Chapter Two :
As D J Prod surveyed his new 'office', he found it difficult to not let out a groan.
The room was circular and had a high vaulted ceiling; the place must have been a make-shift Owlery once – judging by the moulted feathers and bird droppings littering most of the floor, and that unmistakeable funky smell that clung to every surface. Spider webs, turned brown with settled dust, hung thick and low – looking like cottony tapestries. And beneath all the inches of dust and muck he could almost hear the scurry of small rodent feet. Apparently, someone had not received the memo for a spot of cleaning up here.
Resignedly, he took out his wand and set about casting several of the cleaning spells he knew. The end result did not look as squeaky-clean as he had hoped, but at least now the room wouldn't promptly kill someone with allergies.
He levitated the few boxes containing all his worldly possessions into the small storage-room and conjured necessary furniture. He finally stepped into the middle of the room and surveyed what was to be his work place for who knew how long…he replayed the conversation he had had earlier that week with the Minister himself.
OoOoO*~***~*
D J Prod had received an official looking Owl informing him to report to the Ministry at the specified time and date; it had the word 'URGENT' stamped across it. He had dutifully done so, and was bewildered to no small mount when he had been ushered immediately towards the office of the Ministry of Magic himself, complete with an escort of two surly looking Aurors.
Heart almost beating outside of his chest and his head at the point of explosion as he tried vainly to recall what exact crime he had committed to warrant this, but his life up till that point had been so mundane and uneventful – painfully boring, even – that he could come up with nothing even vaguely incriminating. But there had been that one time when he had got absolutely sloshed last Christmas and had got violently sick behind the Christmas tree near the Portkey Office – the Portkey Handlers were enraged, having slaved over decorating the tree for two days with various old portkeys (such as dog whistles, mittens, keys, and curiously a large number of small coloured metal cylinders with 'DuraCell' written on them), they had threatened to portkey the perpetrator to New Jersey when caught. He had wisely stayed off that floor since then. May be someone had now found out and had reported him. It must have been that Handler Susbean – he had been looking at him funny since The Incident. And now he was being dragged across the plush purple carpet to the Minister's office; may be to be publicly humiliated for befouling the tree, or even fired, or may be he was going to be thrown into Azkaban…damn you, Susbean! And damn Plenwitt to eternal hell for making my life miserable! He cursed under his breath as he was shoved into the office, and the door immediately closed behind him.
"Hello, Mr Prod!" it was Minister Fudge, rising from his seat behind the glossy, mahogany desk. "I hope you've been doing well?"
Fudge smiled genially and extended his hand towards him. Confused, he clasped the Minister's podgy hand within his own sweaty palms and just stared.
"Please, do sit," Fudge said withdrawing his hand and surreptitiously wiping it inside his robe pocket.
He ambled into one of the chairs and continued to stare.
"Tea?" Fudge asked pointing at a small pot on a silver tray. He shook his head.
"Alright, then," Fudge smiled again.
"Now, Mr Prod," Fudged launched again after a few moments, "I hear you are quite an asset to the Ministry. Your superior-" he rummaged within a file set before him, "—Mr Plenwitt at the Ministry Files Division informs me that you've been an excellent employee of the Ministry for the past…" he looked once again into the file.
"Eight years, sir – nine by the end of this month," Prod supplied in a small voice. He had no idea why the Minister himself was going through his work records, and if he knew that wanker Plenwitt, he wouldn't have ever described him as an 'asset'. In fact Plenwitt was someone who would be the primary suspect if he ever got poisoned, or stabbed by a quill, or choked on a hanger (Prod had eavesdropped on some of his Superior's homicidal mutterings regarding him). In short, Plenwitt was a first-class wanker who had it in for him since the first day on his job and he had accidentally eaten the last remaining blueberry cupcake baked by his mother (Prod maintained that the said cupcake was on his desk and therefore its ownership automatically transferred to him) and the petty wanker had harboured a grudge ever since. Plenwitt was the reason he had nearly died of Fire Whisky induced over-dose on Christmas Eve, as he had evilly spiked the bowl of pumpkin juice and enchanted it to make it undetectable..
