AN(29/07/10): Here is the interlude. I had a little trouble finishing the Malfoy part since the beggining was so old, but I'm pretty proud of the others. I particularly enjoy the way some of them link with each other, and I took great care not to order them in any particular way because of it. Lets see... what else? Oh yeah, the formating messed up the Dobby part some but there's nothing I can do there...
Ah, and I'm still looking for help with the beta-job.
000
Dobby "the Elf" and the precious (surreptitious?) interlude.
It stalked.
Fast.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Unsmelled even.
It knew It was good.
Very good.
The Best.
The precious had seen to it.
But there was no place for arrogance.
It needed to make use of Its full skill!
The other It hadn't looked capable of defending Itself last time, but It had been held at the other's It mercy.
It didn't like it.
Not. One. Bit.
But revenge would be Its.
And then… and then the precious would be Its too!
And there would be much rejoicing.
And much blood that wasn't Its too.
Thus the rejoicing.
Still, for that to happen, It needed to be careful.
Not of the protections of the school itself.
Those had been laughable last time It had made Its attempt.
But the traps laid by Its target had been another matter altogether.
It could see now why Its precious was so interested in the other It.
And why Its master wanted to end the other It by using Its precious.
The other It was just bloody annoying.
Interesting, but so annoying.
Not for long.
It would see to it.
It reasoned that if It killed the other It then Its master would be satisfied and Its precious would have no reason to stay away from It.
And It longed for Its precious.
So much.
So It stalked.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Unsmelled even.
Its arcane power tensed like a bowstring.
And It fed too.
It couldn't not to.
It didn't mind.
How could It?
It was good for It anyway.
It wanted to be in tiptop form to battle the other It.
Even If It was getting rather full.
It found that to be strange since it hadn't happened last time.
Still, It couldn't back out now.
Even if It was really painfully full now.
It would soldier on.
It was sure that using Its magic now would result in a failed mission and It could take the pain.
Or not.
It had a pretty high threshold, but it was getting harder and harder to even move as it was…
Yeah.
It was too full.
It didn't want to die.
So It started to throw magic right and left.
It knew that third time is the charm anyway.
But somehow, It couldn't use the magic fast enough to get rid of it!
Get rid of It!
It was panicking now!
It couldn't use magic while moving with Its swelled body!
And if It just stayed in one place then It felt getting fuller and fuller.
It could tell It was getting rounder and rounder.
And It was starting to glow!
With Its last breath It screamed.
"PRECIOUUUUS!"
And the It was no more.
000
Cornelius Oswald Fudge and the tedious interlude.
Cornelius was a bored man. He was, in fact what some would have called an eulogy to boredom. A true paragon of everything boring and uneventful. If Cornelius was honest with himself (something he tried hard not to be. but then again nobody is perfect…), he had to admit that even this thing about him wasn't surprising in the least. For before he turned into a boring and bored man, he had been a rather boring and bored teenager and before that he had been a boring and bored child.
Still, today was a particularly boring day, which he guessed made it a somewhat exiting disturbance of his regular monotony in a twisted sort of way.
Why must things always be the same? Wake up, eat something, floo to the ministry (apparating made Cornelius very dizzy, which was a state of being that he equaled to being confused, which he hated, which was bad since it was a state of being in which he found himself more often than not), sit behind his desk, get his boots licked (not literally much to his dismay) by some random flunkies, then get his ass kissed by Dolores (which much to his shame did happen literally once when he was very, very drunk), get bribed by Lucius to force some law or another to get a favorable outcome with the wizengamot, hear Lucius tell him all about Dumbledore's little manipulations and plans to overthrow him and take over the ministry, then sleep.
