JUDGEMENT

“… and that you consciously and willingly propagated Voldemort’s regime…”

Potter leant forward, his face thrown into sharp relief and her hands tightened on the chair. The chains bit harder as if to drag her back but her mind was not on the Wizengamot now. She could not believe the arrogant belief that he deserved to be here.

“Dolores Umbridge, how do you plead?” Tearing her eyes from Potter she surveyed the Chief Warlock angrily.

“Not guilty!” Her voice rang across the room and was met by angry murmurs but she did not care. She had always done what was best.

A SMALL, FLUFFY DRABBLE

Puffskeins are not generally known for being great thinkers - they have no need for devils or angels or salvation. But strangely they do believe in reincarnation.

So perhaps it is unsurprising that Ron’s Puffskein, when he saw death bearing down on him with a whoop of glee and a flash of ginger hair, took the whole matter philosophically.

He would have been less reassured if he’d known then that when he eventually awoke he would be small, fluffy and vividly pink and noticing a familiar orange presence looming above him, he probably rethought his attitude towards the devil as well.

THE LOST-SOULS RING

The villagers watched in fear as a girls sweet, tortured spirit wandered past their homes.

Cadmus Peverell, eyes heavy with tears and heart sore, called her back inside. He’d thought her lost, Halloween leaving the ring weak. From the light of a single candle sparkling across his glass, he’d watched her dance sorrowfully across the moors. Yet her return offered no relief, his decision was made.

On a table the candle still burned and a glass of wine stood untouched. The villagers wondered later if these strange gifts had drawn the ghostly killer inside. They did not find the ring.

A FAMILY ALBUM

Bogrod settled more firmly in his chair, willing the cushion to give way and let him sink out of sight. The whole room was uncomfortable. An essay in strained relations. He didn’t understand why she still insisted on putting them all through this charade – it wouldn’t change anything.

“Father,” his daughter said, wizarding arrogance filling her voice, “Filius has something to tell you.” Across the room he heard his wife make a sharp note of annoyance.

He wondered again how long he would have to pay for his mistake. It was one that many goblins had made before him. The sight of a pretty young witch crossing the marble floor at Gringotts and a lurking curiosity. It had only been a casual fling, gone in a moment, a fleeting memory to be set aside and packed away. Yet it had chosen to haunt him.

He had made it clear immediately that he wanted nothing to do with the child, paid the girl off – the power of gold had always been the one thing he could rely upon wizards to understand. He had expected that to be the end of it. Eighteen years later a fully grown daughter had arrived, fresh out of Hogwarts and angry. Determined to force him into a relationship that he neither needed nor wanted.

And now there was a grandchild. The silence stretched between them, but he refused to break it. He refused to bow to her. At last she spoke, it was only a small victory but a victory nonetheless.

“Filius, tell him.” The boy stared up at her for a moment in wide eyed fear, but receiving only a glare in return he obviously decided that speaking to his grandfather was the lesser of the two evils.

“I won the Duelling Contest at school, they said I was the best they’d seen in years,” the words stumbled out and there was a frustratingly eager look on his face as it searched the shadows of the chair for approval.

“Well?” His daughter asked angrily after a moment.

“Do you expect me to proud?” He responded dismissively.

“Duelling is very important,” she snapped at him, “it’s a wizard’s first line of defence and Filius…”

“We have no need of your flashy spells,” he interrupted her, rising at last from his seat, “Goblins have far more powerful means of defence.” Before him he saw the boys face collapse into barely concealed disappointment. But why should he care. He was nothing more than an abomination.

* * * * *

Stoker blamed himself for his son’s behaviour. Of course this was nothing new, he blamed himself for everything. Dobby had been caught stealing food from their Master’s pantry. It was behaviour unbefitting of a house-elf, low as they naturally were, they should not sink deeper. Not betray the trust…

It had to be his fault; there was no other explanation – no possible reason for this unnaturalness. It was because he himself had suffered evil thoughts when they had first come to serve the Malfoys. He had let them dwell and fester, unable to squash them no matter how much he punished himself.

The Malfoys were new money, the filthy sort of unrighteous wealth that his old Masters had loathed, but by their debt and poverty they had been forced to hand over their last house-elves. He’d suddenly had new Masters, but old opinions and they had been hard to break. Now here was his punishment, staring at him with barely concealed defiance.

“How could you?” Dobby’s mother asked beside him, both her body and her voice shaking.

“I hate them,” his son squeaked angrily. Fury and shame building inside him, Stoker knocked him to the floor.

“Never… Never…” he stuttered and then recovered himself, “you will never say that again. You is a bad elf Dobby… a bad elf.”

* * * * *

It is always difficult to tell what a giant is thinking, or whether they are really thinking at all. Fridwulfa perhaps was little different, although to those who met her she often seemed a little brighter, a little crueller and a little more calculating. Yet there was little chance for whatever small cleverness she possessed to rescue her now.

As the angry wizards stalked towards her she still did not fear them. Even as the spells hit raising stinging welts on her body and face she was not scared. She continued to fight, because she had always fought. Her enormous hands tearing people apart.

If it weren’t for the death and destruction, it would be romantic to imagine that she was fighting for her sons. For her two disappointments. But she had done nothing for them before, so why would she fight for them now. No, she was fighting for herself. Perhaps if she had fought for something more one last miracle would have come to save her.

