Dolores J. Umbridge

Things had been quiet since that night at the pub. Dolores had initially given Gerald some space, feeling quite satisfied that she had him over a some sort of metaphorical barrel. It wasn’t until Dolores heard some rumblings ( gossip from her underlings ) about an upcoming party that she decided to get back in contact with her mortal enemy. It was time to put him to good use.

It had taken a few owls full of bickering for Gerald to agree to drag Dolores along to this fancy affair. Quite a few harsh words and threats thrown back and forth. Gerald insisting that he simply couldn’t bring Dolores to this party, that he hadn’t been invited, didn’t actually know the family throwing it. His excuses were paper thin. Dolores was certain that stupid name could at least get his foot in the door, if anything. It wasn’t like the bored, wealthy housewives of the wizarding world weren’t eating up the drivel the famous Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to concoct for them. Dolores had checked the numbers of his book sales, she wasn’t a complete and utter idiot. 

Here they were now, having apparated to the party after meeting in a neutral, disgustingly muggle location. Dolores couldn’t figure out exactly why Gerald had insisted upon meeting at that smoky, secluded cafe. Totally oblivious to the fact that he didn’t want to be caught dead with Dolores by his adoring public. Clad in hideous pink taffeta, Dolores pulled at the edge of her dress. Sniffing the fabric on her shoulder, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t just meet here, Gerald.” she said, heaving a sigh. He better not ruin this for her.

It took some effort to grit his teeth and bear whatever miserable thing was leaving Dolores’s lips at any given time (honestly, the idea of subjecting Sofia to her company was a slight he wasn’t willing to let go — certainly not if she didn’t understand that the Italian’s had been at the very center of the renaissance of art and culture and science and wonder. Gilderoy didn’t much care for her. 

And really, the passing whim of supposing he could dissuade her from her ridiculous quest to be accepted into the Pureblood echelons of taste and sophistication faded quickly as he reminded himself that Dolores Umbridge neither needed nor wanted his advice. She just wanted his name to use as a stepping stone for her own ascent towards the lofty heights the sacred twenty-eight held themselves to.

Let her fall.

It might do her some good to realise how ugly that fallout would be.

She might not count herself a murderer but there was no doubt that plenty of those lurked behind the gleaming smiles of the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s dinners and soirees and garden parties. What did he care what she got herself mixed up into, so long as she didn’t go dragging his name into it too?

“I suppose you can add blackmail to the list then,” he replied primly, dusting off the cuffs of his coat and sliding with deliberate casualness out of his booth, chin tilted defiantly upward as he added, “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out how to contact me when you want something. Good chat, Dolores.”

Walking away to ensure one got the last word was undeniably petty but Gilderoy had never put himself above pettiness. He turned swiftly on his heel, waving off the bartender who looked like he might be going to ask, and pushed sharply through the doors into Hogsmeade beyond.

Dolores Umbridge was one hell of a plot twist.

“I’ve taken to half-believing in what my drunken patrons say to me while I’m on the clock unless it’s particularly concerning,” Stan assured her, raising an eyebrow. Frankly, he couldn’t recall off the top of his head any of what Orford might have told him about his family, if he’d said anything at all. The man was usually rambling on about his next big break at the betting tables while he wasted money on the most expensive drinks he could have Mags make, much to his bartender’s discontent. It wasn’t like Mags was a particularly cheerful person anyway, but something about Orford, much like Sofia Zabini, made her frown more than usual.

Considering what Dolores just told him with what he already knew, Stan could see why. 

“Family isn’t always the most important thing,” he agreed, though that wasn’t the case for him. Stan adored his children, knew he would adore his second daughter when she was born as well, and would do almost anything for them. He’d loved his parents just as much, and still did in a distant sort of way–it had been twenty-four years since they died, so the pain that came with that was no longer there, but he’d be lying if he said he thought about them every day. That wasn’t the case for everyone, though, he knew that much. Still… “Ever hear of this thing called found family? It’s exactly what it says on the tin: make a family for yourself when your bio one is shit. That counts as picking your family if you let yourself, doesn’t it?”

Not really. Stan frowned even more when she confirmed that whatever was going on was not, in fact, normal, and she was absolutely right: he wasn’t that old, no matter how much Mercy and Elijah acted otherwise. There was no reason for feeling like something was missing or that he’d lost any of his memory at all, but the word obliviate came out of her mouth and Stan tensed visibly. Why would anyone want to obliviate him? It made no sense. “I don’t think I’ve made anyone angry?” he said, ending as a question rather than the statement he’d aimed for. His eyes darted to Orford, and Stan exhaled slowly as he thought. 

“Only one I can immediately think of right now is Gilderoy and his bar tab, but honestly after the god awful date I took him on I think I can call us even for the moment,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “Maybe I’m just going crazy.”

Dolores breathed a sigh of relief. It was apparent that whatever her father had told Stanley, he didn’t remember it or at the very least didn’t believe what he had been told. It wasn’t like father was an open book, much like his daughter Orford Umbridge preferred to recreate his history. Orford’s real life had been rather pitiful and disappointing, not amounting to much. Dolores supposed that found family might be a nice concept for someone who actually needed the company and reassurance of others. She wasn’t one of those people. “I appreciate your attempts to comfort me, Stanley.” Dolores answered quickly, “He might be a failure but I suppose all of these struggles have made me who I am today. I don’t particularly need anyone anyway, I have my ambition to keep me warm at night.”

Gilderoy. That stupid, pretentious name that seemed to be haunting Dolores wherever she went these days. She had been in the middle of another sip of peach cocktail when the name had spilled out of Stanley’s mouth. Leading her to choke on the combination of fruit juices and alcohol, unladylike spittle flying all over the top of the bar. Much to her horror and disgust. Dolores turned her face, coughing into the crook of her elbow until she could clear her throat, finally catching her breath. It felt like an eternity before she turned to face Stanley once more, her eyes now red and watery. “Gilderoy Lockhart?” she prodded, knowing full well what answer he would give her. Dolores couldn’t imagine there would be anyone else running around with such an idiotic name.

