Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor - Chapters: 75 - Words: 74,437 - Reviews: 125 - Favs: 81 - Follows: 79 - Updated: Dec 16 - Published: Jan 18, 2016 - id: 11739934
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"This is just to… wet the apatite[,] as they say." –Staryday, author's note to "Inspired"*
"Do they say that?" said Runcorn, mystified. "Why?"
"Well, you know how different minerals behave when you immerse them in water," said Macnair. "The softer ones, such as talc, start to break apart almost immediately, while a diamond or something hard like that can stay under indefinitely with no real ill effects. And it's the same way with Ministers; some are soft and crumble under the slightest strain, others are strong enough to resist any abrasion.
"And then there are those, like our dear Mr Scrimgeour, who are right in the middle. Drop them in the water, and at first they seem to manage just fine, and even to gain in brilliancy – but they don't last, that's the thing. After a few hours or days of being continuously rippled against, they start to fissure and crack and break apart as surely as the softest talc would do. And so, when one diagnoses a Minister as outwardly strong but without the force to endure, and initiates a long-term effort to quietly and continuously grind him to dust, one is said…"
"…to wet the apatite," Runcorn finished, with a smile of dawning comprehension.
"Precisely."
Runcorn chuckled. "Yes, I like that," he said. "All right, Macnair, I'm in. Just tell me where and how the water needs agitating, and you can count on me for all the ripples you need."
"You should find a Portkey that will take you back to my chateaux." –extremewritersblock22, "The Unbreakable Vow"
Draco stepped into the cellar of his Italian chateau, and smirked with satisfaction to see the left half of Hermione Granger's lifeless body lying in a grisly mass on the stone floor, and the resident house-elf muttering to herself as she scoured away the blood. "So she fell for it, after all," he said. "The 'smartest witch of her age', and she never stopped to think that a Portkey that transported her to two chateaux simultaneously would be an unhealthy thing to touch. I guess it's true what they say, about intelligence being one thing and good sense another."
"Mr Malfoy is a very clever young man," muttered the house-elf. "Netty is only sorry that his cleverness created so much work for her – and also, she supposes, for her brother Jacky in the French chateau. It is a pity, she thinks, that Mr Malfoy could not have bought at least two more chateaux before playing this trick on Miss Granger, so that only half as much blood might have been spilt in each."
"Make the Portkey carry her four ways at once, you mean?" Draco shook his head judiciously. "No, she wouldn't have fallen for that one. She wasn't that dumb a dunce."
"This is my first fic and [I] don't have a Beata so if you spot a mistake or know a Beata that can help me don't be shy and TELL ME! PLEASE!" –WhitePhoenix22, author's note to "A Very Merry Read"
"You say you have a new charge for me, Albus?" said Bl. Conchita de Armida.
"That's right," said Dumbledore. "I don't know her real name, but she lives in Norway…"
"Oh, dear," said Bl. Conchita.
"…and she has just begun posting on Fanfiction-dot-Net under the name of WhitePhoenix22."
"Oh, dear."
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, the path she treads is respectably beset with snares," he agreed. "But she seems to be obscurely conscious of this, and to wish for the patronage of some worthy beata to see her soul safely through. And, hearing of this, and knowing what a heart you have for your fellow writers, I thought perhaps…?"
"Oh, certainly," said Bl. Conchita. "I'll pray the biggest hedge of protection about her that I can. Thank you so much for letting me know, Albus; it was a glad day for Paradise when you arrived."
Which Dumbledore, reflecting on his life and on Luke 15:7, was not prepared to doubt.
"[M]y parents and my generation have only had to deal with watching the magical society burn with filth, and the powerlessness to restore it to a society . . . that doesn't make me want to gauge my eyes out or commit suicide." –stn-sadness, "A Life of Perfection or Pain?"
Andromeda Black knocked on the door of her sister's laboratory. "Cissy?" she said. "Supper's almost ready."
"Just a moment," came Narcissa's voice through the door. "I have one last reaction to test; it'll take me about two minutes, and then I'll be right down."
Andromeda shook her head. "You know, I worry about you sometimes, Cissy," she said. "I understand that it doesn't make you happy to hear that the Ministry's legalised sex with fruit, but flinging down the Daily Prophet and barricading yourself in a laboratory all afternoon doesn't seem a healthy way of dealing with it."
"Well, I'm sorry that my coping mechanisms don't meet the great Andromeda Black's standards," said Narcissa. "Some of us have sensitive spirits, all right? When we're assaulted with the latest degradation of our native society, we only have two choices: either we distract ourselves from it by gauging chemical reactions till our eyes fall out of their sockets, or we turn our wands on ourselves and cast Avada Kedavra. And I do think that refusing to resort to the latter ought to earn me some points with…"
BOOM!
Andromeda jumped at the sudden explosive report, and shifted nervously as yellow smoke started billowing out under the door and the tinkling of tiny shards of falling glass met her ears. "Cissy?" she said.
There came a sigh from the other side of the door, and a voice that, to Andromeda's relief, was heavy only with exasperation and not with agonising pain. "Andy," said Narcissa, "tell Mum I may be a little longer than I thought, will you?"
*Crossover with Gundam Wing/AC.
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