Falmouth Falcons
CHASER 1: "We all could have been killed—or worse, expelled."—Hermione
Prompts are 4,5 and 15:
(word) gloves
(creature) Boggart
(word) wishbone
W
There was something in his closet. William didn't know what it was, exactly. But just standing in front of it, with his hands poised on the gilded handles of the closet doors, made his bones shiver with fear.
It—whatever malignant spirit or devil it was—had taken residence there since three weeks ago. The first few nights he tried sleeping with it around, he heard moaning and endless cries of anguish emanating from it. Sometimes they were the cries of his coward friend, Armand. Sometimes they were that of his wife.
Whenever he neared the closet, a dark shadow, just at the edge of his peripheral vision, would loom beside him.
Sometimes, he saw eyes peeking through the gap of the closet.
Initially, he had thought these strange incidences were mere hallucinations brought on by the stress of war and the idiocies his friend regularly partook in. Easily crushed by reinforcing his strength of mind and will.
Now? They seemed more sinister. Weeks of meditation in the room, while upholding his superhuman, unparallelled mental strength, had not vanquished it. Which meant that this was no mere hallucination—it would have been defeated otherwise, for it was ludicrous to think that William could not control his own imagination.
The primordial beast in the closet had to be real. It had to be a physical manifestation. Physical—he was good at that. He could kill it, and all the ridiculous nightmares and childish scares would stop, and, finally, finally, he would get a good night's sleep.
He just had to open the door.
William swallowed and gripped the handles tighter. He heard a muted crack under his chainmail gloves and swore. Still, he did not release his grasp. It felt too much like quitting, like weakness—and a pathetic quitter he was not. He had hung unto the throne of England, which was rightfully his, with dogged viciousness, despite all advice to do otherwise. Now, he was just a month or two of siege left to claiming kingship.
William's heart pounded a one-two beat like the drum of his horse's fleet-footed steps. He would open the door and slay the demon.
Suddenly, he heard rapid, rabbit-like footsteps heading for his room. He drew his sword as the door opened.
"SIRE! SIRE! SIR MALFOY HAS RETURNED!" the messenger standing at the doorway cried in his high, prepubescent voice.
William heaved a sigh and released the ornate handles. He wasn't quitting, he told himself. Just… prioritising. First, cleaning up the mess Armand had made of his war effort. Next, cleaning up the parasite in his bedroom.
These days, he felt more like a wet nurse than a king.
"What has he done now?" William boomed, armor clanking heavily as he turned around.
"He's conquered Thetford!"
"What?"
William shoved the two great oaken doors wide open. His footsteps resounded in the hall where the raucous, jubilant cacophony slowly died down in his presence. He looked around—and there Armand was, lounging like a satisfied snake on the seat beside his.
"Armand!" William cried, stomping towards him.
"William, my lord." Armand said, smiling smugly. His robe rippled softly as he stood and bowed, but soon rearranged themselves to be immaculate once more. William thought it odd how Malfoy always managed to seem so pristine, civilised, and composed, like a Greek statue of some philosopher or another. Even in the midst of the chaos and barbarism of war, he was ever polite, ever confident.
"Did you conquer Thetford?" William asked in disbelief.
"Aye, my lord," Malfoy replied, lips twitching.
William looked around and noticed his soldiers watching them with rapt attention.
He sighed. "To my chambers, post-haste."
"Very well," said Malfoy who rose from his chair with graceful indolence and followed, as propriety dictated, behind William.
As they entered the room, William felt the darkness return again. He felt a shudder coming and stopped it. Showing weakness—even in front of his closest friend—was not tolerated. Even so, he was certain that Armand had detected that slight, involuntary shiver. Armand may be a coward, but he was curiously perceptive and possessed the cunning of an old fox.
Suddenly, the dark, ominous sensation of spiders creeping across his neck receded. He whipped his head around to find what had changed.