Was that how that bleeding idiot Gerald was doing it? Going around, haphazardly casting memory charms on people, wearing atrocious and gaudy vests that would make Liberace blush? That same bitter churning in her stomach returned as well as a peculiar protective feeling over Stanley. The man may be just a half blood but at least he was a vaguely decent man with morals. Gerald had no right to toy with his memory, if that is what he had been doing. It was infuriating, repulsive even, that he was still getting away with whatever he wanted after all these years.

Dolores pulled a few napkins from the dispenser next to her, wiping the spittle from the top of the bar before clearing her throat to speak again. “What do you know of Gilderoy Lockhart?” she asked, looking up to meet Stanley’s gaze once again, “He is not a man that should be trusted.”

Try as she might, Stan still caught the hint of someone drinking something they didn’t like when Dolores took the first sip of her sangria, and then a few longer ones. He’d finished off plenty of drinks he didn’t like in his lifetime, and he’d had plenty of people complain to him when their drinks weren’t great, so he appreciated that she at least tried to act like she was enjoying it. His pride had already taken enough of a beating in the past few weeks, and to have another blow at it would’ve sucked massively. He could get over it no problem, but still. It was the principle of the matter. He made a note to not make something with peach for Dolores when he next made her a drink and sipped at his own quietly.

I’m not serious, Stanley, she said, but there was a manic spark behind her eyes that told Stan she was likely at least a little serious about committing her father. “I guess I couldn’t totally blame you,” he said slowly, raising an eyebrow. “My grandparents were real pieces of work while I grew up. Frustrating as hell.” Not that he’d encourage it, mind, but Stan could see her point of view. 

“I guess, but I got lucky. My grandparents died before I had to take care of them.” And maybe that sounded cruel, but Stan refused to take it back. His grandparents had been absolute shit toward his parents and toward him, so they deserved it. The thought of Dolores committing her father because of memory, though… he supposed it made sense, but he had a suspicion that he might be suffering the same thing. There were blanks in his mind that he couldn’t decipher, the biggest one so far being the night of the Puddletown attack. He remembered going there, but actually being there and getting back to the Century was a loss to him. He’d pre-gamed, but not hard enough to be blackout. “If it’s only minor memory loss, I don’t think that’s a huge problem,” he said slowly, furrowing his eyebrows. “Pretty sure I have some of that myself.”

Stan went quiet for a moment, an inkling in his head, and he slowly asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re missing something important? Information you knew just… gone, or time spent with people, or… something along those lines.”

“Father was not the greatest.” Dolores offered, surprised that the words were coming out of her mouth. Perhaps, she had wanted to be talk about her childhood ( or at least, some of it ) instead of sweeping it under the proverbial rug. Orford had always been more absentee than anything, crueler to his wife than any of his children. “Not abusive just not present, despite what factual inaccuracies he might have spouted to you under the influence. He’s always been bad with money too. It simply drove mother insane before her death.” Mother wasn’t dead, of course, but she might as well have been in Dolores’s mind. She hadn’t seen her since she was a teenager. 

“Lucky indeed” she added, making sure to hold her breath as she took another few sips of her drink. The peach flavor was just a tad overwhelming but Dolores would at least pretend to like it. For Stanley’s sake. “Family is always touted as being one of the most important things..Unfortunately we don’t get to pick who our family are.” The statement was punctuated by a bitter glance in her father’s direction before looking turning her attention back to Stanley.

Memories were a peculiar thing, transient, flowing, something that could be easily manipulated or changed. Raising a curious eyebrow, Dolores straightened her spine, listening as Stanley explained to her how he had been feeling over the course of the past few weeks. It was a strange question to ask and though he was the closest thing Dolores would consider to an actual ally, it seemed such a personal question. “Not really.” Dolores answered, taking another sip of her cocktail and trying to cringe over it, “You’re not that old Stanley, perhaps you should see a healer?”

“Unless you’ve made someone angry and they’ve decided to obliviate you.” Dolores snorted, the suggestion not seeming feasible in the least. Stanley seemed an honest businessmen, despite owning a casino. He wasn’t like the shady types that seemed to populate the bars and shops of Knockturn Alley. “Does someone owe you money, maybe?” she asked, “Besides Orford, of course.”

“I know precisely what I am, Dolores,” he replied with a clipped smile and he could imagine how much it must delight her to be dragging him down after all this time. His own recollections of Hogwarts were so far in the past, all covered in dust, that he hardly imagined taking such an interest in someone from all that time ago. I know what you are as well. 

And the announcement came with no surprise and little fanfare, as predicted; Purebloods. She wanted to belong amidst the sparkling elite of the wizarding world in a way that she never would — and while Gilderoy had managed to make that leap, it had taken far more than just a helping hand to get where he wanted to be. Dolores might be crazy enough to try but he sincerely doubted her ability to succeed.

Sofia’s name upon her lips, yet again, made him balk; nose wrinkling in distaste as he forced himself to think. He could hardly go about introducing someone like Dolores to all those connections he had so carefully been forging at the risk of being evicted from said social circles by association. Surely Dolores had some winning quality hidden somewhere to dredge up to the surface, some glimmer of leverage that wasn’t a long memory and extraordinary levels of pettiness.

“Sofia is not a bargaining chip,” he replied firmly, as if he might be able to keep her off the table as long as he kept her separate from this new disaster. Heaven forbid, dinner parties with Dolores. “And I really don’t think you do. Purebloods don’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for people who aren’t one of them Dolores, they aren’t going to let you in unless you have something they want.”

