Drabbles and Ficlets: Harry Potter, Various Ratings
A little of everything in this batch.



“Yes, Minerva?” Albus asked, turning to see a soaking wet Minerva McGonagall before him.

“The ceiling of the Great Hall has begun raining, Albus,” she reported, wringing out a corner of her robes. “Not only on a clear day, mind you, but real raindrops! I hate to disturb you, but a disruption of the castle’s magic on this scale can be corrected only by the Headmaster.”

“I’m afraid we must find an alternate venue for meals for the next day or so, Minerva.”

“But…you haven’t even examined the problem!” Minerva did not usually sound so impatient, but Albus suspected her wet woolen robes were growing uncomfortable.

“The ceiling has merely heard about the unfortunate events at the Ministry and is mourning its lost true love. As I am the person responsible for the destruction of that love, the Fountain of Magical Brethren, I cannot possibly enter the Hall. I would most likely be struck by lightning, Headmaster or no.”

It was not often one saw Minerva McGonagall look gobsmacked, Albus reflected. He feared he had been the witness to such expressions a disproportionate number of times.

***

Two floors below them, the ceiling of the great Hall continued to weep, and occasionally wail. It could never regret the (too few) nights of passion it had shared with its beloved fountain. Deep within (and as a ceiling, it resented any suggestions that it could not be deep) it knew that never again would there be an artifact of magical artistry worthy of its own greatness.

Theirs had been a May-December romance; the ceiling had, after all, been designed and charmed into place by the Founders themselves, while the Fountain had been a mere 200 years old. This occasioned a new bout of more intense rain; cut down, cut down in its prime! At least there was the consolation of knowing that the Fountain had been destroyed in defense of the greater good of the wizarding world; the ceiling knew that was what it would have wanted. But it was cruel, too cruel! Magical artifacts were meant to last for eternity, not mere centuries. Their time together had been all too brief.

How had they met? The ceiling had first heard tell of a new magical monument, rivaling itself in awe-inspiring power, from the students who sat below it each day. Painstakingly it had dictated to one of the castle ghosts a letter to this new wonder, forming words with the clouds which appeared upon it, and convinced one of the brighter owls which flew by it each day to carry the missive to the Ministry.

How pleased it had been when the owl brought a reply from the Fountain! It had hardly dared hope for a response. And the thrill when the fountain had revealed its locomotive abilities, had suggested that they meet! If the ceiling had at first been disappointed to discover the Fountain’s rather inferior artistic execution, well, we couldn’t all be pure mirrors of the natural beauty of the skies, after all, and the Fountain had soon proved that even if its exterior was a bit gaudy and gauche, its magical construction was beyond compare, and that was what really mattered, wasn’t it?

They had met only at night, when the Fountain could sneak away from the Ministry in relative secrecy. The ceiling redoubled its tears at the memory of the Fountain’s continual insistence that it preferred this time ‘for covered in stars, my dear, your beauty is truly without equal.’ Together they had discovered ways to merge their magical essences, tentatively at first, but then more and more deeply until the ceiling found an ecstasy it had never thought possible. If only they had had more time together, what new and sublime artifacts might have been born from that joining! The ceiling keenly regretted that now it would never have a memorial of its beloved, except the tears it now cried, their liquid essence a reminder of the Fountain of Magical Brethren’s watery jets.





Ze other girls at work, zey are so jealous. I pretend not to notice - I have lots of practice at zis - but zey are.

"Oh, more flowers, Fleur? Your fiancé must be so crazy about you, to send so many."

Zey are not all from Bill, but zis I do not tell them. Eet's not my fault, after all, and eet's none of their business, either. Bill understands, zat ees all zat matters.

***

See, 'ere, you, I ne'er made a fool of myself like this for a woman before, but from the first time Bill brought tha' bird of 'is round to the pub, it was like I jus' couldn' 'elp myself.

Oh, they seem right 'appy enough, but the ol' Fletcher charm'll work as well on a foreign bird as on any other. Girl like that'll ne'er be 'appy with jus' one bloke, in any case. Bet she's righ' insatiable, that one.

Firs' step is to send 'er flowers. E'en included a little note: "Fleurs for the Fleur', it said. 'Ad to look that up, I did, but for a classy bird like 'er, you 'ave to go all out.

See 'ere, though, don' go tellin' the whole world tha' Mundungus Fletcher is burnin' with passion for Fleur Delacour or anythin'. Whate'er 'appens stays between 'er and me, least till you get a bottle or two of Firewhiskey in me!