It wasn't a bad existence per see. And Cornelius really liked the gold, and the ass-kissing, and the gold… and did he mention the gold? It wasn't like there was another reasonable thing to do that didn't follow more or less that pattern after all. Of course, he could do other things if he wanted to. Nobody told the minister what to do. But no matter how attractive the possibility of burning his clothes and run around imitating a mouse could be to one as bored as Cornelius, those things just caused problems in the long run. And while they were not boring, Cornelius didn't really enjoy problems either. Plus that one time he had gone ahead and done it, he'd needed to part with a rather large chunk of his hard earned bribe-gold to make sure that nobody remembered anything about it. And wasting gold was just plain wrong. Like a heresy or something.
So Cornelius had more or less resigned himself to a boring existence.
He stamped another pointless document with a random red marker as if to punctuate that thought. His method of dealing with paperwork was rather efficient as far as he was concerned (not so much for the fifty or so people who dealt with the mess after he was done with it, but then again all ups have their downs… and what did Cornelius care that he had just denied a paper that in truth was a copy of his next inaugural whatever speech?), even if it too only made his days all the more repetitive.
What Cornelius really missed was having Dumbledore as an ally. Lucius made a great conversationalist. He could talk for hours and hours and never stop but for the few seconds needed to adjust his golden locks from time to time, and never ever tire. But Lucius just wasn't a pink mage and no matter how hard he tried or how long he talked, he could never quite fascinate Cornelius the way his old transfiguration teacher could. In both cases, Cornelius really only got the gist of the conversation, but when it was Dumbledore rambling he felt content.
Truth to be told, he really couldn't explain why he wasn't in good terms with Dumbledore anymore. All he knew was that one day, his daily ramble hadn't been filled with nice expressions like the greater good and the power of forgiveness and love and found in their place complicated and convoluted sentences about the need for governmental dichotomy, the careful grooming of the future generations and the absolute necessity of segmentation of our efforts. When Cornelius had tried to explain that he was even more lost than what was usual, he had only earned frowning eyebrows and a quick "Youssa and Messa not be friends no more! Capisci?" and that had been the end of that.
Cornelius sighed. Well, maybe he should go visit Bartemius about this tournament thingy and see if the tasks were interesting. It might even make the day tolerable if there was potential maiming involved somewhere…
000
Hermione Jeanne Granger and the perplexous (not a word, I know) interlude (or how Old Man Nick is a downright meanie!).
A failure.
That was what she was. A teacher had all but stated it right in front of her and the class. And a worldwide famous teacher as well.
Hermione had thought that she was prepared for everything when she had made her way to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the world's most prestigious magical school, the place where she belonged.
Obviously, she had been wrong.
She had been prepared for the mockery that her classmates, who would most certainly be jealous of her amazing intelligence, would be sure to target her with. She had been prepared to be belittled by some of her professors for the same reason, like what had happened the previous year. She had even considered the possibility of being scolded by Albus Dumbledore, a man that all the books agreed was the wisest and most important man in the whole wizarding world (which obviously meant on Earth).
All but the last of her preparations had been tested, but that was alright because no matter how terrible it seemed, she was prepared and she could handle those horrible things.
But the thought that she would be made fun of by Albus Dumbledore's mentor, a man that was for all purposes a legend! That, she had most definitively not been prepared for.
And thus she had cried. And cried, and cried and cried. Until she was sure that if she kept going she would be completely dry (inside that is. her skin and clothes were most certainly drenched in salty liquid). And no matter the size of the humiliation, Hermione just didn't want to die. For one thing, she wouldn't get to complete her education (which was horrifying) and then there was the fact that every description of heaven she ever could find in a book didn't mention anything about there being a library in the after-life (and that was just behind words). Of course, most of the book's writers would be there too, but that didn't mean that they would be able to tell her what exactly they had written (though she didn't doubt that they'd be happy to tell her what they could since it would be heaven after all), and there was the fact that a good deal of the good authors hadn't really been good people too…
So she decided to stop crying.
She was still a failure, but that could change. She would just have to show everyone that she could be the best. She just needed to become Ministress of Magic.
000
Severus Snape and the instantaneous interlude.