"Ah!" Fudge exclaimed happily. "Almost a decade! Almost a decade of exemplary service as a File Division Assistant, I dare say."
"Junior Assistant," Prod mumbled.
"Splendid! Splendid!" Fudge said clasping his hands together. Prod frowned; seemed like he wasn't being fired afterall, and he got the feeling that neither did the issue at hand seem to revolve around an ornamental tree standing in a pool of sick.
"Mr Prod," Fudge addressed him again looking down at the file, "can I call you, er, D J?"
"Just call me Prod!" he said hastily. "Prod will be fine."
"Very well then," Fudge closed the file and rested his intertwined fingers over it. "So, Prod, do you agree that the Ministry has been doing a rather remarkable job, if I can say so myself, in these Dark times?"
"Yes, sir!" he said without missing a beat, because one of the only things he had learnt at his time in the Ministry was that you always agreed to your boss - whether you really meant it or not. Fudge smiled.
"And would you say you are a loyal employee of the Ministry?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Jolly good, my man!" Fudge beamed. "So, you can be depended upon to be entrusted with matters of utmost importance, matters so delicate that their exposure might threaten national security? Matters I am reluctant to even share with my closest aides?"
Fudge furrowed his brow and peered at him solmenly.
"Y-Yes, sir," Prod said with a bit of hesitation.
"Splendid!" the Minister exclaimed again. "So, I take it that the matter I'm going to discuss with you would not go beyond the walls of this office?"
"Yes, sir," Prod said now slightly alarmed – the Minister wanted to discuss matters of National importance with him? "I mean, I'd never disclose anything that would jeopardise the Ministry."
"Good," said the Minister, "Now, have you heard about the new Educational Decree Number One-Hundred And Thirty-Four?"
"er, no sir," Prod said still unsure what all this had to do with him.
"It states," began the Minister extracting a mauve-coloured parchment with the Ministry Seal from the file and reading its contents, "that every educational institution in Britain is required to have on the staff a trained professional who would specifically cater to the needs of the students' psychological needs, helping to cope with stress, dilemmas or any excessive demands on their fragile, developing minds – to ensure the well-being of their mental states and healthy development of their psyches. The professional would also help students cope with emotional states, common to the developing adolescents, and offer adequate help in a friendly, secure, lawful and professional manner."
Fudge finished and put the parchment away, "quite a useful little Decree, you might agree. My aides, er, the chaps at British Wizarding Educational Reforms Council have just sent me the draft to sign on – hardworking little buggers they are!"
"er," said Prod very confused.
"Now, you may already be aware of my concerns regarding how the tender, impressionable minds of young witches and wizards of our country can be easily influenced, especially by - shall we say—certain manipulations by the wrong forces?" Fudge began and Prod's confusion deepened. "And I'm sure you can appreciate the dangers of such manipulations, especially in our educational institutions?"
"er, yes," Prod agreed.
Fudge launched into speech :
"Good fellow! And now, perhaps, you would understand my concerns regarding the nature of information given to students and whether it may be knowingly intermixed with dangerous propaganda against the Ministry's authority? Imagine, my boy, of what that would lead to! The students must be protected!"
Prod backed away slightly from the desk to avoid being sprayed with spit.
"And the Ministry shall protect the dear students! I would do everything in my power to stop the brain-washing of students at Hogwarts!" the Minster exclaimed passionately and took several breaths to calm himself down.
Hogwarts? The pieces suddenly fell together in Prod's mind after the Minister had let slip the real issue behind all of this. Of course, Hogwarts! Everything now made sense; Fudge's paranoid obsession with Dumbledore 'brain-washing' his students was the subject of many hilarious gags doing the rounds at the Ministry. The sneaky, under-handed intention behind the whole Decree became glaringly clear to him. He could only imagine the public's reaction when the Minister's latest attempt to interfere at Hogwarts would be revealed eventually –and Prod had no doubt it would because the Minister's hare-brained schemes rarely succeeded (Ministry employees still winced at the whole Umbridge Fiasco). But, Prod still did not understand where he featured in the Minister's latest master plan.