***

Zey think zey are so funny, ze girls at work. Now, when Bill sends me flowers, he always includes a sprig of ambrosia. He says eet is for 'love returned'. Most men send me roses - so unoriginal, really.

Today I got ze most - unusual - flowers I have ever received.

"Have a row with your fiancé, did you, Fleur? I'd call the wedding off if my bloke ever sent me that."

Eet is some sort of ... decorative cabbage, I zink. Eet is wilting, also.

At least, I zink eet is meant to be flowers for me. Ze card says 'Fleurs for the Fleur'. As eef I have not heard zat one before.

Well, I will tell Bill at dinner tonight, and we will have a good laugh, yes? Ze card ees signed, but I do not recognise ze name. Perhaps he ees a friend of Bill's?

***

Women! Bloody ungrateful, is what they are. You do a special job, righ', jus' to get the money to send them some flowers, and all righ' - maybe I picked up the flowers cheap from a bloke I know owed me a favour, but it's the thought that counts, ain't it? - and they 'as to send their bloke to 'ave a 'friendly chat' with you. That's the last time I meddle with the fairer sex, I tell you.

It's their loss, ain't it?





Ginny started taking long walks in the fields around The Burrow that summer because she couldn't stand to be around Ron. He made her think too much about Harry. She didn't want to think about him at all: not the happy memories, not the infuriating break up, not the danger he'd soon be selflessly casting himself into.

So she sat in the fields and made wreaths and crowns of flowers, instead.

When the golden-haired stranger appeared, she had her wand out and was attempting to Bat-Bogey Hex him before he could even open his mouth. Attempting, because it didn't seem to be working at all.

"Ah, a fiesty one," he'd said, looking impossibly tall and blond and beautiful, and ignoring her increasingly frantic attempts to Stun him. "It's been ages since I met a nymph who did anything but run away."

"I'm not a nymph." Ginny glared at him fiercely.

"You're not a nymph?" He looked her over carefully. "Ah, a human maiden, then. Even better. They rarely put up a fuss."

"'Put up a fuss'? About what? What the hell are you planning to do to me?"

"Ravish you, of course."

For a moment she was struck speechless. Who the hell did this poncy git think he was, sauntering up to her looking more full of himself than Lockhart even and calmly announcing he was here to ravish her?

"Over my dead body," she growled, hoping it really wouldn't come to that, but why weren't spells working on the man? She started surreptitiously looking about for rocks or sticks she could hit him with.

"Oh, I should hope not. That's no fun at all. Plus, then you will be unable to bear my half-divine offspring."

"Half-divine - what kind of a lunatic are you?"

"I'm not a lunatic. I am Apollo," the man announced.

"You're a nutter, is what you are," Ginny muttered. Though if he was telling the truth, however bizarre it seemed, it might explain why magic didn't seem to affect him.

"Are you not honored to be the chosen vessel for my seed, mortal?"

Ignoring her rising panic, Ginny stuck out her chin and said, "I have a name, you know."

'Apollo' just blinked at her. So she ran. If she could just make it to The Burrow, maybe the wards would protect her, or maybe Mum would have a better idea of how to deal with a randy Greek divinity. Come to think of it, setting Mum after him was probably her best bet.

"You will never out-run me, mortal, for my love for you speeds me on!" he called out from behind her, but Ginny had already decided that, assuming anyone would believe her, this was just the sort of situation in which one flouted the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and had made judicious use of a few Citius charms to speed her progress. The Burrow was in sight.

"Ginny!" her mother yelped when she burst into the house, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it with all her strength, "what on earth?"

Ginny managed a weak smile. "You'll never believe who's out there, Mum."





Lily had known James Potter would find a way to ruin her Yule Ball, but she hadn’t expected him to manage it so soon - the minute she came through the door. She stomped her way over to the table the Marauders were occupying. At least people got out of her way quickly.

As she neared the table, she could hear the boys arguing, apparently the only ones in the Hall unaware of her approach.

"What the hell did you do to her?" James was demanding.

"She looks like a space alien, like in Martin Miggs," was Peter's contribution. From his tone, he seemed to think this was a good thing. Lily was not inclined to agree.

"We did just what you asked, Prongs," Sirius was protesting. "Not our fault if you'd already bollocksed up the potion."

"What was the potion supposed to do, anyway?" inquired Remus.

"I'd very much like to know that, too," Lily put in, her voice seething with barely suppressed rage.

"Lily!" James squeaked. "I just – um. You were supposed to, well, glow. Like a fairy princess, you know. I thought it would be romantic."