He sighed, turning his head away from the wild-eyed stare currently boring into his jaw and considered if it would be rude to go and get a drink. Surely in circumstances such as these there should be an allowance. “Oh, I’m sure you’re just as colourful as you always were. Though if we are going to be in each other’s company after all this time I suppose we must get reacquainted. So go on then, why don’t you tell me what sort of psychopath you are now?” 

Sofia Zabini seemed to be a sore subject. Was it a possibility that Gerald actually cared for this woman? Whether their relationship be romantic or platonic, none of that really mattered at the end of the day. Only that threatening to reveal the truth to this friend seemed to be the thing that had sent Gilderoy’s smug confidence that Dolores couldn’t ruin his life careening in the other direction.  “Well, if things work out in my favor, I don’t see why we would have to involve your little friend anyway.” Dolores made sure to punctuate the my of that statement as she straightened the length of her spine, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “I don’t care much for Italians anyway.”

Dolores had some influence, as minor as it might be. Despite her distaste for muggles, she didn’t necessarily believe that they could be exterminated. Voldemort, like most men who were in power, promised much more than he could deliver. That didn’t mean Dolores couldn’t make their crusade work for herself.  “What makes you think I don’t have something they want?” Dolores asked, unabashedly unashamed by the smirk now gracing her features. She might not have been a woman who would last in a duel but she did trade in information.

“I’m not sure if you trying to dissuade me is genuine concern or if you’re simply trying to get out of the situation...” Dolores raised any eyebrow, daring him to try to find some other excuse not to fold to her, ”I assure you, Gerald, I know what I’m doing and your doubts about my abilities will do nothing to dissuade me. Stop trying, it’s rather tiresome already.”

What kind of psychopath are you? “The kind with my own self-interest at heart.” Dolores answered, showing her teeth, “Hardly a murderer.”  Murder was too dirty, too much risk of ending up in Azkaban with idiots who had been too stupid to cover their tracks. There had been the one incident with her brother but that could be chalked up to childhood folly. Plus, he had been fine at the end of the day, so that didn’t count. Dolores would much rather tip the scales in her favor, push someone else’s hand towards taking action.

Gilderoy had never been a fan of history; he’d quite happily leave Gerald in the dirt to rot behind him if the world would just let him, but it seemed that the skeletons in his closet weren’t content to rest quietly and people like Dolores and Stanley were all too happy to go rummaging around to find them.

“That isn’t the past, dear,” he replied with a soft, beleaguered sigh as he settled down for negotiations, the understanding that this was going to cost him far more than he was willing to give to a little gremlin from a past life settling grimly over him. “That’s just you.”

And really, he should be nicer to her, considering, but his tongue found itself entirely unwilling to turn silver in her presence, like it thought it might just tarnish if he dared to bare it in her presence. She wouldn’t appreciate the effort anyway, he suspected, and there was no use in trying to pretend this was ever going to be something it wasn’t.

“My dumb social circle,” he repeated beneath his breath, shaking his head in vague dismay as he counted slowly backward from ten, pressing his eyes delicately closed and pinching the bridge of his nose for the duration before deeming it not quite enough and repeating the process. “You’ll need to be a little more specific. I sincerely doubt you have aspirations of conquering the literary scene and while I’m sure there is .. something that interests you I’m not entirely certain that rubbing shoulders with singers and quidditch players is the connections you’re looking for.”

No, of course it wasn’t. Of course it would be the Purebloods she wanted access to, the most elitist and gruelling circle to break into of all of them. Trying to imagine her charming her way through Lucius’s halls or delighting the Lestranges in passing conversation felt a little like fever dream. “You should really be careful what you wish for, Dolores.”

And that, he found with some surprise, was entirely sincere — the Purebloods he associated with were the kind he wouldn’t be surprised to find wore masks in their spare time and they weren’t exactly forgiving. He knew all too well what a tightrope he walked when he ventured into those parties — Dolores had none of those social graces to recommend her.

Gerald seemed to be insisting that Dolores’s memories of their Hogwarts days were somehow incorrect. She tried not scoff as she crossed her arms and slumped back against the sticky booth once more, rolling her eyes dramatically. It was condescending and she couldn’t help the scowl that immediately crossed her face. Who was Gerald to tell Dolores what her reality was? A man who spent most of his adult life lying through his teeth.

It seemed futile to insist that dear old Gerald was wrong. After all, it was becoming apparent the man was more stubborn than ever. Having the gall to be rude to someone who basically held his pathetic future in their hands. What a complete and utter idiot. “You can live in denial all you want, Gerald.” Dolores sighed, her brow furrowing in frustration, “Perhaps you will never be able to see exactly what kind of person you are...A sane person certainly wouldn’t make up such colorful stories.”

Dolores watched Gerald huff and puff, pressing his hands to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Tripping over his words like a complete and utter child. “I don’t have any interest in writers or quidditch players.” Dolores snorted in disdain. Penniless, hackneyed writers and mouth breathers who played quidditch were not what Dolores was interested in.

“Purebloods.” she announced with no shame. It was only in mixed company that she had to keep her disdain for anyone she consider lesser. Dolores didn’t particularly care what Gerald thought about her beliefs.  “The rich and wealthy circle you’ve seemed to slip yourself into. For instance your friend, Sofia Zabini. Beautiful, wealthy, pureblood. I’m sure you know a lot of others.”

Gerald’s warning felt like another condescending insinuation.  “I don’t need to be careful.” Dolores replied firmly. She wasn’t an idiot and didn’t appreciate being spoken to like one. “I know exactly what I’m doing. You claim I don’t really know you but do you really know me?” Dolores paused for a moment, staring him down with the same wild, crazy eyes she had while as a student at Hogwarts. “Do you know what I’m capable of? I mean...You barely remembered me, so, who’s to say I’m not some psychopath now?”

