Thank you JKR for letting me inhabit your world….and what a wonderful world it is!
THE CREAM OF THE CROP
He walked up to his third story flat with his back held ramrod straight and his nose searching for ever loftier heights. Surely, if any neighbors were to espy him, they would recognize him as an important personage from his dignified carriage alone. He walked slowly hoping for such an encounter but arrived in solitude.
He entered his barren abode with a great sense of accomplishment. This had been an extremely good day and he had more than competently completed a great deal of work. Indeed, he had again exceeded expectations, nay…performed outstandingly… and had finished reports that were not expected for a month or more. Going to the office today had been a masterful stroke of genius. Being Christmas Eve day, there had been almost no one around to distract him with their inane questions and absurd comments. Minister Fudge would be most pleased with his prodigious productivity.
He immediately went to the lavatory to carefully wash Muggle London from his hands for exactly two minutes. Less than that might not eliminate the germs that were inherent everywhere and more than that could be construed as obsessive. Carefully he dried his hands on a pristine white hand-towel and deposited it distastefully into the soiled clothing hamper. The loo was so small he only needed to turn slightly to the linen cupboard to check on his remaining stock. There must never be less than a dozen sanitized towels waiting for his use. Good… he counted at least four extra, so he could ignore this chore for a few more days. Efficiently he erased this problem from his mind, knowing that his well-organized intellect would produce a warning when needed.
He entered his main living area that housed a bed, a small table with a lamp that doubled as a desk and a single straight-back wooden chair. He drew in a delighted breath and sighed in satisfaction. The room was perfectly square. He had measured. Every corner and each angle a delicious ninety degrees that soothed and comforted his soul.
The blank white walls did not disturb or depress him, indeed, their dearth of décor made him feel pure and somehow wholesome . He shuddered in horror as he recalled his parent’s hodge-podge of a ramshackle, undisciplined house that they and his siblings seem to hold in great affection. A vast sense of pity welled within him that he immediately tamped down. They certainly could achieve the perfection that he now enjoyed, but were too ignorant to aspire to such excellence.
Thinking of aspirations, he couldn’t help but consider his father. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office? How disgraceful is that? The man had no ambition, indeed, no dignity whatsoever. Certainly he held the meanest of positions and the lowest paying save only the Squib chars that helped the elves clean and tidy the Ministry. He was glad he had broken relations with the family so that now he was not mortified by his father’s loud raucous greetings and vacuous grins when they passed in the halls. Perhaps, others would eventually forget, or at least ignore that they were related.
Yes, he was embarrassed by his sire. He cringed when he remembered his first days in the Ministry when his father had grabbed him around the shoulders and proudly presented him to other employees who must have gotten a hearty chuckle from the pathetic picture they made. He had been so humiliated by his father’s patched clothing and his own hand-me-down robes that were never quite long enough in the sleeve. His first pay proceeds had gone to purchase the best ready-made robes he could afford. As his pay increased, he had availed himself of the services of a superb tailor and was now robed as befitted his exulted position. One must always show the world the superiority within by one’s outward presentation.
He had learned this from Bartemius Crouch. Even though he had been a maniac that had smuggled his Death-eater son from Azkaban and kept him hidden for years, the man had been a sartorial god. A gentleman of no comparison. The precision, the exactitude of his trimmed moustache! The accuracy of the part in his hair was enough to take one’s breath away and his clothing was always impeccable. Never was there the least smudge of soot, wrinkle or stray thread. He was the image of perfection and had commanded great respect because of it.
The well-worn copy of Prefects Who Gained Power drew his eye and he sat at the table to peruse the already memorized text. Each time he did this, he perceived something that he could now interpret from a higher level of understanding. His own personal Bible never failed to illuminate even further his path to greatness.
Suddenly a loud, rude noise abruptly interrupted him. He looked to the window and saw the smashed-in face of Errol looking dazed on the windowsill. What a bloody menace that owl was! With a weary sigh he opened the window and retrieved the near comatose messenger. Attached to its legs was a parcel wrapped in cheap, gaudy Christmas paper.
He stared in horror at the package, his hands shaking in outrage. He knew what it was! Hadn’t he received the same gift every year he could remember? His soul recoiled as he pictured the grotesque hand knitted jumper that it undoubtedly contained. How dare she! Surely she had to realize that he had evolved beyond such revolting attire! How could she not understand that he merited so much more? Insulted to his quick, he tossed Errol out the window without a care for his well-being and called Hermes to him. At least his owl had some style, dare he say class? He instructed him to return the unopened package and was gratified when Hermes gave a dignified hoot before he flew off into the icy December sky.
Why did they refuse to understand? He gripped his hair in frustration for a moment, then quickly smoothed it down, regaining his decorum once again. How much more clearly could he make his position known? He had tried to warn his youngest brother. There might have been some small hope for him, but he had not taken the advice that was so generously bestowed. He had bared his soul to him in an exquisitely written letter, urging him to cleave to that paragon of rectitude and virtue that was Dolores Umbridge. It would behoove him to acknowledge the superior wisdom that was Minister Fudge and disassociate himself from that daft buffoon Dumbledore and the St. Mungo bound, insane criminal, Harry Potter. His brother had not even deigned to respond. Sadly, it seemed he was doomed to the ineptitude that encompassed the rest of his family.
Yes, he had heard that his father was in St. Mungo’s with some sort of injury, but he had no doubt, whatsoever, that it was a poor ruse to lure him back into that dysfunctional family. Play on his sympathies would they? He was far too intelligent to fall prey to such a shoddy ploy. He would remain strong and supremely secure in the knowledge that one day they would surely see that he was the finest that the family would ever produce and beg him for forgiveness! He knew in his heart that after they had debased themselves enough, he would certainly welcome them back with open arms.
A yawn escaped his lips as he tiredly changed into his starched pajamas that had been custom ordered. All of the stripes were flawlessly aligned to produce a most pleasing symmetry. Gratefully he lay down on his back as he caught the distant sounds of carolers wandering the streets. Fortunately they were not loud enough to impede his well-earned rest. With his head positioned precisely in the center of his pillow, he artfully arranged the duvet to lie perfectly across his shoulders. As he drifted toward sleep, he became conscious of one small droplet of moisture that was coursing from the outer corner of his eye, down his temple, en route to his ear. As he reached up to brush it away, he though perhaps he should go to St. Mungo’s tomorrow. Perhaps a trip to a healer was in order. Perhaps he had not washed his hands thoroughly enough. He must be catching a cold.