Grey Leaf
Title: Grey Leaf
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling's, not mine.
Rating: none
Feedback: I'm a comment whore.
Author’s Notes: This was written for the Hogsmeade contest with this prompt: Your mission is to write a story from the point of view of an inanimate object in the Potterverse. You may not write from the PoV of a painting. Won third place.
The wardrobe-which liked to be called Warren, or War for short-led a simple, quiet life in the staffroom. He guarded the extra bark of the Talking Ones. He found it a little repulsive, really, that they could change their bark, but War wasn't one to judge. And anyway, the bark was so flimsy that he could understand why they would have to change it. Warren was proud and maybe too a little vain of his own wood; it was good, strong oak. He felt nothing but sympathy for the Talking Ones and their-oh, what did they call them? Robes.
Warren had been quietly contemplating the particular pattern of grain around a handle when something came over him, or rather, into him. A warm-cold, wet-dry something, crawling in. Warren focused on it curiously, and screamed, or would have, if wardrobes could scream. It wasn't just one something, it was thousands of somethings, and they were crawling and swarming inside of him. Wood Eaters.
He spent the night in agony, his beautiful oak grain being slowly stripped away by thousands of Wood Eaters. The next morning, the Talking Ones were examining him curiously, but they would not open him to get their bark. A particular Talking One whose leaves were turning grey seemed most pleased. He patted Warren on his door and said something about a class. Warren wasn't sure what that meant, but he did not have long to find out.
A class, as it turned out, was a grove of Talking Saplings, each with their flimsy black bark on and flourishing their twigs. The grey-leafed Talking One opened Warren's door and the Wood Eaters vanished. He watched in fascination as each Sapling waved their twigs and shouted as it changed its form. Not Wood Eaters anymore, but another Talking One with too much sap in his leaves, and then the Sapling shouted, and the thing changed. Other Saplings came forward, one after another, brandishing their twigs and shouting their word and making other noises. Warren wasn't good with language. Language was fast and loud, and wood was quiet and slow. It took him several times before he heard it correctly. Riddikulus.
Grey Leaf said the word last, and the Wood Eater thing was gone. Warren sagged in relief, and began carefully examining his wood grain. No harm had been done after all. But even so, it had been a terrifying experience. War regarded the grey-leafed Talking One very well after that, and made a point of keeping his spare bark particularly fresh and moth-free. It was the least he could do.
Some time later-Warren wasn't sure how long, exactly, wardrobes were not particularly good at keeping track of time-Grey Leaf was in the staff room with a large case. War heard the word boggart, and saw his branch tap the case. Warren gazed at the case in sympathy. He could only imagine what terror lay inside. The case would be all right, though, Grey Leaf would take care of it. He had nothing to fear.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling's, not mine.
Rating: none
Feedback: I'm a comment whore.
Author’s Notes: This was written for the Hogsmeade contest with this prompt: Your mission is to write a story from the point of view of an inanimate object in the Potterverse. You may not write from the PoV of a painting. Won third place.
The wardrobe-which liked to be called Warren, or War for short-led a simple, quiet life in the staffroom. He guarded the extra bark of the Talking Ones. He found it a little repulsive, really, that they could change their bark, but War wasn't one to judge. And anyway, the bark was so flimsy that he could understand why they would have to change it. Warren was proud and maybe too a little vain of his own wood; it was good, strong oak. He felt nothing but sympathy for the Talking Ones and their-oh, what did they call them? Robes.
Warren had been quietly contemplating the particular pattern of grain around a handle when something came over him, or rather, into him. A warm-cold, wet-dry something, crawling in. Warren focused on it curiously, and screamed, or would have, if wardrobes could scream. It wasn't just one something, it was thousands of somethings, and they were crawling and swarming inside of him. Wood Eaters.
He spent the night in agony, his beautiful oak grain being slowly stripped away by thousands of Wood Eaters. The next morning, the Talking Ones were examining him curiously, but they would not open him to get their bark. A particular Talking One whose leaves were turning grey seemed most pleased. He patted Warren on his door and said something about a class. Warren wasn't sure what that meant, but he did not have long to find out.
A class, as it turned out, was a grove of Talking Saplings, each with their flimsy black bark on and flourishing their twigs. The grey-leafed Talking One opened Warren's door and the Wood Eaters vanished. He watched in fascination as each Sapling waved their twigs and shouted as it changed its form. Not Wood Eaters anymore, but another Talking One with too much sap in his leaves, and then the Sapling shouted, and the thing changed. Other Saplings came forward, one after another, brandishing their twigs and shouting their word and making other noises. Warren wasn't good with language. Language was fast and loud, and wood was quiet and slow. It took him several times before he heard it correctly. Riddikulus.
Grey Leaf said the word last, and the Wood Eater thing was gone. Warren sagged in relief, and began carefully examining his wood grain. No harm had been done after all. But even so, it had been a terrifying experience. War regarded the grey-leafed Talking One very well after that, and made a point of keeping his spare bark particularly fresh and moth-free. It was the least he could do.
Some time later-Warren wasn't sure how long, exactly, wardrobes were not particularly good at keeping track of time-Grey Leaf was in the staff room with a large case. War heard the word boggart, and saw his branch tap the case. Warren gazed at the case in sympathy. He could only imagine what terror lay inside. The case would be all right, though, Grey Leaf would take care of it. He had nothing to fear.