Severus, as a rule, was not a happy camper. In fact, as far as he could remember he had never truly been happy at all. Or been a camper at all for that matter. But right now. Right Now. He was so far from happy that a lesser man would have worried about going round the twist and back at the opposite side of the coin and still have enough steam left to complete the ride back to annoyed at the very least. Thankfully for his reputation, Severus was not a lesser man and needed not worry about the indignity of such a thing.
The only real problem would have been that he would be ruining himself (what with having to buy new furniture every other day) if he hadn't known the repairing charm. As it was though, he could happily (but in a furious kind of way) tear his quarters apart and not worry about such petty things. For he had a lot of petty thoughts as it was anyway.
Now, the reason he stood so far removed from any state of being that could even remotely be called happy was right in front of him. It was right in front of him now to be exact. Severus just didn't believe in coincidences. He was much too aware of just how much of what the common folk thought as coincidences were, in fact, the results of very deliberate actions of a select few, to ever believe them to exist. All the more when he was the unfortunate target of it.
So did Severus think it was unreasonable to point his accusing finger to Harry Potter when this was the first time in ten years that he had reached this level of sheer rage? No. No he didn't. Not even for a single second. For before his eyes stood a pamphlet that had Potter written all over it (not being literal here).
The title said it all.
A Squib's guide to Muggle Hygiene. By Perry Cox.
There would be hell to pay. Harry Potter was responsible for this somehow and his death in the following days would most certainly not be a coincidence.
000
Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore and the ominous interlude.
He was a hero.
The man that everyone looked upon. A figure to emulate. Albus Dumbledore was an ideal for people to reach to. And that was just the way he liked it.
Really, what good was it to be a hero if people don't listen to anything one might say? What kind of man would bumble around, saving people left and right only to be so hated by the public that he could never avoid problematic situations and was fated therefore to deal with them until the end of times? Cassandra's curse was, in Albus not so humble opinion, one of the cruelest punishments that Apollo could have dealt the girl, but at least she had never done anything that should have earned her the right to be listened to. Cassandra quite simply had not been a hero. Of course, before being enslaved she had been a princess. But princesses were not heroes and heroes were not princesses. Heroes rescued princesses and that was it.
Yes, Albus Dumbledore had been a hero since a fairly young age, and been given several powerful gifts of the mystical kind in order to survive his destiny. If Albus were to be truthful (which was a laughable concept really, Albus hadn't been anything more than truthhalf for a little more than a century and most of that time he had been truthempty) with himself, he would have to admit that he had been miffed (read gob smacked) when it had turned up that his younger sister Ariana had inherited a gift that had nothing to do with princesses and belonged by everyone's admission to a hero. What was sweet little Ariana supposed to do with something like that, Albus couldn't even begin to guess; but the point was moot nowadays. He was here, after nearly a century and a half of heroing and she just wasn't. Sometimes he even wondered if anyone besides him and his brother even knew her name anymore at all.
Yes, Albus Dumbledore was the senior hero in these waters and had therefore been granted the boon of fame and love. That and a nifty little phoenix familiar thing. Truly helpful. Well, the soul-bonded familiar clause hadn't been all that great in the beginning. For one, the little terrorist had a nasty temper (the lad hadn't been named Fawkes originally. Charles-Mathews had earned it through many a damaged propriety bill and at least as much damaged flesh occurrences. why, Albus still had the oddly shaped trace from one particularly nasty burn on his knee from a downright violent temper tantrum…), and for two… well motive number two was unfortunately still a valid concern.
The kind of bond that Albus shared with Fawkes allowed, forced really, them to share sensory perception. That alone would have been an annoyance if Fawkes had been any other creature. But Fawkes was a phoenix. An Avatar of the undying flame. And thus, every time Fawkes died, Albus could see, hear, smell, taste and feel what death was truly like. It only lasted a second, but time had no particular meaning in the realm behind reality, and each time Fawkes died the phoenix spent what seemed to Albus to be an eternity drifting through the eternal rest, taking his strength back until such a time he was ready to rejoin the material world and be again. There only a second would have passed for all but Fawkes and Albus.
