You-Know-Who: Massive Hypocrite?
Written by Dorcas Meadowes
Editor’s note: We in the journalism community were shocked at the death of one of our own, the outspoken Dorcas Meadowes. We have come to the conclusion that the most fitting tribute we can give her is to publish her last editorial posthumously. Please note that she expresses opinions we do not agree with, states facts we have not checked, and uses words we do not usually print. That being said, we present to you the swan song of our esteemed colleague, Dorcas Meadowes.
–Bleeding cowards!†shouted Alasor, –She had more courage in her left eyebrow than the rest of that lot combined!†He poured himself another glass of scotch. –Does it even count as a swan song, if it was the reason she was killed?,†he remarked to the empty room and turned back to the paper.
Sixteen years ago, I married a Muggle. My mother objected, of course, but I didn’t care. We were happy. He worked for the railway and I was a gossip columnist for Witch Weekly. Fourteen years ago, we had a beautiful little girl. She was born with her father’s hair and lovely baby blue eyes. She was an absolute delight, and we loved her dearly.
His eyes flicked to the photo of Dorcas that accompanied her article. Though they were newsprint grey and flat on the page, her eyes danced with life, just like they did when she had an new idea. Sometimes they were still and calm, as she watched the waves from the porch of her cottage and thought about what to write next. Her eyes were still and calm at the funeral, too. But there, all life, all intelligence, was gone.
Eleven years ago, I came home from work on a stormy Tuesday afternoon. As I walked up the hill toward my house, I noticed an odd green mist. In the air hung a symbol I had never seen before, though we all know to dread it now. I quickened my pace, worried that my daughter would be frightened. Usually, when I came home, I was greeted with a kiss from my husband and a hug from my daughter. That day, I opened the door to their bodies. They were the first of many victims of the wizard who styles himself Lord Voldemort. They were murdered to punish me for ‘tainting pure blood.’ That logic is, of course, a load of horse s***. (Editor’s note: We run a family paper, after all.)
Alastor Moody rolled his eyes at the editor’s note and went to take another drink. His glass was empty. He went to to refill it, but changed his mind and took a swig straight from the bottle instead. He was grateful for the numbness that was slowly overtaking him. It was better not to feel at all than to be overwhelmed with pain. Pain and... guilt.
... For a complete enumeration of the faults in the philosophies of He-Whose-Name-My-Editor-Won’t-Let-Me-Print, please obtain a copy of my pamphlet, Falsities and Fallacies: Flaws in the Blood Purity Arguments.
At first, she was just a voice of reason in the papers. For years, she was the only one to talk realistically about the disappearances and threats. The other writers didn’t want to be fear mongers, and filled their stories with drivel about the latest security measures. At least for Alastor, their platitudes were anything but reassuring. But Dorcas mixed her brutal honesty with a cocktail of hope and determination that would have made Winston Churchill himself proud. That is, if he was still alive.
That's all old news, though. The Dark Lord so revered by his followers as the perfect example that magic is might, is not the shining pillar of blood purity he claims to be. He is, in fact, a half-blood. (Editor's note: Dorcas did not submit her sources for this claim, so it is the opinion of the Daily Prophet that this is, at best, conjecture.)
Alastor, correctly guessing that Wilfred Weatherby was behind the Editor’s Notes, choked on a laugh, indignant at Prophet’s choice. Dorcas had occasionally played a drinking game on Friday nights, reading Weatherby's latest editorial in the Evening Prophet. "I take a swallow of beer every time Witless Willy castrates himself with his own pen," she had explained, –and I usually finish the bottle before I’m all the way through his article.
This memory prompted another. One night, when Alastor was assigned to protect her, she talked him into to joining her for the game. After setting the appropriate wards and preparing a Sober-Up potion (in case he needed to quickly return to fighting condition), he reluctantly agreed.
With the war on Voldemort in full force, Dorcas drank more frequently and had less time for errands than in years prior. As such, her liquor supply was running low. Dorcas was unwilling to let her efforts in convincing the gruff Auror to drink with her go to waste, so she conducted a more thorough search. When this proved unfruitful, she pulled out her wand and said, –Accio alcohol.†A dusty bottle of absinthe came flying out of the pantry. She shrugged and grabbed a pair of shot glasses. –It was been a particularly difficult week at work, so I don’t mind drinking something a bit stronger than usual.†she had explained. He cast poison detection charms on the bottle and the glasses, which made her laugh.
She read the editorial aloud. Weatherby began waxing poetic about the need to befriend the goblins and she poured their first shot.
After their second shot, he asked her to put it away. Not only was it disgusting, but it was incredibly strong. They finished the game with his evening hip flask. After the two shots of absinthe, he found that he didn’t mind letting her drink straight from the flask. In fact, his heart beat a little faster as he watched her lips touch the spot where his had been just a moment prior.
As the drinks took effect, he found himself laughing in a most undignified manner at her increasingly slurred criticisms of her colleague.
Then, the alcohol took control of his tongue and he found himself uttering the words which he had been thinking for months but couldn't say while sober.
–I love you,†he remarked, timidly.
The noise of boisterous youths walking past his window brought Alastor back to the present. He glanced back at the paper in his hands, looking for his place. Then he put the paper down.
His memories were a far better tribute to her than anything the Daily Prophet could print.
Even the Most Unlikely by Wenlock
Chapter Notes: I wasn't sure whether or not to add the substance abuse tag, but in the end I decided against it.
There is drinking, yes, but they are adults and avoid getting plastered.
Chapter Endnotes:
This was originally intended as a one-shot, but it was also originally intended to be shorter. This seemed like a natural chapter break to me.
PS, I would love to find a beta for this story. Please PM me on the boards if you'd be willing.