His lips twitched in amusement when Dolores said his first name, sounding like she was calling a professor by their first name rather than someone she saw at a casino on a semi-weekly basis. He didn’t want her uncomfortable, but Mr. Bulstrode was his grandfather, and the further away being associated with that man the better in Stan’s opinion. People would tell him his family name was respectable, admirable, and that it was a shame his mother was a muggle, but he liked to think quite the opposite: his parents were more respectable than his grandparents ever could be.

Stan chuckled at Dolores’ assumption and nodded, glancing up to see that Mags was busy. No matter, because he’d made sure he was trained as a bartender on the chance that his employees ever needed help, so he nodded and went behind the bar. “The most fruity and least alcohol-tasting drink I can muster, coming up.” He stared at her for a moment, considering his options, then reached to grab the white zinfandel and peach schnapps from behind him. “Hope you like peach. The white peach sangria is usually a hit.”

He was quiet while he listened and worked, glad that his unsolicited advice didn’t end with Dolores shouting at him or telling him off. He’d had enough telling off recently, though Stan still stood by the fact that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Thinking of Gilderoy put him in a bit of a sour mood, though he was glad that whatever he’d said made Dolores smile, however small it was. Stan watched the two interact with interest as he added pineapple juice and Sprite, mixing it together and setting the glass in front of Dolores. It seemed they had two different versions of why her mother was no longer in the picture, but that was too personal and Stan didn’t see the point in getting involved.

“Well, so long as he doesn’t have free reign on your account at least you won’t go broke,” he said, grabbing another glass to pour himself the simplest drink he could think of. I could have him committed, she said, and Stan paused, eyes flickering up to Dolores uncertainly. That… would be extreme. He let out a single laugh and lifted his glass. “I get shit family, don’t worry about it. Though I wouldn’t suggest having him committed as the solution to it all.”

Neither peach nor sangria were particular favorites of Dolores but she simply nodded in response as he placed the drink in front of her. Dolores was usually the type to make a fuss, speak with the manager when she was displeased. Demand her money back in the most obnoxious way possible, but since Stanley had technically been doing her a favor, Dolores opted to keep her mouth shut and at least attempt to be appreciative for once in her life. “It’s fine, thank you.” she replied, the words feeling strange and foreign on her tongue. What did it matter anyway? All she really wanted was something to curve that anger that was currently bubbling up inside her at the very thought of her father still living.

Stan’s unsolicited advice wasn’t something Dolores necessarily appreciated but, she supposed, sometimes it was nice to hear a different point of view. At the very least, have someone talk her off the edge before she was about to jump. She’d gleaned throughout her years at Hogwarts, her childhood, and even at work, that’s often what “friends” did for one another. Told each other harsh truths or pretty lies, gave advice even when a person didn’t request it. Stanley Bulstrode was probably as close as she would get to having an actual friend, not that she needed or wanted them anyway.

Dolores took a sip of her drink. It wasn’t that bad, despite the strong sickly saccharine flavor of the peach schnapps. Dolores tried not to make a face, instead steeling herself and taking a few longer sips. He made it for her without a fuss, the least she could do was pretend to like it.  “Oh, I’m not serious Stanley.” Dolores smiled, though there was something strange and unsettling in her eyes. Dolores was most definitely serious and if the risk of going to Azkaban wasn’t a possibility, she might even try to get rid of Orford. Even if it meant getting her own hands dirty. Her father had definitely never done her any favors in her thirty years of life. Her giving him money at all should be treated like a blessing.

“Father is just getting older and I’m not too certain how much longer I can keep an eye on him and work at the same time.” Dolores offered, “You can see he doesn’t remember my mother dying...I have no siblings so everything’s dependent on me taking care of him. I’m sure you can understand the conundrum I’m in.”

“I don’t spend much time thinking about Hogwarts at all,” he replied dismissively, honing in on the hard bitter edge in her voice and concluding that perhaps Gerald hadn’t been her favourite person in the world either. On that matter at least he imagined they could relate. Still, Dolores had certainly been busy, rummaging around in the details of his life and drawing conclusions that she probably shouldn’t but then she’d always had jealous eyes, hadn’t she? Ones that picked apart all the things in the world she didn’t have and hungered for.

And while he was sure he could convince any crowd any day over her bold accusations (how much proof could she have when he’d erased it all to the very last memory) there was one chink in his armour that he’d never be able to protect himself from. His friends. His high society, elitist friends with their pureblood ideology who’d turn their backs just as soon as the stain of half-blood was splashed over him and all the sparkle and allure he’d clawed his way to was covered over by the dust of some sad little farm in Kent.

Gilderoy froze, realising that sad little Dolores Umbridge had finally managed to spin a web capable of entrapping him, his fingers poised on the edge of the table and eyes turning hard. Would Sofia care if she knew? He’d like to think that she wouldn’t, that she cared about who he was now and not where he’d come from, but Purebloods could be so .. finnicky about these things. And what of the others? He walked a delicate tightrope with his social circles, he’d hate to think what such humble beginnings being exposed might bring about in the eyes of someone like Bellatrix Lestrange. Dolores either had no idea what she was playing with or (more likely) she simply didn’t care.

“Keep your voice down,” Gilderoy snarled, the first sign of something resembling anxiety crawling into the curve of his lip and the dark and angry set of his eyes and if it coincided with the word Zabini well, that may have just been a coincidence. She could cause some damage for sure. “I worked for everything I have,” he’d grafted every story into reality, carved a new image of himself from the ground up, nothing so incidental as genetics or a family name had created Gilderoy Lockhart and that was his truth; his stories may have been amalgamations of other people’s spectacular adventures but they were his words, shaped in his narrative. If he was a fraud than he was a magnificent one. “For those connections, for that influence,“ and anger was not the route to take here, not with her googly eyes staring at him from across the table, “And if that’s what you want from me then you’d best keep your voice down. I have a reputation to maintain.”

