the age of innocence ...

[percival]

Ok, two ficlets. First, my 15-minute-ficlet, inspired by aome and 15minuteficlets Un-betaed. Erm, also took me 20 minutes instead of the required 15. (EDITED to remove mention of the key word, as that's against the etiquette.)


Draco Malfoy heard the explosion behind him. Its violent bang shook his whole body. As soon as the sound waves hit his eardrums,
he covered his ears with his hands. His face twisted with pain and disbelief. So this was how Dumbledore's Army fought - they were reduced to guerilla tactics. Well that only showed how desperate they must be. The Dark Side was clearly winning.

For behind him was his father. Lucius Malfoy, convicted Death Eater. Escaped from Azkaban with the help of the Dementors. For a whole year, he had
successfully led The Dark Lord's Dark Army against the combined forces of the Ministry and Albus Dumbledore. The Army had made incredible progress. They had undermined the Minstry from within, using moles that had escaped the general clampdown following the death of the convicted criminal Sirius Black. Ambitious officials who were dismayed with the incompetent Fudge's stranglehold on power flocked to them in droves.

The space in which the Dark Army operated grew wider every day. With new recruits came new liberties, new avenues of influence. After a while, Lucius was pardoned. It was obvious that some Death Eater had tried to sully Lucius' reputation by taking on his form using Polyjuice Potion. This anonymous, obviously junior Death Eater had then spectacularly bungled up the operation that should have led to the demise of the Potter boy.

It was now August, and Draco and his parents were in Diagon Alley, shopping for the new school year. Draco knew full well that he would never again enjoy the privileges bestowed on him by that fool Umbridge. But he had tasted power, and he did not want to relinquish it. He had brought this problem before his father, and they had discussed it repeatedly during the school holidays. The only solution was for Draco to be initiated as a Death Eater. But for that purpose, they needed some supplies.

Lucius and his son had just left Filch & Scabbard Esq, established in Knockturn Alley since 600 BC, when Draco heard the explosion. The young man turned around with a sneer. He already pictured his father standing right behind him, mocking the inability of the Mudbloods and Muggle-Lovers. But then the stench of burnt flesh hit Draco's nostrils, and a thick lake of dark blood on the pavement caught his eyes.

Lucius Malfoy was dead.



Second, one that I wrote a long time ago, in the innocent pre OotP days. It's a R/H vignette, kindly betaed by the wonderful piperx.
I'm not going to take this storyline any further. But constructive criticism would be most welcome!

A Knight in Shining Armour

"Ron, mail for you!" Percy had intercepted Errol before the owl could
do any more damage to its already severely addled brain by hurtling
itself against a windowpane. "It's a letter from Bulgaria! Now that's
what I call a success. The Triwizard Tournament, for all the pain and
loss, seems to have fulfilled its ultimate aim: To
foster international magical cooperation."

"International magical cooperation!", grumbled Ron, who had hurtled down the narrow stairs. "Could you do me a huge favour, Perce?", he asked. "Yes, Ron?", smiled Percy benignly. Ron yelled: "Stop being so pompous! Hermione is being inducted into the Dark Arts in some dungeon in Bulgaria, and you are waffling on about international cooperation! Just goes to show that you don't have the faintest clue about what's going on around you, Weatherby!". Percy pressed his lips into a small line, and Ron stormed up to his room again, the letter clutched tightly in his hand.

Once safe in his room, he bolted the door, ripped open the envelope, and began to read:

Dear Ron,

I am writing from the Krums' house in Bulgaria. It is actually rather nice here - the house is by the sea, it is warm and sunny. You would not believe how interesting this country is. It is steeped in history. We have visited many castles, among them Durmstrang, of course. Durmstrang is very different from Hogwarts. The exterior is built on a much smaller scale, but the walls are strong and thick. The rooms are stark and chilly, even in summer. The furniture is functional. I have spent quite a few hours in the library already. In fact, it was one of the first rooms Viktor showed me, even before the Great Hall. That was very considerate of him, don't you agree?

Ron lowered the letter. Kind, thoughtful Viktor. Desperately trying to show that he was not as Neanderthal as his brows. Hopefully, Hermione could see past his dark schemes. Ron pictured Viktor leading his guest to the library, her long, bushy hair falling loosely on her shoulders, her wide smile, her lively eyes darting to Viktor's face, scanning its expression tenderly.

With a jolt, Ron snapped out of his thoughts. He stared at the rumpled and torn letter in his hand and forced himself to read on.

The library seems to specialise in the Dark Arts. Following the old adage to "know thine enemy", I took careful mental notes of a few titles that might come in useful in the fight against Voldemort. Who knows who we are going to get as a DADA teacher this year? We desperately need somebody like Lupin again - if we get somebody like Lockhart, we may be reduced to teach ourselves. Viktor has very kindly promised to excerpt any book from the library that I might need for my studies and owl me the parchment to Hogwarts. I think that he could be a reliable ally in the coming war.

"Not ally, you fool! Fiend! Enemy!" Ron screamed. Frightened, Pigwidgeon jerked out of her sleep and fluttered around in her cage. He tossed the letter down onto the floor. "How could you be so stupid! You, Hermione, who is so clever!"

