Fic Challenge #108: The Wizard Games
Title: The Wizard Games (1/?)
Characters/Pairing: Pomona Sprout, Susan Bones, Filius Flitwick, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: 1,167
Summary: For Fic Challenge #108: Wizard Games - Voldemort is now in charge and demands each house send a tribute. For Kelly/ teagues_veil's prompt: 'post a piece (1,000+ words) to Sugarquill AND have it revolved around a pairing you've never written before'. The pairing hasn't quite been revealed in this piece - but it will follow in a future chapter. I hope you like it ^_^
All was still. It was as if the castle didn't even dare breathe for fear gripped at its heart as tightly as it did the students. The muffled cries of a Hufflepuff first year echoed through the corridors. If it were not for the ornate tapestries one could be forgiven for confusing Hogwarts for Azkaban, so was the feeling of despair that weighted the air, smothering all hope.
It was Reaping Day.
___
And so Pomona Sprout shuffled mournfully past the fruit portrait to the kitchens. Oh how she wished that she could instead tickle the pear and go inside to instead prepare a fresh salad using her latest produce from the greenhouses. But alas. Not today. Instead her feet dutifully carried her past the painting to a pile of large barrels stacked in a shadowy stone recess on the right-hand side of the corridor. Tapping to the rhythm of 'Helga Hufflepuff' on one of the barrels, her thoughts drifted, not for the first time, to think of the great founder of her house. Whatever would Helga Hufflepuff make of this? Professor Sprout was pretty sure she knew, and no matter how much she agreed that it was unfair and cruel - there was nothing that she could do.
She travelled through the sloping, earthy passage inside the barrel upwards a little way until a cosy, round, low-ceilinged room revealed the common room. The walls were adorned with the house colours, yellow and black. Pomona reminisced for the days that she looked upon these colours and thought of bees, where now she could only focus upon the blackness of it all. It was like the common room was in constant mourning. Which of course, it was. For never had there been a Hufflepuff champion that survived.
Today, even the plants and flowers around the room were unusually still. The cactii did not wave nor dance at any of the students as they stood, patiently waiting for Professor Sprout to speak. "Ever patient, my Hufflepuffs," Professor Sprout thought to herself, as a tear slid silently down her cheek.
The portrait over the wooden mantelpiece, carved all over with decorative dancing badgers, showed Helga Hufflepuff, toasting her students with a tiny, two-handled golden cup. And with bitter irony, Professor Sprout stood before it now holding a replica of the cup (the original having been missing for decades). She sighed, tapped her wand against the cup and it magically produced a miniature scroll. She picked it up.
It could be any of their names. For those fair Hufflepuffs had chosen to pick a champion at random - all with an equal chance of being selected.
The time it took to unfurl the tiny scroll seemed to stretch on and on. A young Hufflepuff screwed their eyes up tighter, as if it might help her chances. If she wished deeply enough, perhaps she would be safe for this year.
But someone wouldn't be.
Professor Sprout looked upon the name on the scroll and blinked back more tears. Devastated, in barely more than a whisper, she called out, "Susan Bones."
___
Meanwhile, on the west side of the castle, Filius Flitwick was ascending the spiral staircase to Ravenclaw Tower. Each hollow step sounded through the tower like the heavy beats of a funeral march. Finally he approached the tall, wooden door. There was no keyhole, no doorknob, but a bronze eagle knocker whose piercing eyes shot daggers at Flitwick. Dare he knock? How could he possibly solve the riddle he would be asked? He clearly had not solved the biggest question of all: how to put an end to these barbaric games. You cannot reason with insanity.
He grasped the cold bronze knocker and the dull thud on the door beat deep through his chest and struck his heart.
Then the door responded, "I'm the part of the phoenix that's not in the sky. I can swim in the ocean and yet remain dry. What am I?"
Without hesitation, Flitwick replied, "A shadow."
The door ominously creaked open and Fliwick stepped through onto the deep, midnight blue carpet. The circular room, which once felt to airy, today felt claustrophic. The stars on the domed ceiling seemed to be looming closer and closer. "The sky is falling," pondered Flitwick.
The students stood in stony silence awaiting Flitwick.
The tall statue of Rowena Ravenclaw made of white marble looked down upon the spectacle. How horrified she would be. How illogical this all was.
