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ravenCredit where credit's due - to these people!
Also, come on, don't look at me like that, at least it's not Clegg/Cameron RPF. Although I keep watching this and trying very hard not to chew my fingers.
ficlet:: a historic and seismic shift
by Raven
PG, gen, HP/RPF. David Cameron's first night in office.
Westminster, 11th May 2010
The sun's gone down, and not on Portillo. He remembers it, but not as well as he tells people he does; he was up for the count at Stafford and the night was long and it all blurs now, anyway. It was a long time ago and it's not important. It's quiet, at last. The evening has been crawling with press and Liberal Democrats. It's quiet in this large, old, airy office, it's quiet in the halls of power beneath.
David – he tried Dave, he really did; he'd like to be an easy-going monosyllable, like Nick, but it's never felt less than trying too hard – crosses the floor of his new home and shuts the door, and does a long, slow twirl around his new domain, and then the portrait on the wall speaks to him.
It's a very ugly portrait. It depicts a small, froglike man in a long silver wig. David turns around and blinks, and thinks it's been a long day and he hasn't had much sleep lately, and, and, he'll have a word with someone in the morning...
"Excuse me," says the portrait again. "Oh, dear, no one ever mentioned he might be hard of hearing."
"I'm not hard of hearing!" David snaps, and then realises he's talking to a portrait. It did speak to him first, but politics is a hard life and he's been under a lot of mental strain lately.
"Good," says the portrait. "She asks: you do have all your clothes on, don't you? Not in the middle of anything private?"
David just blinks. "Private?"
"Too late anyway."
Then his fireplace glows green and a woman steps out. David takes a deep breath and thinks about mental strain, and the way politics gets under your skin sometimes, and didn't Campbell have a breakdown in the early nineties? Something like that. Another deep breath. It's been a long day.
"Sorry about that," says the woman, brushing soot and ash off her clothes – she's wearing some sort of sub fusc, with twiddly bits – "it's always best to be sure, one of my predecessors walked in on Major during an, ah, unguarded moment. I'm sorry, are you all right?"
"You" – David pauses. "You've just walked out of my fireplace. There is a security force just outside this room."
"Yes, there was," the woman says cheerfully. "They're having a bit of a nap right now. No, don't" – as he reaches for the phone – "it'll do no good. Trust me. Listen, it'll be best for both of us if you sit down."
He sits down. He's very tired, and this is feeling like autopilot. "Who are you?"
"I am the Secretary of State for Magical Affairs," she says, and smiles. "It's not a cabinet post most of the time. That said, most people do call me the Minister for Magic."
"You're... who?"
She reaches for his hand. Numbly, he goes to shake it, with the muscle memory overriding conscious thought, and she smiles at him, warmly. "Oh, and my name is Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister."
It's only about the second or third time someone who isn't from the BBC has called him that, and the warm glow spreads to his toes even as he says, "What do you mean, magic?"
"Now" – she consults a clipboard which he could swear wasn't there a moment before – "I understand you lead a coalition government. That's a little problematic. Perhaps you could organise a meeting with the other chap some time soon? If you can get him up to this office unaccompanied we'll take care of the rest."
"The other..."
"Nice man, wears a yellow tie on the television? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, I've been perched on the roof at work holding up a TV aerial trying to escape the magical interference, it's been very exasperating. Now, about..."
"Wait!" He takes a step back, privately castigates himself for yelling – the media doesn't like it – and follows it up with a deep breath. "I don't know who you are, madam, and I don't know how you got into this office, but..."
She waves a lazy hand. "Look, it's been a difficult night for me as well and I'd quite like to go home and go to bed. Briefly: yes, magic exists, yes, there are witches and wizards in Britain, there have been for centuries, there are many, many people who already know this, and more than one of them is in your cabinet, in case you want to go and have a good shout about it tomorrow. Your deputy doesn't, and he needs to know. And if you're lucky, you won't ever see me again."
David just blinks at her.
"If you need me for any reason, ask the portrait on the wall. And don't, for heaven's sake, try to take it down. It won't come off. A couple of governments ago someone almost broke their teeth trying."
"Magic doesn't exist," David tells her. "Magic is fairy tales."
Granger sighs, snaps her fingers and suddenly his whole office is full of birds of paradise. They fly around the top of the room, squawk, shed a bit, and disappear. She mutters something– Latin, he thinks – and it starts to snow. The flakes drift down, settle on his hair and start to melt. She says something else and suddenly there's a bunch of flowers in her arms. Still smiling, she hands it to him and he accepts wordlessly.
"Right." She takes a final look around the room. "I think that's everything." She bows her head slightly, and turns towards the flames. "Goodnight, Prime Minister."
The fireplace glows green again, and she's gone. Once again, all is quiet.
David sets the flowers on the table. He picks a feather off the floor, then drops it again. Crossing the floor again, he pours himself a stiff drink from the sideboard, and wonders if these people pay taxes.
end.
