Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Written for Hogwarts Assignment, Healer Studies, Task 3 - Someone using poison as a tool for murder.
Word Count - 788
Beta'd by Emily
A Woman Scorned
Rejection stings.
It's a fact of life, and everybody suffers it at one point or another, be it for a job, from a friend, or romantically.
Most people mope for a while and move on.
Dolores Umbridge isn't most people.
…
The poison was easily obtained. Perhaps too easily, but she didn't particularly care. It served her purpose, and it wasn't her division to deal with anyway. She hid it in a perfume bottle in her handbag.
The clear liquid looked completely innocent in the pink glittery bottle. Nobody would ever suspect it of being deadly.
…
She did it slowly. Tiny amounts of it in Cornelius' morning tea. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to feel the same humiliation he'd made her feel when she'd poured her heart out to him.
When he'd waved her off and laughed in her face.
She wanted him to see the error of his ways before his insides shrivelled from the poison she fed him.
…
His hair was the first thing to suffer. It fell out in clumps, leaving him continuously trying different comb overs to hide the patches.
Dolores simpered at him as he complained, hiding her smugness until she was alone.
His vanity was one of his biggest faults, and it made her happy to know that she was hitting him exactly where it hurt.
…
Fatigue came upon him slowly, making him tired and irritable in front of the press that hounded him. He snapped at them constantly, his tiredness made him mess up his speeches and he floundered in the spotlight he'd once shone under.
Dolores framed the copy of the prophet when a picture of Cornelius, asleep with his head in his food in a restaurant, graced the front page.
She kept the photo by her bed, and it made her smile every night before bed, and every morning when she got up.
…
Dolores feigned concern when Cornelius shivered at his desk, a winter cloak wrapped around him and a scarf around his neck, his hands gloved.
She wore her lightest clothes and complained about the warmth when she knew he was in the vicinity, just to see the fear on his face.
"Perhaps you should go to the hospital, dear," she told him. "I can hold the fort here. You might be coming down with something."
…
"The healers can't find anything wrong with me," he'd confided, days later.
The proof that the potion was untraceable was a relief Dolores hadn't known she'd needed. She expressed concern and even suggested he take a few days off.
Of course he didn't. With the upcoming election, Cornelius couldn't afford to show weakness.
The sadistic side of Dolores enjoyed the fact that he'd never make the elections regardless.
…
The tea was freshly brewed, and she tipped the remainder of the poison into the cup, mixing it in thoroughly.
Cornelius was in for a painful end, not that he deserved any less. She served him the tea with biscuits on the side, and sat in the chair facing him, a to do list prepared in front of her.
"This tea tastes… different," he commented, looking at her over the steaming teacup.
"A new blend," she admitted. "It has healing properties, I had hoped that it would help you feel better after your recent… difficulties."
"What would I do without you, Dolores," he sighed in pleasure.
She watched him through slightly narrowed eyes as he drank the remaining liquid in the cup.
…
Cornelius clutched at his chest. His heart pounded painfully, and his lungs constricted, blocking his airways as he tried to suck in some much needed air. He tried to get Dolores' attention, only to find that she was already watching him with a small smile on her face.
"Dol...ore...s," he gasped, the word drawn out. "He...l...p."
She shook her head. His eyes fixed on the pink bow resting in her curled hair. It wobbled precariously, and the movement made him dizzy.
"You should never have rejected me, Cornelius. I only wanted to love you, as I've always loved you."
Understanding dawned, far too late for him to do anything about it.
…
The day of the funeral was miserable and bleak. There were many people there, most of them out of obligation than any true grief for the man.
Dolores dabbed delicately at her cheek as a single tear fell, the perfect picture of a grieving friend and colleague.
"...while we may never know the whys or the hows of Cornelius' death, we will all miss him…"
Nobody noticed the tiny smirk on Dolores' lips as she heard those words. Nobody would ever know the whys or the hows… and nobody would ever suspect her.
She was just his secretary.