Dignity

Dignity. Cornelius Fudge was the embodiment of dignity - a portly, pleasant man, Fudge may have been scorned for his oblivious attitude towards Voldemort's return, but he nonetheless managed to retain his position of Minister of Magic.

Before the fiasco began, he seemed to have it all - a beautiful manor in the sprawling countryside, an attractive wife, one brilliant daughter. Oh yes, Cornelius Fudge was invincible, having contributing to the ruin of two of the Wizarding World's greatest celebrities, Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Fudge was a man who enjoyed a bit of power, and now he found himself fortunate enough to hold the Wizarding World in his hands.

And he wasn't letting go, even now. Not without a fierce fight.

When Harry Potter had been revealed to be reporting the truth about Lord Voldemort, Fudge had scrambled to collect his credibility. At first, the sheer panic deterred the public eye from become fixed upon him. But he knew, sooner or later, the truth would surface.

And it did. At first, it was a few complaints in some of the less reliable wizarding publications. Fingers weren't directly pointed at him, only in the general area. He began to breathe a sigh of relief.

Relief, it so happened, was a premature feeling. Soon, the Ministry was receiving owls, complaining of the hire of Voldemort supporters, accusing Fudge of instilling a false sense of comfort, et cetera. Then came the real trouble.

Howlers. Calling for his resignation.

Those were two words Cornelius Fudge did not look forward to hearing. He had seen his reputation as intact, his voice one of strong reason. And now, a fifteen year old wizard and a daft old fool had destroyed the foundation of his existence.

He thought he'd found a confidante in his wife, Coriander. But he'd been wrong. She seemed to see him as some common criminal, a liar. This was something, he assured himself often, that he was not. It had been a mere misunderstanding.

This did not help his sex life any.

His sex life was the worst of his worries now. Facing possible resignation, the scorn of his once-loyal supporters, and nothing but pure hatred from his family, Cornelius turned to his only remaining friend, Dolores Umbridge, only to find that she, too, had been defaced and defamed by her ex-students. He had sought her out and eventually found her inconspicuously haunting a Muggle café in London. All the better, he supposed, since no one would recognize them here.

Their visits began innocently enough. Cornelius needed someone to confide in, someone to listen completely objectively.

Dolores certainly did that. The fact of the matter was that Dolores had simply stopped speaking. Cornelius didn't regret it at all - she could never berate him, tear him down for his ineptness.

This provided a great deal of awkwardness at first. Cornelius felt almost as though he were talking to a wall - Dolores' blank face gave him that impression. All interaction between them was stimulated by Cornelius in those first, painful days - she never so much as shook his hand upon seeing him.

In retrospect, Cornelius remembers their relationship changing one calm day in the middle of July.

He had met her, as usual, in the same café they had tea in every day. Beneath the profound silence, she had become a Dolores he was not familiar with. Her mouse-brown hair had come out of its tight permanent and was hanging in scraggily tendrils about her face. She had abandoned her hideous cardigans for a sensible Muggle dress, cream with pastel flowers. Cornelius noted with small delight that she still sported that horrible bow, only now it was crookedly attached to a strand of her unkempt hair.

"Good morning, Dolores," he commented with his former friendliness that had all-but-left him in the days since the summer had began.

She was silent.

"It's a lovely day, you know. The city seems to have gone a bit sleepy with this heat, but I rather like it."

Again, she said nothing.

He stared at her, as though daring her to return his casual small talk. This was one of the occasions on which Cornelius grew weary of Dolores, of her mysterious and annoying silence.

She seemed oblivious or unwilling to oblige him.

Yet how could he be surprised? This was Dolores's choice, this was who she had become. And he had come here of his own free will; he could leave whenever. But something kept him from it.

She remained silent, but Cornelius watched carefully as she picked up her hand and pointedly placed it on his. His impulsive first reaction was to jerk away, but something within him kept him from it. They sat there, both utterly silent and staring at their two hands, hers atop his.

His gold wedding band glinted as he interlocked his own fingers with hers. He knew it was wrong yet felt no remorse whatsoever. The world owed him this, this one defiant action.

He knew that, had he been in the Leaky Cauldron, the Wizarding World would have taken a collective breath. But he was not. It was a warm day in July and Cornelius Fudge was sitting in a Muggle café, holding hands with Dolores Umbridge. It all seemed rather strange.
---

Cornelius and Dolores spent exactly one hour each day like this. At night, he came home from work, which had not grown easier. Yet Cornelius seemed to cope better, knowing that he had Dolores. The simple idea of someone to listen to his troubles was beautiful.

His wife suspected nothing. Coriander had, if anything, began to forgive him. He found himself feeling slightly guilty but managed to suppress the feeling. He had dignity.

Cornelius would grow bold in the next few weeks, taking Dolores out for strolls in Muggle parks during lunch. He was bound to be found out sooner or later, but he seemed to have gained back some of his invincibility in recent days.