And what was it that she thought she could gain from him? He could hardly teach her how to be a palatable social presence, could he? If she wanted to piggy-back off of his fame she’d hardly be the first to have failed at it. “Look,” his hand settled placatingly on the table between them like a metaphorical olive branch and he shifted in his seat, fixing her with a steady gaze as if it might distract from the pinch of crazy that lingered in her own, “I’m sure we can come to an amicable agreement on all of this, something mutually beneficial. Nobody needs to go down in flames if we both get what we want.”

What Gilderoy really wanted was to be far away from her and her tiresome reminders of his Hogwarts days but he got the impression that Dolores knew many things about him now. Like where he lived and what he’d drank with brunch that morning.

“Maybe that’s your problem, Gerald.” Dolores answered, scoffing at his dismissive tone. “After all the past never really stays in the past does it? A cliche perhaps, but it’s always there. Creeping in the rear view. Just waiting.” Surely, Gerald realized that his bad behavior would catch up with him eventually? While Dolores spent most of her time weaving tapestries of lies and blackmailing her coworkers, at least she wasn’t out flaunting her bad deeds. It was all behind closed doors - harsh whispers in the break rooms, knowing looks at staff meetings. She wasn’t out there printing her photo on the sleeves of dust jackets and taking credit for other people’s accomplishments in print.

Dolores had to claw her own way to the top from birth. Stepping on the backs of her classmates, coworkers, even some she had deigned to call friends. Only she didn’t have to hide behind a stupid made up persona to get what she wanted. It was certainly hypocritical of her to point out Gerald’s foibles but it wasn’t something that would keep her up at night, after all, she fully believed he deserved every bad thing that might happen to him.

Dolores thought herself a lot smarter than old Gerald realized anyway ( he did look terribly old in this lighting, didn’t he? ) and he needed to know that she wasn’t the type to fold under pressure. Even if it killed her, she wanted to see him squirm and hear those precious two little words, you won. You beat me. You’re better than me, Dolores. She had been waiting for what felt like a century so the dark look in Gerald’s eyes, the snarling, his “handsome” jaw set in irritation, it all elated her immensely . 

“Don’t order me to keep my voice down.” Dolores responded firmly, raising an eyebrow. It was just like a man to think that he could order Dolores Umbridge around. She wouldn’t be where she was today if she had just sat still and looked pretty like Orford often insisted his daughter do when she was a girl. Her father, much like Gerald, was a man who only knew how to take. 

“I’m tempted to just shout it from the rooftops. I know you might say, Dolores, no one will believe you. I’m sure there would be a few people who would stand by you....At least in the beginning but once a seed of doubt is planted, it’s almost impossible to get rid of.” Blood supremacy was a very serious issue in today’s world and even the smallest whisper of someone having muggle blood could have catastrophic results. If Gerald didn’t suddenly become a social pariah, the death eaters might even come knocking at his door.

When he seemingly took a deep breath, placing his hand in the center of the table as if he were waving his white flag, Dolores knew she had broken him. He would give her what she wanted or face the consequences of his own actions. “An agreement works well for me.” Dolores answered, her eyes still wide with a wild type of excitement like she had somehow bested Gerald at his own game. “I’ve told you what I want. Connections. You will let me into your dumb little social circle or I might be tempted to take this to Skeeter at the Prophet.” Dolores paused, a wicked smile on her face, “She’s a gossip hound but you should know, people will believe anything. I’m sure she’d be more than willing to hear what I have to say.”

“Oh,” his voice was soft, gently condescending as he settled in more comfortably on his side of the booth, assessing the situation with thoughtful eyes and wondering exactly how far little Dolores Umbridge had dug into his past. It would be foolish to assume she had nothing, she’d been confident enough in her grounds for blackmail to drag him here, confident enough to sit there with a smug look on her grim face like the cat who’d got the cream. “Honey, we aren’t still doing this, are we?”

And he remembered, of course, her childish ploys during school. He’d taken it as a symptom of misplaced jealousy, back then, rumours forgotten in the instant it took to bat them aside or absorb them into his scandalous legacy. Those big twitchy eyes of hers seemed to imply, however, that whatever had driven those unfortunate urges of hers in school hadn’t dissipated with either time or indifference on his part.

“That name has made a fortune,” he replied with a steady bat of his eyes, delicately trailing fingers across the tabletop and humming with distaste as the layer of grime he found there. The Hog’s Head really hadn’t changed at all. “It’s achieved a certain amount of status — and quite a fan following, if I do say so myself. It’s found itself into rooms that I’m sure you’ve only ever dreamed of, darling, and found friends in all manner of places. I was admittedly curious as to what would drive a person to blackmail, but now I’m more curious as to what you think it is you have on me. A nom de plume is not a crime.”

He shifted again, the air of casual disinterest shifting with him to accommodate a hardening of his eyes as the affable display of lazy charm was batted aside for something a little harder, “I’m a very busy man with a great deal to be getting on with, so indulge me, if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Umbridge; what do you want?”

Gerald could pretend all he wanted that he didn’t actively try to make a fool of Dolores throughout school but she knew better. “Your memories of Hogwarts must be clouded.” she snapped bitterly, “Maybe all of the lies you have to tell yourself to keep up this ridiculous charade have warped your mind.”  Plus, Gerald thought her naive enough not to set this whole thing up without any proof. Like she, on a whim, decided blackmailing an old classmate would be a fun idea. It was fun, if she were being completely honest, but Dolores was no idiot. She didn’t become head of her own department by being born yesterday.

“A pen name is one thing, Gerald.” Dolores snorted disdainfully, “Completely lying about everything you’ve ever done is quite another. While it may not be illegal per se, it’s definitely in bad taste. I’m sure your readers would be heartbroken to hear about it all.”