"So, Prod, my dear fellow!" said Fudge, apparently calmed enough. "I see in your records that you have quite a bit of experience in the area of Mind Healing the muggle way—what they call, er, Psch Artery?"
"Psychiatry," Prod corrected automatically, his brain numbed by what he thought Fudge was suggesting. Experience? Sure, if that's what one would call the one year stint at his distant cousin's practice as a secretary! It had been right after schooling and he had been aimless about his career, and taken the job for the lack of anything better to do, before finally ending up stuck as a faceless file-pusher at the lowest rungs of the Ministry.
"Yes, yes –quite that," Fudge nodded. "I can see that I was right in assuming you were accomplished at it! I'm now sure you can handle the job very well."
Accomplished? Yes, he had become quite accomplished at answering muggle telephones and time-tabling appointments, and also was adept at re-arranging magazines and surreptitiously conjuring a never-ending supply of tissues for the extra-depressed patients in the waiting room.
"Splendid!" said Fudge joyously; Prod was beginning to hate that word. "You will be posted at Hogwarts within the week."
"B-but sir –!" Prod protested, finally finding his tongue.
"Now, Prod, the Ministry shall expect regular reports from Hogwarts – especially when you suspect matters of any…irregularities. You must earn the students' trust by helping them in any way and strive to reinforce their belief in the Ministry. I trust you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Prod said. Interrogate the kids with the ruse of counselling and spy on what Dumbledore fed them –got that. "But, sir-" he tried to address the most important issue.
"Splendid," Fudge said with a mad gleam in his eyes and rubbing his palms together. "Congratulations on being appointed the first Hogwarts' Psychiarserist!"
"Psychiatrist," Prod corrected dryly.
"Yes, that," said Fudge absently, immersed in his own clever scheming, and waved him out of the office.
OoOoO
"Right at the top of the North Tower," Prod sighed to himself. "Yes, I can see how popular the hike up a few million stairs is going to be."
He had placed sconces on the wall and levitated a few of the Ever Burning candles over his desk. He prodded the couch (that he knew was a mainstay in every shrink's office) with his knee; it was not as comfortable as he would have liked it to be, but it'd have to do. It was a little past noon and he wondered whether he should go down for lunch in the Great Hall, as Dumbledore had suggested.
He had met Albus Dumbledore for the first time in person that morning as he Floo'ed into the Hogwarts Headmaster's office. Even hearing and reading about the man's eccentric ways had not quite prepared Prod to face the real thing. Dumbledore wore a sweeping lemon-green robe with blue stars sprinkled over it; it inadvertently reminded Prod of Fudge's Bowler hat and had nearly caused him to gag. Dumbledore had proceeded to politely enquire about him, and even seemed happy about his appointment, which left Prod confused because surely Dumbledore must have realised Fudge's ulterior motive. But Dumbledore had continued describe about the Hogwarts castle and grounds, and where his office and quarters would be and kindly added he was welcome to his office if he needed to consult him on anything. He finished by stating that he was sure the students would benefit immensely from his professional help; Prod had stared a bit stiffly and the blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses had twinkled, and Prod swore he saw Dumbledore's beard twitch minutely at the same moment he heard an amused squawk somewhere behind him in the shadows. And then Dumbledore was showing him out of the office, informing that the meals would be served in the Great Hall or he could deliver it in his rooms by calling on a house-elf.
Prod had then ambled up the long distance up the North Tower, getting lost twice before being redirected by a few friendly portraits. Panting, he had stood before the last flight of stairs, cursing Fudge and Dumbledore under his breath for using him in their stupid, little feud, when suddenly someone breathed over his neck. Prod had shrieked and whirled around, hastily looking for his wand in his pocket.
A glittering, multi-coloured apparition loomed over him and still unable to locate his wand he nervously took a step backwards.
"I saw you," the figure whispered.
Prod backed away further and the figure came into clearer view—it was a woman, the most glittering woman he had ever seen, with all the trinkets of little beads of glass and gem stones she had adorned herself with; her glasses were askew and caused her eyes to be magnified bizarrely; and she seemed to be quite sloshed if the strong smell of sherry on her breath was any indication.