Flitwick shook his head and approached an ornate bookcase decorated in bronze and sapphire birds. He picked up a dusty tome and opened it. The parchment pages were empty. Still shaking his head at the ludicrousness, Professor Flitwick then picked up a beautiful quill from the bookshelf. It's peacock feather glistened. So beautiful. So cruel. He placed it beside the book. They all watched.
The sound of wind whistling around the windows of the tower shivered through their hearts, leaving goosebumps on their skin. Tension in the air so thick it was difficult to breathe, they all watched as slowly the quill began to write a name onto the blank page.
There, in shiny azure ink: "Luna Lovegood"
___
On the seventh floor of Gryffindor Tower, Minerva McGonagall faced the portrait of the fat lady. Today she wasn't singing and instead nodded soberly at the professor by way of greeting. "Lion heart," commanded McGonagall and the portrait swung dutifully open to reveal the round portrait hole.
The room was full of squashy armchairs, but there was nothing remotely comforting about it now. The crackling flames in the large fireplace dominated the room and seemed to be spitting ash and sparks threateningly at nearby students who stood by unmoved. Brave and stoic.
The scarlet tapestries appeared to be soaked with the blood of all those Gryffindors who had fallen in the Wizarding Games these past years. The golden trimmings of the room taunted them for they had not a single golden trophy nor medal. No glory for Godric. Not a single surviving champion.
Professor McGonagall approached the roaring fire and pointed her wand at the hearth. The flames grew higher and higher, roaring more and more ferociously. The heat was excruciating, but not a single Gryffindor moved. Brave and stoic.
Suddenly the fire spat out a charred piece of parchment, still smoking lightly. McGonagall caught it mid-air. As she read the name she tried to mask the utter despair she felt. Of all the students to be sent for slaughter...
"Neville Longbottom."
___
Eerie green light danced around the smirking faces of the Slytherin students. The atmosphere in stark contrast to the rest of the castle: almost jovial, for everyone knew there wasn't a single Slytherin champion that had ever died in the Wizarding Games.
There was no fear. Only competition. Only glory. Pure Slytherin ambition radiated from the students, glowing emerald in the reflections of the lake. And before Professor Slughorn could begin to speak, a hand shot sharply into the air.
"I volunteer," commanded Draco Malfoy.
44 Points for Gryffindor
Characters/Pairing: Pomona Sprout, Susan Bones, Filius Flitwick, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: 1,167
Summary: For Fic Challenge #108: Wizard Games - Voldemort is now in charge and demands each house send a tribute. For Kelly/ teagues_veil's prompt: 'post a piece (1,000+ words) to Sugarquill AND have it revolved around a pairing you've never written before'. The pairing hasn't quite been revealed in this piece - but it will follow in a future chapter. I hope you like it ^_^
All was still. It was as if the castle didn't even dare breathe for fear gripped at its heart as tightly as it did the students. The muffled cries of a Hufflepuff first year echoed through the corridors. If it were not for the ornate tapestries one could be forgiven for confusing Hogwarts for Azkaban, so was the feeling of despair that weighted the air, smothering all hope.
It was Reaping Day.
___
And so Pomona Sprout shuffled mournfully past the fruit portrait to the kitchens. Oh how she wished that she could instead tickle the pear and go inside to instead prepare a fresh salad using her latest produce from the greenhouses. But alas. Not today. Instead her feet dutifully carried her past the painting to a pile of large barrels stacked in a shadowy stone recess on the right-hand side of the corridor. Tapping to the rhythm of 'Helga Hufflepuff' on one of the barrels, her thoughts drifted, not for the first time, to think of the great founder of her house. Whatever would Helga Hufflepuff make of this? Professor Sprout was pretty sure she knew, and no matter how much she agreed that it was unfair and cruel - there was nothing that she could do.
She travelled through the sloping, earthy passage inside the barrel upwards a little way until a cosy, round, low-ceilinged room revealed the common room. The walls were adorned with the house colours, yellow and black. Pomona reminisced for the days that she looked upon these colours and thought of bees, where now she could only focus upon the blackness of it all. It was like the common room was in constant mourning. Which of course, it was. For never had there been a Hufflepuff champion that survived.
Today, even the plants and flowers around the room were unusually still. The cactii did not wave nor dance at any of the students as they stood, patiently waiting for Professor Sprout to speak. "Ever patient, my Hufflepuffs," Professor Sprout thought to herself, as a tear slid silently down her cheek.
