Our Lady of Pain

Our Lady of Pain

When all shall be gone that now lingers,
Ah, what shall we lose?
-Swinburne, Dolores (Notre Dame des Sept Douleurs)

red mouth like a venomous flower

Dolores Umbridge leans back languidly, her legs loosely crossed, one fuschia shoe coming unglued from her foot.

Her lipstick leaves a mark on Minerva's collar.

Later, they're quiet, just breathing, with the noise of the radio playing in the background. Minerva traces the curve of Dolores's wedding band and cuts her finger on the diamond. "Our Lady of Pain," she whispers.

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"It's ever so silly, that's why."

In the burned out half-light-- pink sweater draped over the bedpost, hairband still around her wrist-- Dolores almost looks like a real person instead of a caricature.

loves die, and we know thee immortal

The alice band is a game, the fluffy sweater is a game, the high-pitched voice and girlish giggle and little insinuating cough: they are all games.

"Will this go in your report to the Minister?" Minerva smiles thinly, pulling her hair into a bun.

"Is that a joke?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure."

Dolores's pale, unblinking eyes are shadowed even when her wide mouth is open in a moan, even when her muscles spasm of their own volition and sweat brightens her forehead, which is why Minerva keeps telling Potter: "tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge." Of course, he doesn't listen.

these crown and caress thee and chain

"High Inquisitor," Minerva's tongue makes the title ignoble. "I am truly honoured."

Dolores almost takes a step backward before Minerva pulls her into the room. "If you're just going to insult me--"

She raises an eyebrow. "What? You'll leave? But you haven't got what you've come for yet, have you, Dolores? Whatever are you here for?"

"I--"

Minerva's in a cruel mood, and conjures flowers with a lazy flick of her hand. "What will it be? The lilies and languors of virtue-- or the raptures and roses of vice?" she asks, and this time, Dolores really does leave.

on thy mouth though the kisses are bloody

Minerva tears Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four into thin, long strips.

"You were always so easy to get to, Minerva," Dolores says, smiling like a cat. "So weak underneath all your scoldings and stern looks-- I knew that even in our old days at the Ministry. Even as a girl, you had many weaknesses. You're still unreasonably passionate about your little Quidditch team."

"Reason isn't everything, Dolores."

"But you so like to pretend it is, don't you, Minerva?"

The next time they kiss, Dolores cries out and pulls away, one hand placed on her lip. There is blood on Minerva's tongue.

by the thirst of unbearable things

"Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven...whatever will you do when you run out of numbers?"

Dolores doesn't answer, tilting her head to one side, mussed brown hair trailing on her too-white shoulder.

"How many of these are aimed personally at me?"

She laughs at that. "Don't flatter yourself, Minerva." Her nose wrinkles ever-so-slightly. "Is that incense I smell?"

The sudden flush that creeps over Minerva's cheeks is response enough. The next day, as she's leading Sibyll up the stairs and pressing a tartan-edged handkerchief into her hands, Dolores leans close enough for Minerva to feel her breath when she says, "This is personal."

the life and the love thou despisest

"You can only postpone what is to come, Minerva. You can force little girls to swallow the truth-- the Wizarding World will not be so easily fooled."

In a corridor, so impersonal.

In the light, Dolores and her pink fingernails and pink dress and pink lipstick are foolish. Her voice, when louder than a whisper, grates on Minerva's ears.

"Why did you ever invite yourself into my bedroom, Dolores?"

She does not respond.

Minerva tries again. "Did you get what you wanted?"

"Will this go in your report to Dumbledore?" Dolores replies acidly.

"Goodbye, Dolores," Minerva says, and walks away.

but the worm shall revive thee with kisses

Years later, they meet again, in front of the newly rebuilt Fountain of Magical Brethren. Minerva reaches into her purse and throws in a shining silver Sickle, watching as it slowly sinks to the bottom.

"You'd never even know the Ministry was completely destroyed," Minerva remarks, offhand.

Dolores bites her lip. "You think you won, don't you? You and Dumbledore?"

"Haven't we?"

"You're so naïve! Look at the fountain again," she points and laughs. "The Goblins and house-elves and Centaurs-- they're still gazing up adoringly at the wizards."

"But--"

Dolores tosses a coin into the water. "Goodbye, Minerva," she says.

-

Finis.