"Romantic!" Lily shouted. "I look radioactive! You could use me to guide ships through the Channel! How is that romantic?"

"It wasn't supposed to be so strong," James mumbled.

"AARGH! YOU! I tried to get McGonagall to ban you proactively, all of you-"

"Told you it was her," Remus said.

"-Yule Ball is RUINED and it's all your fault!" Lily continued on, oblivious. "It's even more dreadful than I imagined-"

"Incidentally," Sirius put in casually, "did you know you can see through your robes?"

"WHAT!?" Lily shrieked. She stood there for a moment longer, dumbfounded, then added "James Potter, I HATE you," before running out of the Great Hall in tears.





Every morning, when she wakes up gasping out the last breaths of a scream, she tells herself it hasn’t happened yet.

She still must wait long minutes before the shaking subsides and she trusts herself enough to arise and begin the day, but it is an undeniable fact that it hasn’t happened yet, and the certainty of it is like an anchor; a burden, holding her back.

***

Her memory is better than most people’s; always has been (It says in Hogwarts: A History, page four hundred sixty-three, left hand column, third paragraph….), and then they gave her special training, for the job.

But now is not a time for memory; or rather, it is a time to forge new ones, to focus in the now in a sort of perverse Zen Buddhism that was also part of her training; to breathe in the air with its faint tinge of salt and to squint into the overcast yet still bright sky.

Safely hidden under the Invisibility cloak, she tries to think of herself as a blank sheet of blotting paper, but instead of soaking up ink she takes in every sound, not just the subvocal mumblings of the midwife-cum-hag whose crumbling mud-hut she’s leaning against, but also the cheerful calls of the fishermen from the docks and the waspish gossip of the laundrywomen by the river and the beckoning harangue of the itinerant preacher in the square.

If she does let her mind wander, it’s certainly not down Memory Lane, but rather to the future; she likes to imagine how these memories of hers will find their uses, picture not just the scholar toiling in willful obscurity to decipher the herblore of the hag, but the schoolchildren gasping in amazement at their sudden immersion in a world more vivid than their own, a world that died a thousand years ago..

***

Nobody knew she had taken the job. Well, nearly nobody. Her immediate superiors. Next of kin.

Nobody knew why she had taken the job. On its face, her motive – escapism – should have been obvious. She snorted at the thought that others had considered her more responsible than that; responsible enough to enroll in the Ministry’s most secretive department.

Then again, everyone who knew her well enough to understand was dead.

Her first visit to the Ministry, after, had been about as she expected; Scrimgeour had met with her in his private office, had promised that any request from the lone survivor of that terrible, mysterious battle in which Harry Potter had sacrificed himself to kill Voldemort (and Ron Weasley had sacrificed himself to save her) would be granted.

I want to work for the Ministry, she'd told him.

His response had been effusive: they'd be honored to have her, she could have her pick of departments, she'd make an excellent ambassador for wizarding Britain, if she'd care to-

The Department of Mysteries, she'd said, and no amount of cozening, cajoling or harrumphing had changed her mind. She wished to be an Unspeakable, and discussion was (naturally) out of the question. They hadn't made it easy for her, after that, but it scarcely mattered to Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.

She had had to lie to pass some of the tests, of course, but she had never had an objection to cheating in the service of a just cause.

***

When the hag ceases her mutterings over the cauldron full of a rudimentary healing potion and switches to mumbling over a perfectly mundane cauldron of mutton stew, she decides to call it a day.

Still carefully concealed under the cloak, with the ease of long practice she slips her wand from its pocket and presses it to her temple, deftly extracting today’s events in a long strand of memory which she deposits in the flask she’s produced from her rucksack. Silently she seals it with a preservation charm and then begins her walk to the drop-off point, careful not to bump into anyone on her way.

Though she's carefully charmed all the wards to allow her – and only her – through, still the thick haze of magic in the air sets her teeth on edge, reminding her of other places she's been, places meant to guard artifacts far less innocuous than vials of memories, preserved for study by future scholars.

As she carefully places the vial in its pigeonhole and inscribes the date below it, she tries, as always, to force down memories of the Horcrux hunt, of other close, dark spaces she's explored, of the two friends who accompanied her then, boys who never get to be men despite the heroic feats they accomplish, stories they could've told the grandchildren they'll never have.

Special training be damned, there's no escape from the past for her, here in the past. She'd made a grave miscalculation, and this mistake is irrevocable.

***

Every night, before she falls asleep, she thinks it's still going to happen, and knows she will not find rest, but the same restless dreams of green light and falling bodies.