"I saw you," she repeated swaying a little, her trinkets tinkling along with her, "in my cup- tea cup!"
The old hen was undoubtedly barmy.
"Oh, yes! I knew of your imminent arrival…" she blathered on in what she presumed was with a mysterious flair, and then paused dramatically, her many beads and trinkets shimmering, "but I must warn you, my dear! Great danger and misfortune lie in your future, and they lay await to bespoil your endeavours! Beware, for these things are preordained!"
She nodded tremulously all her trinkets jingling in tandem.
Prod looked at her in stunned silence. The woman took a few, quick steps forwards and peered into his face; her eyes enormous and gaze slightly unfocussed.
"You're not a student, are you?" she squinted at him. "No – too old, but short."
Prod glared at the bat.
"Must be a new Professor," she mumbled to herself, abruptly turning around unsteadily, and walked away from him leaving behind the stale smell of alcohol.
Prod could still hear her mutterings:
"Always employing new Professors…when there's no need…Frenzy –the pony!...now, where did I put that last bottle…"
And then the woman retreated up a silver ladder and into, what he assumed, was her lair in the hole in the ceiling.
It had taken Prod a few minutes to recover and had resolved to stay away from the bat and her lair in the future. But, then had come to the horrifying realisation that his quarters were just above hers and there was no way he could make his way down without encountering his neighbour.
OoOoO
His stomach rumbled but the muscles in his legs protested at the long walk down to the Great Hall, and so he decided to summon a house-elf into his quarters, which were thankfully just across the corridor outside. They were also mercifully clean, yet nondescript with a plain four-poster bed and a desk in the corner.
He settled into his bed for a short nap when an owl flew in and carrying a letter from the Ministry. It looked like a form with a list of various questions:
'is the student against the Ministry's policies?'
'does the student have any plans to help D. usurp the Minister's position?'
'is the student planning on actively participating in a siege on the Ministry under the guidance of D.?'
'does the student mention about an 'army' anytime during session?'
'would you say the student's loyalties lie more with D. than the Ministry?'
And the questions continued in that vein until the end of the page; there was a small post script reminding him post the form as soon as possible to the Ministry.
Brilliant, he groaned into his pillow.
And by late afternoon he had been owled the name of the first student along with a short history from Dumbledore.
Prod had looked at the name, blanched, and proceeded to groan some more.
He was starting to miss Plenwitt.
OoOoO
Draco was trudging along the edge of the lake with his hands pushed into pockets and kicking sulkily at a pebble once in a while, aiming at the giant squid resting by the shore, when he suddenly noticed that it had grown dark.
He checked his watch and was alarmed to see that it was about ten minutes to eight O'clock. Kicking one last stone at the squid and watched as it lazily uncurled one tentacle to wave in the air in the general direction from which it deemed the stone had come from, Draco turned around and took off for the castle, slipping a little on the wet grass.
He had missed dinner, but had had no desire to sit next to Pansy intoning 'well, you did do it' while he whinged piteously. There was a distinct lack of sympathetic people in this world, he observed sadly.
He entered the castle and started immediately on the stairs to the North Tower, where he was to be serving detention. Dumbledore had mentioned 'Psychyes…' something and that he was going to need it. It had sounded like a lot of hokey shite to him; and when he learnt that it was something muggle, he had obviously burst out that he wouldn't undertake shite like that even under the pain of death, but then he was persuaded otherwise under the pain of spending the night with Filch scrubbing the toilets with his toothbrush.
His life had failed him—epically, he moaned to himself.
OoOoO
A/N : ugh. Sorry. The chaps will get better, I promise. The funny stuff that actually explains the title and this fic's plot will be in the next chappie!
P.S. you know, I'll admit to being a pathetically insecure person - one who needs constant reassurances that the writing isn't really that big of a major suckage. So, yes, reviews are awaited with baited breath.
P.P.S. has someone caught the absolutely stupid and lame pun in this fic, yet? Lemme kno.