Trumpets trumpet.
'Trumpets, CHECK! Next!' screams a woman. One would wonder if she has stepped out of the army if it were not for her red low-cut dress and stilettos-- which, as she walks, clatter continuously. Without stopping. Because that's what “continuously” means. Oh, you want me to describe her? I'll try, but be warned-- description is not my strong point. She looks, or rather seems to try to look beautiful. Her head is full of hair, she has two hands, two legs and a face. In the middle of her face is a nose, and underneath it, a mouth. Two ears stick out of the sides of her head, and she has five fingers on each hand. Enough with the description already, let's go back to what is happening in the Ministry banquet hall.
'I assume the tables are next?' she asks a random person from the people working around her. Or supposedly working, at any rate.
'Ma'am, yes ma'am!' says the unfortunate person who she's addressing.
'When some one is answering me, I expect them to stand straight, and look into my eyes,' she hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously.
'Yeah, like I'd look into her eyes when she has these other assets...' the man mutters underneath his breath, but the woman thankfully doesn't hear. She just walks away, into the grand dining hall where the dignitaries from the different countries are soon going to dine along with the Minister.
'Miss Zabini, I hope all preparations are going on well?' asks a dark, bald man. 'I have just a few minutes, I excused myself from the conference on account of a false, unsteady bladder...'
'Yes, Minister, everything is indeed going on well,' says Zabini, stroking the Minister's arm with one long, shining crimson nail. The Minister shivers, nods and walks out. Zabini smiles and looks around.
Her smile disappears faster than a Velociraptor being chased by laser shooting Tyrannosaurus Rex.
'WHAT IS THIS? WHY IS NOTHING READY?' screams Zabini-- a scream which sounds like an illegitimate love-child of a shriek and a shout.
'Ma'am, permission to speak, ma'am,' says one of the men there.
'Permission granted,' says Zabini.
'Ma'am, we do not know where to put what, ma'am,' says the man.
Zabini sighs, her face contorted in horror and exasperation- if that is possible. 'This is going to be a catastrophe!' she says as theatrically as possible. Her acting is almost good enough to win her a Raspberry.
'Ma'am, no, ma'am. This is a dinner, not punctuation ma'am. Capastrophe, apastrophe whatever ma'am, that squiggly punctuation, ma'am.'
'What is your name?' she asks. If looks could kill, this woman would be a mass murderer, like Jack the Ripper. Only, she would be called Zabini the Looker. Or something a little scarier.
'Ma'am, Edward ma'am. Edward Cuzzen,' he says. Zabini chuckles.
'Do I dazzle you?' she asks. Edward looks completely blank. 'Never mind,' she says. 'Now, get on with the work! Fast, fast!'
'Ma'am, could you lend me a hand with this tablecloth, ma'am?' asks one of the men-- a short, pudgy man with something on his face that he probably thought was a magnificent beard, but in reality looked like a miserable opossum stuck to his chin.
'Me? Exert myself? Ha!' she chuckles, the sort of chuckle a woman chuckles before chucking you right into a pit filled with molten lava, venomous cobras, spikes as large as your head and a radio playing Celestina Warbeck songs continuously. Without stopping. Because continuously means- what, I've made that joke already? Oh, sorry, I loose track of these things sometimes.
'Ma'am, on which side do which things go, ma'am?' asks a man, probably talking about the cutlery. Or about the ornamental platypi.
'That is subjective. But it normally goes inside the room,' she says.
'Ma'am, my favourite subjects are Charms and Divination, ma'am,' says Edward. Zabini ignores him.
'Ma'am, where does this thing go, ma'am?' asks a man. One would wonder why only men were asking her questions, but that is not imperative to the story, so for Heaven's sake-- forget it.
'That's a toilet plunger, for Lord's sake! Throw it in the little girls' room!' says Zabini, irritated.
Promptly, high-pitched, shrill screams are heard as a mysterious red projectile lands splat in the middle of the Ministry's ballet class for six to seven year old humans of the female persuasion. (Contact our front desk for more information regarding these classes.)
'Where are the forks and spoons and cutlery?' asks Zabini, looking almost ready to pull out her perfect, permed, shampooed-three-times-a-day, dyed (don't tell her I told you that) hair.
The men nudge each other. One of them comes forward and clears his throat. 'Ma'am, shall we show you our newest brainwave? The people here from the Department for Simplicity and Easy Usage came up with this,' he says, and waves his wand with what he hopes is a majestic swish but looks more like a person with Fibromyalgia spasming. A curtain which had suddenly appeared there for the sake of the swishes open dramatically, and there-- in a large box are several utensils, which look like spoons but with prongs.
Zabini's face contorts. 'What are those?'
'Ma'am, they are sporks ma'am. They do the work of spoons and forks, ma'am. We did not want to waste money ma'am-- we didn't have money to waste-- and so we melted the forks and spoons and made these, ma'am. Where do they go, ma'am?'
'In. The. Bin!' exclaims Zabini, whose eyes are wider than her thighs (which themselves are rather wide), and and she looks ready to explode. Her face is red with anger-- as red as her dress, or a baboon's... I'll call it posterior. 'You. Melted. The. Ministry's. Seven. Hundred. Year. Old. Silver. Forks. And. Spoons. To MAKE SOME CRAZY UTENSILS.. WHAT ARE THEY CALLED NOW-- FOONS? FOSPS? I.. I give up! I JUST GIVE UP! Let the Minsiter do what he wants! I'm done here, done with unreliable help, done with cutlery that look like pooper scoopers!' Saying so, having expressed her true and innermost feelings (Most of which go along the lines of “MONEY! MMOOOONNNNEEEYYYY!), she sinks to the floor, presumably unconscious.
The men look at each other, confusion evident on their faces. Then they shrug, shake their heads, and start placing the sporks on the table, two for every plate.
Of Stilettos and Sporks by Sainyn Swiftfoot
Story Notes:
Thanks so much to Vittoria for beta'ing this for me! A huge thanks to (the awesometastic) Hannah/Bob/Bobbypants/coolh5000 for answering my persistent questions! This story would also not be here if it were not for GinervaPotter213/Ayra's challenge for a drabble, which eventually grew into this one-shot.
If I said I was J K Rowling, I would be in jail for impersonation AND copyright infringement, so I'll just say that I'm NOT J K Rowling, and that I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter Notes: A spork is a piece of cutlery that looks like a spoon and a fork merged together into one ugly thing.. But if you don't know what a spork is... I'm duigusted with you. Go check it out on WIkipedia. You're missing something really important to your life.
Chapter Endnotes: Thanks for reading! Please review...