“Plus..do your friends know the truth about this pen name?” A satisfied smirk crossed Dolores’s face, she had done a bit of research into Gerald’s social circle as well. The woman he was staying with semi-regularly seemed to be from a respectable ( though foreign ), wealthy, pureblood family. “Does your foreign friend know..hm, Zabini correct? Does she know your truth? That your parents were just as unremarkable as you are despite the web of lies you’re spinning? That you’re just a boring half-blood who grew up on a farm?”

“Anxious to scam your next unsuspecting reader with some trash about befriending unicorns this time?” Dolores smirked, leaning a little closer with a crazed look in her eyes, “Honestly, what I desire, is to expose you. Nothing would make me happier than to see you go down in flames but what I need is more complex...Influence, connections..”

“Thought I told you to call me Stan,” he joked, lips twitching up a bit more as she sat. He felt for her, truly, because this was a weekly ordeal that he’d seen for a while now. Dolores was always irritated, Orford would either yell back about money being gifted or be too inebriated to care, and Stan would try to make sure Dolores was alright in between his duties as owner. “But it’s no problem, you know that. You can’t be two places at once.”

It wasn’t that Stan felt pity for Dolores and her family, per se, but rather that he saw countless people per day gambling their life’s savings away for the possibility of winning big. It was the nature of the beast when owning and running a casino, an ugly truth to the business he loved so much, and he hadn’t been lying to Sofia when he’d said he tried to take care of his customers when he could. She’d been right, no matter how much Stan hadn’t wanted to say it however many weeks back.

He watched Dolores for a moment, chuckling and glancing up as Mags filled up Orford’s glass yet again. He supposed she had a point; if Orford was buying drinks, that meant he was actuallygetting something out of his spending outside of the possibility of winning, and that was a better investment to someone whose money was being spent. Still, he wasn’t certain why Dolores kept giving him money, as if it was her obligation to. Stan sighed and leaned against the bar, elbows propping him up and head turning to her. “Why give him the money, then? The most you owe him, maybe, is a roof over his head and maybe some food. Hell, maybe not even that. Let him ruin himself, not drag you down with him.” He paused. “That might be speaking out of turn, but it’s obviously frustrating you, Dolores.”

“Yes, I know.” Dolores answered as she dropped her hands from her face. Stanley had asked Dolores to call him by his first name many times but she’d always fall back into referring to him as Mr. Bulstrode. This was his place of business and despite being a half-blood and serving muggles, he was somewhat respectable. “Stan.” Dolores said, as if she were testing it out to see how it felt.  “Since we’re now on a first name basis and we have, what I’m assuming, is an open tab...” Dolores paused as she pointedly glanced at Orford before looking back at Stanley, “You wouldn’t mind making me a drink? The most fruity thing you have that tastes the least of alcohol.” 

Dolores’s strategy when faced with the truth was usually denial and avoidance. Stanley’s unsolicited advice is not something she would usually stomach from anyone else. It wasn’t like Dolores had friends, she had associates, underlings, a short list of people she was exploiting for her own gain. She was currently blackmailing Gerald. A small, genuine smile slipped out at the thought. Stanley might think he had amused her in some way. Let him think that, she was certain he would be horrified if he could hear her inner monologue.

“My father and I have a special arrangement.” It seemed as though Orford hadn’t been paying either of them any attention. The most she had gotten was a grunt out of Orford when Dolores had reprimanded him for spending her money. “He retired early.” Because I pressured him into it. “The deal was that I help him out with extra spending money, his retirement from the ministry is supposed to cover the basic necessities...” Dolores paused for dramatic effect, “I’m certain it’s what sent mother to an early grave. He’s always been this way.”

“Your mother left us and you know that, Dolly.” Orford slurred back drunkenly. It was a little too loud and a little too personal for Dolores’s liking. Her eye twitched in irritation, her right hand grasping the armrest of the bar stool like she was holding onto it for dear life. “I could have him committed.” That comment slipped out a little too quickly. Dolores feigned a smile, though lines on her forehead betrayed her irritation. Her nose wrinkling like she had just smelt something horrendous. “He’s already losing his memory..apparently.” 

Gerald.

That name, spoken aloud with a fury that Gilderoy had not truly anticipated from the strange, tacky creature perched across the table from him shook him, surprise racing through his disaffected demeanour as his hands eased back from the table and the shockwave of the heavy thump of her palms against the wood. There was something there — in the twitching of her eyes and the sad brown hair and furious googly eyes — that pricked at his memory.

After all this time.

“Dolores?” It erupted out of him like a sneeze, unexpected and explosive in its surprise, his nose wrinkling in dismay as if he might be pronouncing the name wrong, he sat up from his artfully arranged lazy sprawl to peer across the booth at her face in the dim lighting. “DoloresUmbridge?”

A startled puff of laugher escaped his lips, loud and disaffected and dissuading the eyes that were inquisitively peeking at the spectacle of their table in fits and bursts as if they were concerned about drawing her ire again. The accusation came out more appraising than betrayed, hazel eyes keenly assessing the situation from beneath his eyelashes, “It’s you?”

Dear god, he hadn’t seen or thought twice about her since his long-buried Hogwarts days but it seemed like that particular corpse didn’t want to stay buried lately. Stanley had done far too much digging. He remembered her in the way that one half-remembered people who hadn’t been of any particularly consequence to them, in drips and drabs, her high-strung penchant for temper tantrums and murderous eyes always seeming to find him in the halls and the pointed graze of her anger. She’d been the girl who in their first year had ended up paired with Slughorn in Potions because nobody would partner with her. That reputation hadn’t shifted for the remainder of her Hogwarts career.