"Lunchtime, boys! Have you all washed your hands?" Mrs. Weasley's voice boomed up from the kitchen. With a scowl, Ron slouched out of his room and made his way down the stairs, where Percy and Ginny were already waiting. Ginny was talking to Percy, something about looking tired and worn. How could thin cauldron bottoms and illegal fluffy carpets wear a grown wizard out, Ron wondered, when there was the trifling matter of Hermione being ensnared by the Dark Forces? His cautious, thoughtful friend had degenerated into the willing prey of a good-for-nothing international Quidditch star who walks like a duck and looks like a creature Merlin cooked up in his cauldron on an off-day. He let himself fall into his chair, barely listening to the meaningless chatter of his siblings. Shortly after Ron, the twins arrived, with dirty faces but squeaky clean hands, and sat down to devour their bangers and mash.

"Ron, you're all surly, just like your precious Krum figurine. What's up, old boy?" enquired Fred tactfully. George chimed in: "While our dear Ronald may have the looks, he ain't got the talent. At least Krum's a fantastic Quidditch player. With diving skills like his, no wonder he manages to catch all the girls." "You bloody stupid gits!", Ron exploded. "Ron!" exclaimed his mother. "Watch your language!" But it was too late. Ron was already scaling the stairs back to his room, taking three to four steps at a time with his long, muscular legs. George looked at Ron's untouched plate, then at Fred, completely non-plussed. Percy furrowed his brows and shook his head in disapproval. Ginny looked worried. "Ron had a letter from Hermione today, from Bulgaria. Maybe something she has written has upset him." Fred looked at George, and both twins broke into a huge grin.

Ron Weasley bolted the door of his room tightly shut and slumped down onto the floor, with his back against the wall. He felt something wet on his cheeks. Tears. He let his head fall heavily into his hands. An image crossed his mind. Krum, in flight, on his broom, diving down towards the ground, grasping something, and zooming back up. But this time, his precious prey was not the Golden Snitch. It was a beautiful girl in long, flowing, blue dress robes, with perfect teeth and long hair. Krum contorted his hideous features into a grin, then, he bent over her and kissed her on the lips. Ron howled with rage, bounded over to the shelf where he kept his Krum figurine, grabbed the figurine and smashed it against the wall, viciously, again and again, until it was completely disfigured. When the figurine's body finally burst into pieces, Ron came to his senses again. Panting, he surveyed the damage he had done, not only to the figurine, but also to the wall and to some of his precious Chudley Cannons posters, which were now ripped. He stared at the figurine in disbelief. He was appalled at himself. Swearing in front of Mum and Ginny, smashing his prized possessions, howling like a werewolf, crying like a baby, and all this because of a girl? He must be in love.

In love with Hermione Granger. His best friend apart from Harry. His ally. His insurance against bad marks. A girl who was the cleverest witch of her year, but silly enough to found something like S.P.E.W. Why on earth would she go out with Ronald Weasley, nonentity, known to the world as second-youngest Weasley and friend of Harry Potter? Especially after that cursed Yule ball. She had been so angry with him because he hadn't asked her. Surely this fight had extinguished any feelings she might have had for him. Ron clenched his fists. How would he be able to make it through the next three school years? With Hermione so tantalizingly close? He could not bear to stand next to her while she laughed and flirted with all those incompetent wizards who, after seeing her in These Robes, had suddenly noticed how attractive she was. Yet neither could he bear separating himself from her. For one, she hung out with Ginny a lot, and he couldn't avoid Ginny. And there was also the small matter of giving up one of his two closest friends. Not to mention his damned need to be close to her. What could he do?

For a while, he just lay on his bed and sobbed quietly into the sheets. After a while, slowly, images began to form in his mind. He remembered old stories that his mother had read to him as a child. Tales of chivalry in ancient Britain, when Muggles and wizards still coexisted and great mages like Merlin were sought, not shunted. In these tales, there had always been knights whose love for their lady went unrequited. They did not retreat cowardly, tail between the legs, to their castles. Instead, they chose to fight for their loved one. They sought to keep her from harm and when not busy protecting the lady of their hearts, wrote beautiful poetry. Well, he was crap at poetry, but if there was one thing he was good at, it was strategy. He was a masterful chess player. Ron rested his head in his hands. A vision appeared before him: Hermione, regal in her dress robes, stood on a wizard chess board. Only the robes were white. She and her king were under attack from the Black Forces. The Black King, with eyebrows like Krum's, menacingly growled at the White Kings from his safe position across the board. All around the white pair, figures had succumbed to Black's onslaught. Ron quickly surveyed the situation. All that stood between the Whites and checkmate was a lone White Knight. He was tall, well-built, with red hair and a long nose.

In a flash, Ron knew what to do. No matter who Hermione eventually chose, be he Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, it was the duty of the White Knight to protect her. And the Knight's first task was to extricate her from the claws of Krum and his Dark Minions. It would take all the Knight's considerable cunning to achieve his goal. But Ron knew he would succeed. He must.