I'd hate to see them wasted. "
"Sad, but there will be no next time," Dolores said, and with a huff straightened and smiled, "Good evening."
True to her convictions, her kittens would not drink that putrid milk again. She shut the door and put the key inside her pocket. She closed the windows and pulled the curtains shut.
"Now my little ones, you'll be in here, safe with me. Do not worry, that scary old stump will not give you that ghastly milk again," she said and held little Mabel to her chest. "You like it here, you do, don't you?"
Mabel squirmed out of her embrace.
"Why you little- I'll teach you to run, you spoiled little ones. Come now, it's time to be educated and indoctrinated."
Educated? Indoctrinated? The kittens mewed between themselves. They'd never played that game before.
The next morning, Dolores set to work. In the room, she set her blackboard and found a fresh piece of chalk.
On the board, she wrote in large print. 'Class number one, a lesson in listening. Ten A.M.'
The kittens wiggled their whiskers. What an amusing game indeed.
Dolores gave the kittens seats, fifteen little desks made out of books. On every desk, a feather, ink and a clean page of parchment paper.
"Ahem, ahem. The lesson is in session," the stern professor said, "please take your seats, my feline pupils, it's time that we begin your training. You'll learn today to write your name. You'll learn to understand when I am calling you over and there will be no repeat of yesterday afternoon's...mishap. Each one of you will see a feather. The feather is used for writing. Beside it is a little page, you'll take your notes with caution."
The kittens listened; they really tried. The feather was so fun to flick and the kittens got to flicking.
"No darlings, keep your hands to yourselves," Dolores said as calmly as she could. "Or rather, paws. The ink is made for dipping."
For dipping? We will try. The kittens dipped their nails inside the black. This ink, they did not like too much, it stained their paws and smelled poorly.
Let's rub it off our paws, they cried and hopped about the floor.
"Stay in your seats! However, will you write if you just run about the room? This is not the proper way!" Dolores cried. The kittens needed training.
"Here's how it's done," she said and kneeled before one kitten's desk. The desk was small, but it was good for them, she knew. Even kittens needed structure. Their paws? Perhaps they were too small to hold a feather. However, with their teeth, it might prove simpler.
"Look here," she said and wrote her name by tilting her head sideways, feather in mouth. "Dol-or-res Um-brid-ge, there."
The kittens watched, amused. Their giant mother wanted them to hunt the feather. It was a challenge. They hopped on her and grabbed the feather from her mouth and tossed it between themselves.
Dolores hopped about the room. She hopped so fast, that she fell against the window and opened up the shutters.
The sun shone so brightly! The kittens hopped up on the ledge and ran into the meadow.
"You naughty kittens, you naughty rascals," Dolores cried. "It isn't one. Come back, the class is still in session!"
But kittens know the clocks, as well as they know ink, parchments, and classes. (That is to say, not well at all.) The game was over when they willed it, and kittens will whatever they please. They played all morning in the field and at twelve sharp, ran off to tea with good old Dumbledore.
"This will not do," Dolores said, "What does he have that I do not?"
She crashed into a pink, velvet chair and made herself a compress of cold water. What did the fiddle have that made him so enticing?
No, she did not need her kittens. She'd live alone and have a grand old time. Perhaps she'd learn to sing and join the Fat Lady for a night of singing arias? Maybe, she'd take up stitching or re-read her novellas.
She would do just fine.
It took Dolores a whole day to see it was quite the opposite. The painted room was quiet. Dolores did not like it.
Perhaps she'd take the fiddle up on his suggestion after all. Dolores gathered up her treats and placed them in a basket. Defeated, she strode off towards Dumbledore's painting and at his door, knocked softly.
"Dolores?" said the doting voice. "You've come to scold me? Here I am."
"Do not trifle with me," Dolores moaned.
Seeing her distress, Dumbledore let her in without another word. He let her sit on his favourite chair and propped her feet up on an ottoman. He gave her a tartan quilt and a fresh spot of tea.
"Do help yourself," she said. Dumbledore peeped into the basket.
"Mehalabya? A favorite, you spoil me, Dolores," he said. He took his treat and settled down across from her. "Tell me, have you rounded up your kittens?"
"Those kittens are not round-up-able. Those rascals need a proper education."
"You plan to give it, I presume?"
"With a proper school, the curriculum would need to be adjusted."
Dumbledore grinned, holding her hand, "A school for kittens? Why, Dolores, I suspected you had a touch of folly in you, but only now did I discover it was true."
"There is no folly in the class. All children need to listen. Although, the kittens, I see now, need different instruction." Her kittens quivered in the shadows. "You hear that, kitten-children? Tomorrow class resumes again!"
Dumbledore gave a nod and reassured the kittens otherwise.
"A professor's work is never done. Dolly, don't exhaust yourself so. Let's leave the tutelage to the young and learn to ease our grip. You'll find that others come to you when you do not restrict them."
Here, Mabel jumped into his lap and purred as he scratched her ears.
"You'll spoil them, they've been spoiled enough."
Dumbledore sighed. "I am incorrigible, but under your strict instruction, even an old dog such as myself might learn a few tricks."
"You said?"
"I'd like to offer my assistance. Tomorrow, might I sit and watch you teach? If you recall, I taught a bit in the past…"
Dolores considered the offer. The old fiddle's offer had merit, four hands would be better than two.
"It might be helpful. You may wash the writing tools after we have completed the session."
"I will help where I am needed. Now don't strain your voice, do have another sip of Ceylon. My personal favourite."
They exchanged a knowing glance. Tomorrow, the school for kittens would be double staffed.
