When You Think of Umbridge
The first thing I must tell you very clearly is that I am not who you think I am. When you find me surrounded by portraits of kittens on expensive china, I am not who you think I am. When you see me in a pink dress that I see you laugh at, I am not who you think I am. When you hear me coughing to make myself heard, I am not who you think I am. Kittens do not discriminate; they love those who pet them. Pink does not discriminate; it sweetens who wears it. If I do not raise my voice, you would not catch it. I am what remains when you subtract the cutting quill from the summation of decrees boring into walls. I am Dolores, but also Jane.
You haven’t met Jane; she was buried long ago under piles of scented parchments, now gathering dust. Those were love letters. She was fettered; battered by their weight. She didn’t send them; they stink of rust. He should have carried their burden, but Jane was common. He married the other woman.
When you think of Umbridge, you cannot think of Jane: once, a whole. Then, a half. Quarter. Eighth. When you think of Umbridge, you cannot forget Jane. You cannot show you remember her. When you think of Umbridge, you must sense her softness. You cannot let yourself feel it. When you think of Umbridge, you should beware: you want to love but you cannot risk it. When you think of Umbridge, you have to know I am Jane, but mostly Dolores.