The last day in August, Dolores led Cornelius back to her flat. It was a simple gesture, requiring only for her footsteps to lead him in the same direction they went every day. Only, this time, Cornelius was with her, not walking away, back to reality.

"Dolores, are you certain?" he asked as she turned her key in the lock and opened the door. She, of course, said nothing, nudging Cornelius carefully inside.

They sat on the sofa, next to each other. His hand trembling (was it nerves, or just old age? Had he gone sour already?), he touched Dolores's cheek. He had never quite noticed how soft her skin was, hidden beneath shaggy hair that had grown to her shoulders.

She had her own allure, he supposed, but she could never be beautiful. Too many years of critical, jaded behaviour had marred her beyond that. It didn't matter to him - suddenly, he became alive with the lust for power.

He leaned closer to her, placing an arm around her slouched shoulders. She had grown thinner and sadder since leaving her position at Hogwarts, and her posture reflected the change. Had Cornelius been able to feel remorse at that moment, he would have. But he was so preoccupied with his affair with power that all other emotions grew unimportant, and it was suddenly just this unconquered object next to him.

He would master her, tame her.

Fiercely, almost daring her to push him away, to cry out and break her bitter silence, Cornelius pressed his mouth against hers. This did not placate the urge, so he delved further, his tongue exploring inside her mouth.

He seemed content enough by this. Dolores didn't not complain as it continued, just remained in her standoffish silence. Cornelius forgets this, or he doesn't care. He is the man of the moment, the powerful one.

"I'll leave her," he told Dolores, "I'll leave her for you. Straight away."

They both know it is a lie. He is telling her lies, and she doesn't care. In fact, she cared about little these days. She is placating Cornelius, and it isn't to impress him.

Then what is it? Does she consider this her payment after years of careful servitude? All of the callous law enforcing she has done in his name has come to benefit her, finally?

She didn't love him, she knew that right away. She loved no one except herself but doesn't see that. Neither of them is self-aware - they see their own flaws in each other.

Perhaps they deserve each other.

---

The next morning, Cornelius went to work as usual. He remembered yesterday with relish and satisfaction - it had been an accomplishment. He's proud of himself, of the immunity he's regained.

He should have known not to be so fucking stupid, he told himself in retrospect. He should have known not to be so proud about it, because pride is what fucks you over.

There is an article in the Daily Prophet, and beneath it is a picture of Cornelius and Dolores, clearly holding hands, enjoying a stroll in a Muggle park. He glanced over the name of the author, forgetting in his panic the fact that his own daughter worked for the Prophet.

When he takes a closer look, he will find that the author of the expose is a girl named Clarisse Fudge. Twenty-five year old daughter of Cornelius and Coriander Fudge.

He dropped the paper in his fright. He suddenly understood the looks of disdain he has been receiving all morning - he has committed adultery. He has slept with another woman while married.

He thought, I am screwed. But the thought does not extend to the fact that this final embarrassment could cost him his job.

Someone (he has forgotten who it was, and it does not matter) came in moments later, desperately pleading with him to resign. He will still maintain his dignity in the event of a resignation - everything will be much easier without the Wizengamot involved.

He vaguely remembered saying, "That would mean admitting I'd done something wrong."

Of course. He was never at fault. It's always someone else.

He didn't resign, and of course, the Wizengamot heard the matter. He was an embarrassment to the Wizarding World.

He is not truly alive at his trial. He is too dazed by his fall. His job has been pulled out from beneath his feet because of a simple indiscretion. Because he wanted to be human, for once. To have someone to care for him, someone to hear his troubles.

Weeks later, he gives an interview. An exclusive interview with none other than Clarisse Fudge, his daughter. He lies unabashedly (he has always been a very good liar) about his relationship with Dolores. The article appears in the Prophet the next day. This is the only part of it that is truly important:

Cornelius Fudge is quoted as saying, "I would never sleep with another woman. I love and respect my wife too much. I did not sleep with Dolores Umbridge for two simple reasons - one, it is wrong, and two, I love my wife."

He has always been a lying bastard. And he, conveniently, has never seen that.

A few weeks after the article appears in the Prophet, Cornelius returns to the café in which he and Dolores met. Maybe he is doing it to be controversial, or perhaps it is out of spite. Regardless of his intentions, he goes.

Dolores is sitting there, of course. Her hair has grown very long, and she looks nearly emaciated. She has given him the pleasure of knowing that he has won.

"You're only human," she spits at him, standing up to go.

For a moment, it doesn't register. When it does, it's very painful. He hasn't won, after all. He's lost it all, in fact.

---

Coriander is forgiving. Cornelius thanks a God he has lost all faith in for that. He promises her he will never see Dolores again, and it isn't a lie. He's certain that he's finished with that sanctimonious, self-righteous bitch for all eternity.

But in spite of himself, Cornelius remembers the only words she had spoken since their daily meetings at the café began.

"You're only human."

Of course. She wasn't that much different than he was, in fact. It was always the world's injustice, never a fault of their own. They had their dignity to protect.