But it didn’t and at last she succumbed, collapsing to the floor with an earth breaking crash. People gathered closer around her as her last, agonising breaths shivered through her. Her eyes did not seem to see them but stared into the distance at something they could not see.

She had never been there for her sons, but maybe in that moment they were there for her.

PAINT IT BLACK

His mother was as sharp and brittle as an icicle, Draco felt like she would shatter at any moment. Lowering his eyes he risked a glance sideways at her; even through the softness of his lashes she looked older. This week had aged her more than the war had ever managed.

Draco forced himself to look up again, to match her proud mask and watched as the last of the mourners, those few who had felt constrained to come, trailed from the graveyard. One leaned in closer to her neighbour to whisper in their ear and he thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could hear the words, a murmur on the wind – “good riddance”.

The black lifeless car drove slowly up to where they stood, and his mother finally looked down, her body sagging as if a burden had been laid across her shoulders again. She climbed quietly inside, not sparing a glance for the grave and then she turned to look at him, her eyes depthless in their grief.

“I need to be alone.” It was not a request, just a statement - it rooted him to the path and in a moment the car and his mother had gone. He was left, alone and abandoned in the merciless sunshine.

* * * * *

Draco walked for a while, trailing aimlessly through the muggle world, trying to ignore its garish brightness. He hated the fake, synthetic colours that muggles draped themselves in – so different from the rich textures and hues that he was used to. They made the world seem false and today was worse than any before. The world was so full of boldness, and colours, and sunlight that it seemed to taunt him.

He sought refuge at last, in a dim and grimy muggle pub – settling more comfortably into the darkness. The taste of whisky, both sharp and smooth on his throat and in his nose. Even this was not enough to block out the world and he forced himself to focus on the glass in his hand. It was chipped. He ran his finger slowly around the edge until he felt it snag and a bright bead of blood slid down the glass. The pain felt good. Alive.

Too soon he was left alone again with nothing but the whisky as the world softened and smoothed around him.

* * * * *

Draco sat there for a long time, barely aware of the world, sparing the occasional withering glance at the door each time the small bell rang to signal another lost souls arrival. Until one of those glances made the fury of the world crash back around him. Weasley was framed in the doorway.

He was with a small crowd of what was obviously wizards, uncomfortable in their muggle skins. He stared at Draco in barely concealed disgust and then turned away quickly. Draco lowered his eyes, glaring intently at the glass again, until with a shiver of surprise he felt someone – Weasley – slide into the chair beside him.

“What do you want?” He spat, staring up at him and he saw Weasley’s jaw clench.

“I heard about your father – I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Weasley’s voice was quiet and they sat in silence for a few moments. When he spoke again, there was something sharp and bright in his voice, all too familiar. “I know what you’re going through, my brother died – Fred – in the war, he was just twenty.”

Draco blinked back surprised tears – he had not cried for his father, he would not cry for some stupid Weasley. Then he felt anger. They were allowed to mourn for their precious brother – the war hero – but everyone knew Lucius Malfoy was nothing, a failed villain, he didn’t deserve remembering. Mourning.

“Why are you even here, Weasley,” he snapped, trying to let the anger pour into himself, to drown everything else.

“We come here after auror’s training,” he replied

“Typical. So where’s perfect Potter? Too good to go drinking with you mere mortals, too big and important and…”

“The Ministry has him off doing something,” Weasley interrupted keeping his voice even but there was a tinge of impatience in the words. “You owe him a lot you know.”

“I know,” Draco answered bitterly. He’d been there at the inquest when Potter had spoken, unbelievably, on their behalf. He’d not explained why, not even looked at Draco as he left, although he had spared his mother one small nod as he passed.

“We all owe him a lot… I just think he was never as bad as you imagined. That’s all.” There was an uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes and then Weasley stood suddenly, turning to leave. He even managed a few more steps before stopping and turning to look at Draco again.

“Look. I am sorry about your father. You may not have helped anyone during the war, but you didn’t hurt anyone either – not on purpose anyway – I think that’s all that matters in the end. You don’t have to beat yourself up forever Malfoy.”

“Bugger off,” Draco’s throat felt tight but he refused to look at Weasley as he walked back to his friends.

* * * * *

It was dark before Draco left the pub, the world span slightly and he stumbled as he walked, eventually sinking onto the wall. He sat staring at the night and was unaware as the first drops of rain fell around him. Until at last he raised his face into the insistent drumming. Passing muggles gave him odd looks as they hurried by, their coats drawn tightly around them, but he didn’t care. The soothing cold spread through his clothes and his skin.

At last he was soaking, his clothes and hair plastered to his body. His soul trembling and dripping, as if the sin was falling away. And the tears came.

I've more or less given up on placing in the fanfiction contests as there are about a million fantastic writers competing - but I really hope that entering is improving my writing. I'm just not sure. OK - last are two artses - the winners of these contests haven't been announced yet, but as the voting has finished I think I should be safe posting them anyhow. I'm not very happy with the colouring of these - and particularly on other monitors they come across as very yellow. I obviously need a lot more practice.






I also placed in a graphics contest (insanely shocked). I won't post the icon I made yet as that contest hasn't gone up for voting yet.