Armand. Armand was now standing beside him, his silvery blonde hair shining like a rosary. Was Armand perhaps some sort of priest? Perhaps his holy presence had chased away the beast in the closet—if only slightly. God's blessings would explain the coward's miraculous victory in Thetford as well.
"What is it, my lord?" Armand asked smoothly. "Is there wine on my face?
"Nothing!"
"I see. Well, if you have nothing of import to convey, may I leave?"
"No, Armand. You vanished for three days to invade Thetford," William began.
"Thetford was significant to the success of our invasion. It's a linchpin in the defenses of England. Had I not lead my battalion to conquer it," Armand reported grimly, "we all could have been killed—or worse, expelled!
"And once expelled from England, there would be no returning for your throne. Harold would have already stolen it," Armand continued.
There was a long silence.
William heaved a great sigh and clapped Armand on the shoulder. "Thank you, old friend," he said with genuine gratitude. "You shall have the first pick of the lands once we conquer England."
"Thank you, my lord," said Armand, bowing deeply.
"You are dismissed."
Armand walked to the door, and paused.
"What is it?" William asked. He didn't think Armand would be asking for another favour, since it would be terribly rude and not at all like him. Still, one should never underestimate the greed of others. Harold was once his blood brother until he attempted to steal the throne of England, which was rightfully William's.
"If I may be so bold," Armand began. "I believe there's a Boggart in your closet."
"A what?"
"A Boggart. A dark creature, which feeds on the fear of others."
"Yes, yes," William said impatiently. "And you can exorcise it?"
"Exorcise?" Armand repeated with a faint smile.
"You're a priest, are you not?"
Armand seemed to be on the verge of laughing and William was thoroughly confused.
A
A priest! A priest! He was no priest. They were the enemies of his kind. How many defenseless witches and wizards had been slaughtered by them? By those Muggles.
He still remembered the day they burned his older sister at the stake. He was in the forest gathering firewood; the mayor had asked all able bodied boys to do so. For what, he had not known until he returned to the town.
He'd joined the queue of boys, all carrying firewood, and waited until it was his turn to toss the sticks he had gathered at the pyre. Then he found himself staring into her eyes.
Her face was bruised and purpled like the sky, and her hair was the colour of mud. What had they done to her?
He stared, and waited for Elise to plead for him to save her.
She remained quiet, eyes wide and wet.
He swallowed. Armand walked away, shaking in his boots.
He stood at the side and watched his sister burn. She'd screamed until her throat was choked with ashes and embers and her lungs were full of smoke.
When the fire had died down and the grey ashes had settled over bone, they carried away her skeleton.
At night, he had crept out of his house and dug in the ashes and charred wood for anything that was left. He had searched until his hands bled from black splinters and his eyes were red from tears.
He had found, in the pile of ashes, what looked like a wishbone but was actually the remnants of a toe.
W
"I suppose I am a priest," Armand said with a strange expression. "Yes, I can exorcise it."
"Go on, then."
"Patience is a virtue," Armand declared and opened the closet.
There was nothing inside.
No. There, on the bottom of the closet, was something small and skeletally white. A wishbone?
William turned to look at Armand, who was frighteningly still. Or was he still because he was frightened? That profound dread returned.
William turned back. There, he saw the wishbone break through no natural cause. The two pieces turned into two ivory feet. It grew legs, then a body, then arms, then eyes, a mouth, a face.
In the wishbone's place was a beautiful young girl with blue eyes and blonde hair, who resembled Armand.
Armand, who now looked as pale as what the girl was a moment ago. His face was a curious amalgamation of fear and hope, of a man who had achieved something beyond his wildest dreams, his greatest yearning, and secret wish—of a young boy facing his worst nightmare with deathly despair.
The flesh of the girl crumbled away to reveal stark whiteness.
William stood stock-still.
"Elise," said Armand to the skeleton in the closet.
"Armand," Elise cooed.
"Riddikulus."