Photographs and Their Occupants
Title: Photographs and Their Occupants
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour
Rating: PG
Other: Written for the December 19th challenge (how many friends) for 30_hath.
Shuffled aside in a corner of his bedroom, Rufus Scrimgeour kept a box of photographs. They had collected over the years, coming from others who for some reason had decided that he would like to be reminded of them. Once in a while, usually after he’d had a drink or two, Rufus would glance at the pictures, flipping through them with only the quickest of glances.
He remembered the occupants of these pictures well enough without the scenes depicted. What use were volumes of such things? If anything, photographs became quickly distressing. When he did glance at the things, Rufus only took quick note of the people in them, reviewed what he could remember about the particular individuals. Thus, pictures were useful only insofar as they refreshed his memory.
Very few of those people were what he would have called close friends. He would have been hard pressed to refer to most of them as “friends” at all. In general, Rufus preferred acquaintances, often of the most advantageous and political sort. They were really of two different breeds, friends and acquaintances. Of course it was necessary to speak of most acquaintances as friends. Some became horribly offended at the use of “acquaintance.” There was no great matter in that, however; how much of the political realm involved solid truth? So yes, absolutely, they might well be referred to as friends, whether they were or were not close.
He could deal easily with acquaintances. There was almost a set pattern in their treatment: allot an amount of time for discussion, an invitation for a drink, a brief and companionable chat during a break from work, and in some instances a brief venture. Let them know that grasp consideration, give them the experience of a few personal conversations, and that was it. That particular set of actions would keep any individual well satisfied and under control.
Rufus could name these people and identify them, could give descriptions and in many cases trivial details. He memorized facts about acquaintances as he had memorized wand motions, counter-curses, and various dates in school. This man spoke with a slight lisp, had lost his only brother during the first war, and prized a lucky purple rabbit’s foot. That one preferred brunettes (especially preferred them over his redheaded wife) and wished that he had gone into the department of defense rather than international relations. Still another liked nothing more than to watch a game of Quidditch, though he wouldn’t turn down a tour of Italy.
That information was all helpful in some way or other. Match the fact to faces, the faces to names, and there were no great worries. There was a balance found in the matching.
Friends, on the other hand, were difficult. There was no set pattern, no certainty. The ground was trickier, and… Rufus furrowed his brow, tossed aside a picture from his early days in the Ministry. Events twisted into themselves, complicated relations. Friends were bound to be lost, certainly. It was the way of things. He knew this. He had accepted this.
Even so, his eyes flickered back to the photograph, a picture that Garner had taken when the lot of them had gone out for a drink and had ended up reeling. Garner had gone mad with the camera for a while that evening, though Rufus couldn’t have said where the other pictures had gone. It had been ridiculous, and certainly he and Alastor looked absolutely batty, trying to dance on top of the table…
Well. That had been years ago, and was long gone. Annoyed, Rufus shoved the box back, stood. What had happened? Time. Experience. Everything that could tear the edges of that idea of friendship. Friends could be destroyed by the strangest occurrences. No mind, though. It was far easier to have acquaintances.
Rufus decided to have another drink.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour
Rating: PG
Other: Written for the December 19th challenge (how many friends) for 30_hath.
Shuffled aside in a corner of his bedroom, Rufus Scrimgeour kept a box of photographs. They had collected over the years, coming from others who for some reason had decided that he would like to be reminded of them. Once in a while, usually after he’d had a drink or two, Rufus would glance at the pictures, flipping through them with only the quickest of glances.
He remembered the occupants of these pictures well enough without the scenes depicted. What use were volumes of such things? If anything, photographs became quickly distressing. When he did glance at the things, Rufus only took quick note of the people in them, reviewed what he could remember about the particular individuals. Thus, pictures were useful only insofar as they refreshed his memory.
Very few of those people were what he would have called close friends. He would have been hard pressed to refer to most of them as “friends” at all. In general, Rufus preferred acquaintances, often of the most advantageous and political sort. They were really of two different breeds, friends and acquaintances. Of course it was necessary to speak of most acquaintances as friends. Some became horribly offended at the use of “acquaintance.” There was no great matter in that, however; how much of the political realm involved solid truth? So yes, absolutely, they might well be referred to as friends, whether they were or were not close.
He could deal easily with acquaintances. There was almost a set pattern in their treatment: allot an amount of time for discussion, an invitation for a drink, a brief and companionable chat during a break from work, and in some instances a brief venture. Let them know that grasp consideration, give them the experience of a few personal conversations, and that was it. That particular set of actions would keep any individual well satisfied and under control.
Rufus could name these people and identify them, could give descriptions and in many cases trivial details. He memorized facts about acquaintances as he had memorized wand motions, counter-curses, and various dates in school. This man spoke with a slight lisp, had lost his only brother during the first war, and prized a lucky purple rabbit’s foot. That one preferred brunettes (especially preferred them over his redheaded wife) and wished that he had gone into the department of defense rather than international relations. Still another liked nothing more than to watch a game of Quidditch, though he wouldn’t turn down a tour of Italy.
That information was all helpful in some way or other. Match the fact to faces, the faces to names, and there were no great worries. There was a balance found in the matching.
Friends, on the other hand, were difficult. There was no set pattern, no certainty. The ground was trickier, and… Rufus furrowed his brow, tossed aside a picture from his early days in the Ministry. Events twisted into themselves, complicated relations. Friends were bound to be lost, certainly. It was the way of things. He knew this. He had accepted this.
Even so, his eyes flickered back to the photograph, a picture that Garner had taken when the lot of them had gone out for a drink and had ended up reeling. Garner had gone mad with the camera for a while that evening, though Rufus couldn’t have said where the other pictures had gone. It had been ridiculous, and certainly he and Alastor looked absolutely batty, trying to dance on top of the table…
Well. That had been years ago, and was long gone. Annoyed, Rufus shoved the box back, stood. What had happened? Time. Experience. Everything that could tear the edges of that idea of friendship. Friends could be destroyed by the strangest occurrences. No mind, though. It was far easier to have acquaintances.
Rufus decided to have another drink.