Also, come on, don't look at me like that, at least it's not Clegg/Cameron RPF. Although I keep watching this and trying very hard not to chew my fingers.
ficlet:: a historic and seismic shift
by Raven
PG, gen, HP/RPF. David Cameron's first night in office.
Westminster, 11th May 2010
The sun's gone down, and not on Portillo. He remembers it, but not as well as he tells people he does; he was up for the count at Stafford and the night was long and it all blurs now, anyway. It was a long time ago and it's not important. It's quiet, at last. The evening has been crawling with press and Liberal Democrats. It's quiet in this large, old, airy office, it's quiet in the halls of power beneath.
David – he tried Dave, he really did; he'd like to be an easy-going monosyllable, like Nick, but it's never felt less than trying too hard – crosses the floor of his new home and shuts the door, and does a long, slow twirl around his new domain, and then the portrait on the wall speaks to him.
It's a very ugly portrait. It depicts a small, froglike man in a long silver wig. David turns around and blinks, and thinks it's been a long day and he hasn't had much sleep lately, and, and, he'll have a word with someone in the morning...
"Excuse me," says the portrait again. "Oh, dear, no one ever mentioned he might be hard of hearing."
"I'm not hard of hearing!" David snaps, and then realises he's talking to a portrait. It did speak to him first, but politics is a hard life and he's been under a lot of mental strain lately.
"Good," says the portrait. "She asks: you do have all your clothes on, don't you? Not in the middle of anything private?"
David just blinks. "Private?"
"Too late anyway."
Then his fireplace glows green and a woman steps out. David takes a deep breath and thinks about mental strain, and the way politics gets under your skin sometimes, and didn't Campbell have a breakdown in the early nineties? Something like that. Another deep breath. It's been a long day.
"Sorry about that," says the woman, brushing soot and ash off her clothes – she's wearing some sort of sub fusc, with twiddly bits – "it's always best to be sure, one of my predecessors walked in on Major during an, ah, unguarded moment. I'm sorry, are you all right?"
"You" – David pauses. "You've just walked out of my fireplace. There is a security force just outside this room."
"Yes, there was," the woman says cheerfully. "They're having a bit of a nap right now. No, don't" – as he reaches for the phone – "it'll do no good. Trust me. Listen, it'll be best for both of us if you sit down."
He sits down. He's very tired, and this is feeling like autopilot. "Who are you?"
"I am the Secretary of State for Magical Affairs," she says, and smiles. "It's not a cabinet post most of the time. That said, most people do call me the Minister for Magic."
"You're... who?"
She reaches for his hand. Numbly, he goes to shake it, with the muscle memory overriding conscious thought, and she smiles at him, warmly. "Oh, and my name is Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister."
It's only about the second or third time someone who isn't from the BBC has called him that, and the warm glow spreads to his toes even as he says, "What do you mean, magic?"
"Now" – she consults a clipboard which he could swear wasn't there a moment before – "I understand you lead a coalition government. That's a little problematic. Perhaps you could organise a meeting with the other chap some time soon? If you can get him up to this office unaccompanied we'll take care of the rest."
"The other..."
"Nice man, wears a yellow tie on the television? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, I've been perched on the roof at work holding up a TV aerial trying to escape the magical interference, it's been very exasperating. Now, about..."
"Wait!" He takes a step back, privately castigates himself for yelling – the media doesn't like it – and follows it up with a deep breath. "I don't know who you are, madam, and I don't know how you got into this office, but..."
She waves a lazy hand. "Look, it's been a difficult night for me as well and I'd quite like to go home and go to bed. Briefly: yes, magic exists, yes, there are witches and wizards in Britain, there have been for centuries, there are many, many people who already know this, and more than one of them is in your cabinet, in case you want to go and have a good shout about it tomorrow. Your deputy doesn't, and he needs to know. And if you're lucky, you won't ever see me again."
David just blinks at her.
"If you need me for any reason, ask the portrait on the wall. And don't, for heaven's sake, try to take it down. It won't come off. A couple of governments ago someone almost broke their teeth trying."
"Magic doesn't exist," David tells her. "Magic is fairy tales."
Granger sighs, snaps her fingers and suddenly his whole office is full of birds of paradise. They fly around the top of the room, squawk, shed a bit, and disappear. She mutters something– Latin, he thinks – and it starts to snow. The flakes drift down, settle on his hair and start to melt. She says something else and suddenly there's a bunch of flowers in her arms. Still smiling, she hands it to him and he accepts wordlessly.
"Right." She takes a final look around the room. "I think that's everything." She bows her head slightly, and turns towards the flames. "Goodnight, Prime Minister."
The fireplace glows green again, and she's gone. Once again, all is quiet.
David sets the flowers on the table. He picks a feather off the floor, then drops it again. Crossing the floor again, he pours himself a stiff drink from the sideboard, and wonders if these people pay taxes.
end.
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no subject
on 2010-05-12 05:07 pm (UTC)!!!!! *chews own fingers*
wonders if these people pay taxes.
Made of win.
no subject
on 2010-05-12 05:38 pm (UTC)