The portrait over the wooden mantelpiece, carved all over with decorative dancing badgers, showed Helga Hufflepuff, toasting her students with a tiny, two-handled golden cup. And with bitter irony, Professor Sprout stood before it now holding a replica of the cup (the original having been missing for decades). She sighed, tapped her wand against the cup and it magically produced a miniature scroll. She picked it up.
It could be any of their names. For those fair Hufflepuffs had chosen to pick a champion at random - all with an equal chance of being selected.
The time it took to unfurl the tiny scroll seemed to stretch on and on. A young Hufflepuff screwed their eyes up tighter, as if it might help her chances. If she wished deeply enough, perhaps she would be safe for this year.
But someone wouldn't be.
Professor Sprout looked upon the name on the scroll and blinked back more tears. Devastated, in barely more than a whisper, she called out, "Susan Bones."
___
Meanwhile, on the west side of the castle, Filius Flitwick was ascending the spiral staircase to Ravenclaw Tower. Each hollow step sounded through the tower like the heavy beats of a funeral march. Finally he approached the tall, wooden door. There was no keyhole, no doorknob, but a bronze eagle knocker whose piercing eyes shot daggers at Flitwick. Dare he knock? How could he possibly solve the riddle he would be asked? He clearly had not solved the biggest question of all: how to put an end to these barbaric games. You cannot reason with insanity.
He grasped the cold bronze knocker and the dull thud on the door beat deep through his chest and struck his heart.
Then the door responded, "I'm the part of the phoenix that's not in the sky. I can swim in the ocean and yet remain dry. What am I?"
Without hesitation, Flitwick replied, "A shadow."
The door ominously creaked open and Fliwick stepped through onto the deep, midnight blue carpet. The circular room, which once felt to airy, today felt claustrophic. The stars on the domed ceiling seemed to be looming closer and closer. "The sky is falling," pondered Flitwick.
The students stood in stony silence awaiting Flitwick.
The tall statue of Rowena Ravenclaw made of white marble looked down upon the spectacle. How horrified she would be. How illogical this all was.
Flitwick shook his head and approached an ornate bookcase decorated in bronze and sapphire birds. He picked up a dusty tome and opened it. The parchment pages were empty. Still shaking his head at the ludicrousness, Professor Flitwick then picked up a beautiful quill from the bookshelf. It's peacock feather glistened. So beautiful. So cruel. He placed it beside the book. They all watched.
The sound of wind whistling around the windows of the tower shivered through their hearts, leaving goosebumps on their skin. Tension in the air so thick it was difficult to breathe, they all watched as slowly the quill began to write a name onto the blank page.
There, in shiny azure ink: "Luna Lovegood"
___
On the seventh floor of Gryffindor Tower, Minerva McGonagall faced the portrait of the fat lady. Today she wasn't singing and instead nodded soberly at the professor by way of greeting. "Lion heart," commanded McGonagall and the portrait swung dutifully open to reveal the round portrait hole.
The room was full of squashy armchairs, but there was nothing remotely comforting about it now. The crackling flames in the large fireplace dominated the room and seemed to be spitting ash and sparks threateningly at nearby students who stood by unmoved. Brave and stoic.
The scarlet tapestries appeared to be soaked with the blood of all those Gryffindors who had fallen in the Wizarding Games these past years. The golden trimmings of the room taunted them for they had not a single golden trophy nor medal. No glory for Godric. Not a single surviving champion.
Professor McGonagall approached the roaring fire and pointed her wand at the hearth. The flames grew higher and higher, roaring more and more ferociously. The heat was excruciating, but not a single Gryffindor moved. Brave and stoic.
Suddenly the fire spat out a charred piece of parchment, still smoking lightly. McGonagall caught it mid-air. As she read the name she tried to mask the utter despair she felt. Of all the students to be sent for slaughter...
"Neville Longbottom."
___
Eerie green light danced around the smirking faces of the Slytherin students. The atmosphere in stark contrast to the rest of the castle: almost jovial, for everyone knew there wasn't a single Slytherin champion that had ever died in the Wizarding Games.
There was no fear. Only competition. Only glory. Pure Slytherin ambition radiated from the students, glowing emerald in the reflections of the lake. And before Professor Slughorn could begin to speak, a hand shot sharply into the air.
"I volunteer," commanded Draco Malfoy.
44 Points for Gryffindor