Those travels beyond the veil weren't taxing per say. In fact, they were mostly relaxing and joyful. Albus got to say hi to old friends and to just allow himself to be free of all burdens. But there was a darker aspect to it. Albus could on those occasions watch what was the fate of the various souls that had moved on. And he did not like what he saw. For there was such a thing as eternal torment to the wicked and he found that to be horrifying. He had put some of the people that he had seen agonizing without end the first time he had taken a look, to Death himself. And he couldn't help but blame himself. He was the hero. He was not supposed to be cruel. Most of those times he had killed he probably could have come up with a way to avoid doing so if he had tried hard enough. And because he hadn't found it to be important at the time, these people, wicked as they may have been never got a chance to redeem themselves and were now suffering much more than what they could have hopped to inflict in a thousand years.
And that was his burden.
To tell things plainly, he could never kill anymore. Because for one, there was always another way, and everybody could be redeemed. Albus had seen the fate of kind souls and he did not worry for them for they truly found peace and happiness in Death, but he could not help but try to help those he knew would not be so warmly welcomed after meeting their end. He did whatever he could to help them, the misguided, the lost. Whatever it took. Even at the cost of the innocent. The sad truth was that Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore would sooner sacrifice all the innocents in the world if it meant one more chance for a damned soul to repent. All but his own life. For, if not him, then who would even try?
He was a lie.
A hero that concerned himself more with the well being of his enemies than his allies was no hero at all.
All in all, Albus considered himself to be a heroic liar.
000
Draco Malfoy and the wondrous interlude.
Draco Malfoy wasn't one to think too much about life. In fact, Draco Malfoy wasn't a great thinker at all. Well, not at eleven anyway. But, like a great many wonderful thinkers and philosophers discovered prior to him, Necessity and Suffering are very nurturing parents as far as thinking is concerned. And right now, Draco Malfoy was suffering a great deal.
It hadn't started bad at all. Such things never do after all. He'd had a glided life; his every whim had always been attended to (except for that time when he'd asked for a phoenix familiar… but that is neither here nor there. he didn't want a stupid phoenix anymore anyway). Of course, it wasn't all fun and games either. Draco was the sole heir of the vast Malfoy's fortunes, but that was a mixed blessing at best. Without a younger, less worthy, sibling to boss around Draco needed to be able to manage the family's finances as well as the political interests that came with it.
So, of course, his parents had given instruction to the house elf scholar (a poor lad named Alby) to teach young Draco the most purebloodish arts as well as the most basics ones. Sadly for the most Wealthy and Bigoted house of Malfoy (title assigned by the King himself), there is only so much information that a bound elf can force-feed a spoiled and stubborn three years old boy who just happens to be heir to the elf's house. Poor Alby tried his very best, manipulating the youngling with all his worth, but only ever got decent results. No excellence from this one, no Sir. Still, Draco got a good grasp of reading, proper hierarchy, and backstabbing. The results were far from stellar with subtlety, mathematics, etiquette, and dark arts theory, though. The least said about fencing and general magic theory the better.
All in all, Draco Malfoy thought that his life could have been better, but he admitted that it still was rather good to be him. Well, at least until he turned eleven and went to Hogwarts (the best magic school in the world!). For, you see, all good things must come to an end (oddly, the reverse doesn't tend to be true). And that they did for young Draco. The fact that he was right now bringing all those memories back to life while desperately trying to get free of the broom-cupboard he was locked in was a strong indicator.
The struggle was futile, he knew, since the upper Slytherin student had used a spell on the damned door; but what else was he to do? Sitting in the dark wasn't an appealing idea after all (for his father had told him once that there was only so much brooding that one could do in life before needing to take matters in one's own hand and do the work that needed to be done. and Draco, prompted by his natural dislike of the very word work decided to save his brooding minutes for when they would serve him the best, teenagehood).