His head canted, bemusedly, to the side, an affected tip of his head that sent the careful disarray of curls just so into his eyes, lips pursed and bemused. Memory charms were tricky things, finicky, and Dolores Umbridge’s memories were old, buried deep. Who knew what it was about Gerald that she remembered if she had gone to all the trouble of blackmailing him. “Well then,” he settled back into the cushioned back of his booth, hands folding together and gentle condescension lathering his tone, “I suppose, given all of the trouble you’ve gone to, you must want something. Go on then.”

“Yes, it’s me.” Dolores sneered, crossing her arms over her chest as she slumped against the back of the booth. She could feel the beginning of an unnecessary migraine on the horizon and it just made her all the more angrier. 

Gerald laughed like this all was some sort of joke. Like Dolores didn’t have the wherewithal to completely destroy his life if it tickled her fancy. She had been compiling information other past few weeks, files, gossip, first-hand accounts of his behavior ( which sounded atrocious by the way, Gerald was most definitely a man-child ). Dolores could end it all just like that. A manila envelope in her desk drawer at home held the contents of everything she knew about Gerald’s masquerade as Gilderoy Lockhart. A failsafe, she had left explicit instructions with a few trusted ( blackmailed ) employees. If anything should happen to her, they would know what to do. It would go straight to the Prophet.

Dolores wasn’t afraid of Gerald Hartley though. Quite the contrary, she knew he was a coward who would fold or turn tail. However he had gotten this done, she was unsure. Somehow worming his way into taking credit for other’s accomplishments with little to no push back. Memory charms, some kind of bribery? Another type of spell? She was confident Gerald wasn’t the type to murder. He was much too weak for that. The whole charade was clever, of course, but Dolores knew she was much smarter.

The best threats were those that were unexpected, underestimated. In her warped mind, she was always the underdog. This would be simple. 

“I’m so happy that you finally remember me.” she scoffed bitterly. Dolores leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, as she began to stare Gerald down. He was trying very hard to appear relaxed, of that she could be certain, but Gerald’s tone betrayed his irritation with the entire situation. “Before I dive into what I want, please tell me why you picked such an idiotic name. I could barely stop myself from laughing over it.”

Dolores was tempted to crack on. She was creative with insults and was just waiting for him to say something that rubbed her the wrong way. Magical Me in her opinion was equivalent to toilet paper, how anyone sane could slough through it, she didn’t understand. 

He had to - he had to let Amelia down easy? The sentence didn’t compute in his brain, like somehow Dolores had started speaking absolute gibberish halfway through it. What did that even mean? Amycus wasn’t accustomed to spending his time with anyone, really, but he was almost positive there were a few other steps that occurred between eating lunch together and marriage. What was it that Alecto had said - that Amelia was over the moon for him, that she had a crush, whatever that was supposed to mean, and now Dolores was talking about marriage.

It was overwhelming.

“She’s my friend,” he replied slowly, obstinately, the just firmly omitted. There was nothing ‘just’about having friends in Amycus’s life. Not when he’d never had them before. “She can’t leave.”

When he was younger, when his mother had put on her best face for visitors and sighed and clucked over their feverish heads, lamenting how they just weren’t getting any better, she had sometimes conspired with the ladies who visited her over her children’s futures. She’d spoken of proper pureblood marriages and proper heirs as if she weren’t a weed, slowly and systematically strangling them and their futures to an early grave. The gossip had felt condescending then, charitable in the understanding that none of it would ever happen with such poorly children, and it felt patronising now. Amelia Bones was kind and he remembered vividly the curious prickle of heat beneath his skin when she’d kissed his cheek at the zoo, but she wasn’t so kind as to shackle herself to someone like him. Dolores was clearly misinformed.

Still. It was .. disappointing .. to think that she might have tired of him already.

He’d acclimated himself to their routine, to emerging from his office to come to level two for lunch, to their conversations and their comfortable silences. He’d ventured willingly into the heart of Muggle London to go to the Zoo with her. The idea of losing any of it was .. disorienting. It made his throat constrict and his forehead furrow, lips pressing firmly together in denial. No, he would simply have to .. what? Tell her she couldn’t leave? His limited field of reference for women told him that wouldn’t go down well.

Stalling indecisively as he realised that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now, he stared at Dolores, half convinced he needed to turn around and go tell Amelia that she couldn’tleave. This was not the kind of Mystery he’d ever been posited to solve before and Dolores was watching every moment of this with that same simpering smile.

“I have to go,” he blurted out instead, ducking his chin and zipping past before he could be ensnared by whatever web that Dolores was spinning next, his head full of a rushing sense of panic that searched wildly for a tangible grip upon something that wasn’t marriage and crushesand Amelia leaving. A problem he could solve. Like the maze of wards on the Potter Estate —that was something he could pry apart.

The world of celebrity fanmail was such a mercurial thing. Gilderoy had learned to appreciate the idiosyncrasies of his fans missives over the years, ranging as they did from sweet to obsessive to weepy to disturbing to downright filthy, which was perhaps why, the vaguely ominous letter with all the charm of your average ransom note had not, immediately, been thrown into the bin or the fire or the worryingly tall pile that Gilderoy intended, at some point, to give to his agent to pass on to the Aurors Office in the event that Gilderoy ever went missing.

This one, however, had come with it’s very own particular warning; the words ‘I know who you are’ (underlined three times for emphasis) having caught his eye as he skimmed through it with a bemused furrow of his brown. It had left an odd feeling in his stomach that he usually would have dismissed as being late for brunch, but had lately begun to associate more and more with the gnawing sense of unease that had built at the back of his mind since the day he had found those articles in Stanley’s apartment. That had been the day his, until now, watertight public image had begun to show signs of deterioration, like someone had been tugging at some strings and pulled threads loose.

It worried him.

And usually, Gilderoy wasn’t given to capitulating to demands of clandestine meetings in shady dive bars on the outskirts of sleepy Scottish villages, but it was a Tuesday night and his schedule was clear and really, it wasn’t everyday that someone tried to blackmail you. His agent would kill him herself if she ever found out.

The Hog’s Head was just as filthy as Gilderoy remembered it from all those long years ago, the patrons just as unwashed and the odds of drinking from one of their glasses without catching something was as dreadfully low as it always had been, but he wasn’t here for Happy Hour or reminiscing. He was here, he presumed, for the moodily cloaked figure perched in one of the booths along the back wall.

He’d dressed for the occasion — so much as to say that he’d dressed like a man prepared to leave behind a beautiful corpse — and as he slid into the side of the booth opposite from the shrouded figure he hummed aloud in greeting, “This isn’t exactly my usual scene, but I suppose you get points for the drama of it all.”

Gilderoy paused, tilting his head to peer at the shadowed face beneath the hood quizzically with a stirring of recognition he couldn’t quite seem to place. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to know you?”

Gerald’s abject cluelessness stirred something in Dolores. It was the same kind of rage she would feel while watching this idiot strut down the corridors of Hogwarts, his blue and silver robes flowing behind him as if he were something special. As if he were somehow better than her. Dolores had always wondered exactly how someone so oblivious, stupid, and lazy had ended up in what had been deemed the house for academics. 

She supposed Gerald had always been clever in some ways at least. Always managing to slip out of trouble relatively unscathed. He had always been so much more likable than Dolores, much more charming and attractive. His lies were always more believable and it irked her to no end. Dolores knew he was lying in school and despite her many drastic attempts to expose Gerald, nothing ever came of it. She always ended up with egg on her face somehow, stewing in her common room, imagining how satisfying his downfall would be.

Dolores had gone through the effort. Painstakingly picking out this garish robe, writing the stupid blackmail letter, selecting the dirtiest dive she could find and he...he just strolls in through the door as if this were another night out. Wearing that idiotic, tacky outfit...like he was the most important person in the world. Not even having the courtesy to remember her.

“How — ” Dolores spluttered, pushing the hood of her robe back and slamming her hands down on the table in anger. “How are you still such a bleeding idiot after all this time Gerald?”

Disdain dripped from the name Gerald. It was said loud enough that the unwashed mouth breathers sitting around them turned to look. Dolores turned by reflex, eyeing them all with the nastiest look she could muster in her state of shock and dismay. She smacked her palm on the table again loudly, “I suggest you all turn around now.”

That seemed to be enough to turn away any would be spectators. Even the barkeep only eyed them nervously before turning his attention back to mixing a drink for the elderly wizard in front of him. Dolores had already bitten his head off when he refused to wipe down the booth when she arrived - he insisted it was already clean enough. The filthy idiots here wouldn’t know cleanliness if it bit them in the arse.

Distraught.

The word caught him hook, line and sinker as intended, Amycus’s bemused expression morphing into a furrowing of his brow and serious dark eyes and an inquisitive twitch at the corner of his lip, like it wasn’t entirely certain what it wanted to be doing.  

The furrow in his forehead deepened at the word sweetheart, carving out a sharp line that seemed to punctuate how deeply unimpressed he was at that term, but it was forgotten under the bewildering onslaught that followed. Girlfriend.

This was — this was Alecto’s fault.

“She isn’t,” he started to insist out of a determined sense of duty, because of course Amelia was mortified at everyone finding out they had been spending time together, let alone being under the impression that they were — that she — and abruptly he felt warm and embarrassed and he hated level two with a vengeance. At least only Prewett ever bothered him inside the Departments walls. “You don’t — she wouldn’t—” Amycus frowned, struggling through the uncomfortable catch in his throat with precision, “You don’t think she would quit, do you?”

And he wasn’t sure why he was asking Dolores when he’d just been talking to Amelia and she’d seemed — she’d been — she hadn’t said anything. But maybe she was just too nice to say anything and he hadn’t noticed that she was uncomfortable or upset or unsettled by him and his family and this was really just like Alecto. She’d always gotten mad at him when father had given him presents and none to her. And Dolores, in that strange knowing way that ladies in offices often did, seemed to know things. “I don’t want her to quit.”

If Dolores had ever had any positive feelings about...well feelings, and love, and other messy emotions that seemed pointless in the grand scheme of things, she might have been touched by Amycus’s pathetic stuttering over Amelia Bones. The man seemed absolutely clueless when it came to matters of the heart. Dolores had never felt the keen sting of romantic love nor thought herself capable of it. However, she prided herself on paying attention to those who did. It was good to know everyone’s pressure points. 

Bones had always been adept at avoiding Dolores, keeping her at arm’s length like she could see what was underneath her matching sweater sets and cheap perfume. It irked her to no end. The more she tried to find out about the woman, the more she avoided her. There had been no concrete proof. Having lunch together wasn’t exactly the sign of an impending marriage but there had been rumors flying around. The show in the atrium had just served as further proof that there was something bubbling under the surface of all these lunches. A man’s sister...a woman knows better than anyone else, after all.

“Well if she isn’t your girlfriend, you really should let her down easy.” Dolores offered at Amycus’s insistence that she isn’t. Rightfully assuming the world girlfriend was implied despite Carrow tripping over it. Dolores was tempted to roll her eyes but refrained. “You know, it’s only a matter of time in a relationship before a woman starts thinking of marriage and children.”

“You know, now that I remember, I did see her going to see Travers earlier in the day.” Not exactly a lie but an exaggeration...she had seen Amelia Bones go talk to her boss but she had been carrying two arms full of files probably filled with auror paperwork. “Perhaps giving notice? I can’t be sure but the look on her face...” Dolores shook her head, her mouth ticking downward into an expression of pity. All part of the performance. “So sad, Amelia has so much potential.”