The sad truth was that, aside from himself, all the horrible things that had happened to him since the start of Hogwarts could only be linked to one boy. Harry Potter. He remembered his boarding on the Express quite clearly (it hadn't been that long ago after all). After a formal nod from both his parents and a meeting with his lackeys (vassals, really, but for the life of him, Draco couldn't tell if there was a difference between the two), he had looked around for a compartment to settle down. Of course, he could have just picked one of the numerous ones that were empty even this close to the departure (a pureblood, like all proper wizards, is never early nor late, always just on time), but it was a perfect occasion to remind some of the filth their place. He had searched around a bit, and found a group of what could only have been some of those disgusting muggleborns he had been warned against. After casually ordering his hired muscles to expulse them, he had comfortably settled himself.
And then… and then! He couldn't even think about it any more without going straight into murderous fits of loathing (not that he found anything wrong with acting thus, but somehow, a older student that reported to his father had sent a memory vial of one such happenstances. and somehow his mother had seen it. and thought it to be cute). The truth is that he still wasn't even sure about what had happened back then. He had put his most dignified air like one would wear a particularly gaudy hat (poor Alby had much trouble looking dignified himself, so Draco only ever had his father as a model) and gone looking for possible allies. And found Harry Potter. Legendary status? Checked. Hermit, unlikely to have any unwanted prior affiliations? Checked too. Draco had found the perfect sucker. Someone he could make quick use, milk for all his worth, and then backstab without having to fear about retaliations from angry relatives or allies.
Unfortunately, when Draco had gone ahead and poked the boy, (in order to execute the beginning of his brilliant plan Harry needed to be awake, after that he could sleep through everything if he so wanted) all he had gotten was a glare and a "What is this? No-rest-land? I don't care if you want me to tattoo my name on your left butt cheek. Go away and come back when I don't feel like throwing you through a window. And don't forget your puppets!" for his trouble. After that he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, by his own vassals much to his surprise and anger. Much to their own surprise too it seemed (although that was not something Draco got from their expressions. they both wore a perpetual confused look of threatening dismay that was impossible to visualize without witnessing it first hand. Draco had asked his mother about it once and been told that they had most likely been cursed that way for falling to grasp the mechanism of proper facial schooling, in the tenuous hope that it would serve them well enough in most situations. Nothing, his mother had told him, can look that stupid without either being cursed so or down right faking it.).
Still, even if he hadn't understood what had happened in the least, even if he had been humiliated by Potter, he just couldn't let go of his one golden chance of taking advantage of a (almost) peer. And really, he hadn't even been able to give his name to Potter in the rush. While Potter was a hermit, Draco had doubted that he would be so isolated as to not even hear of the Malfoys. Everybody knew about the Malfoys. He had though that he would just have to try again and backstab him twice as hard in the end to satisfy Vengeance. He had tried to do so just after the sorting.
And he had been mocked for it.
He hadn't even been capable of answering the slight. Nobody had ever mocked him before. None had dared. Before boarding the train, Draco had been covered by the protective hand of his father's name and status, and while his father still could protect Draco if he judged it to be needed, Hogwarts was neutral grounds as far as Slytherin was concerned. Slytherin kids had seven years to play power games between themselves without too much outside interference because it was a good learning experience. At that point, two factions had warred inside of Draco. There had been the Potter is dead, long live Malfoy party and the don't gut the cow till it's dry lobby. In the end, the second had won by simply pointing that Potter hadn't been paying attention to the sorting in the least and that he most likely still hadn't known who he was.
But then, each subsequent meeting had gone worse than it's predecessor, until one day, he had been called little D. It was a horrible nickname, but frankly he had had worse from his mother. If it had just been the indignity of it all, Draco could have supported it. But it was the proof that Potter did know his name. And didn't care. From then on, it had been open warfare. And still, he kept losing. And then… and then…
Well, then things had culminated with him being berated for mishandling a runic device… And now he was locked in a stupid broom cupboard without a way out. And in a sense he knew that this was his place. He was suffering, but from suffering he would obtain his drive and just as the pieces of would are carved by the crafter into what will one day sear through the skies, he would rise to the challenge and be better of it.
As soon as he got out of the damn cupboard.