Note: Written for the QLFC Practice Round.
Prompt: The lesser-used theme Western.
Position: Beater 2
Optional Prompts:
1. (dialogue) "So… what exactly is that?"
3. (opening sentence) Time was running out.
Word Count: 2,021
Tumbleweeds and Ten-Gallon Hats
Time was running out... Time for me to have another drink, that is. I'm no drunkard, but every so often a guy's gotta give in.
Hogsmeade is a welcome sight after riding my old crowbait horse for hours with nothing but the swirling sand and my lonesome to keep me company. I call the good for nothing mare my Nimbus Two Thousand. Dunno what it means, but a gal as pretty as a little red heifer named her for me back in Chester, and I can never say no to a gorgeous lady. Branded on its side is a single lightning bolt, my trademark symbol – does wonders for the advertising, and how many letters do you think you need to spell 'Nimbus Two Thousand?' At least five, that's how many. No way could I spell that.
After a long spell of ridin' I'm ready to down some whiskey at Madame Rosmerta's. I tell you, that gal has the boss bar in all of town, and she ain't no eyesore, either. Dreadful gorgeous and even more affectionate, she'll listen to my story about how I defeated Voldemort over and over, so long as I keep drinkin'. I s'pose I was a wee lad at the time and the details get a little fuzzy, but she always gasps all startled-like when I tell her how I dodged Unforgivable Curses left and right in my crib, taunting that lily-livered sissy all the while. Despite my twisting the truth a little bit, Rosmerta will listen to my tales any day. Yep, it's Rosmerta's for me.
The doors to the saloon swing open, revealing the groggery I've grown to love, tables dented from getting knocked over in violent duels that I may or may not've participated in, burns from hexes crisscrossing the walls and drunks boosin' themselves up and dishing out hands of cards. I lower the brim of my eleven-gallon hat, 'cause it's common knowledge that limsy cowpokes are the only ones who wear lousy ten-gallon hats, and approach Rosmerta at the bar. Sidling my way over to the attractive bartender – or is it bartendress? – I place on arm on the counter and sit on a stool, peering at Rosmerta slidelong. Her eyes dart to my forehead, on which sits my trademarked scar from the story I've told her so many times before, and her lips curve up in a smile that looks the opposite of forced.
"How can I help you, saddle slicker?" She gestures to the bottles behind her. "I've got goblin-made mead, Firewhisky, and purge. If you drop in a Knut or two I'll even give you a self-refilling glass."
Drawing my wand from its holster I spin it between my fingers, a trick that took a coon's age to get down, and has proved very useful in my various womanizing enterprises.
"You know what I want, Rosmerta." I drawl, and she waves her wand about to summon a tankard of foaming butterbeer. I take a draught and let out a long sigh, feeling the liquid burn down my throat. Nothing beats a butterbeer after a long day of riding, except for a duel. Duels are the best entertainment around these here parts, even better than hangin' your enemies up by their ankles from the top of the clock tower.
"You might want to watch you back, kid. You've got sand and guts aplenty, that's for sure, but I've heard rumors about Voldemort snoopin' around these parts." Rosmerta warns me, reaching for another dusty glass.
I let out a cackling laugh and throw back my head, then throw back my butterbeer, finishing the bottle in one swallow. "I ain't about to let some ol' big tough guy like Voldemort worry me. He says he has more heads of cattle than you've got hairs on yer head. You know what I say?" I point the top of the bottle at Rosmerta and she raises her eyebrows in a look of surprise that is obviously not forced.
"What do ya say, Potter?"
"So then I say... I say he doesn't have any more cattle than there are Quaffles in Quidditch! Get it, 'cause there's two Quaffles in Quidditch?" I let out another roaring laugh and Rosmerta winces.
"Isn't there only one Quaffle in Quidditch?" She suggests, which makes me laugh even harder.
"That's – what's the word them city slickers use? – preposterous!" I halloo, and a few of the suckers at one of the other tables join in with me.
No sooner have the words left my lips when the door of the saloon snaps open with enough force to knock the swingin' doors off of their hinges, and in enters no one other than the wicked wizard of the west, Voldemort. Even the mention of the nasty ranch owner's name gives them washy cowpokes the willies, but seein' as he tried to kill me as a child I figure we have some personal relationship and call him as he is – a lying, cheating skank.
"Potter!" The notorious ranch owner booms, and I swivel in my chair, wand at the ready. Rosmerta mutters something behind me that sounds like, "Oh, thank goodness, someone just kill this kid already!" But my ears must be deceivin' me.
"Voldy! You ol' four-flushing coward! What are you doing in this here fine embellishment?"
The scoundrel tilts his head to the side and frowns at me like I'm some stupid or something. Can you believe it? Harry Potter, prince of the wild west, stupid? "Don't you mean establishment?"
"That's what I said!" I retort, then mentally applaud myself. Excellent comeback, Potter. "What you want here? I'm guessin' not a drink." As if some balmy rich rancher like him would come in to drink with us commonfolk. Voldy's been makin' big stacks from his ranch and has himself a fine little chunk of change that makes him think he's better than all of us – including the right to fire curses at innocent children. That offense is not forgotten. I still don't know why he tried to kill me when I was a tender youth, but we cowpokes are on a need-to-know basis.
"I'm here for a challenge." The rancher sneers, and everyone perks up, dropping the facade of not paying attention to our conversation, which would be difficult seeing as Voldemort and I are practically shouting at each other. The bar is pretty far from the door. Even the balmy, unconscious drunks miraculously awaken and watch our exchange with rabid interest. If my eyes don't deceive me I think I see a Knut or two exchangin' hands. Placing my wand in its holster, I slide down from the stool in one smooth moment. Realistically, it's a rather jerky movement when my britches get stuck on a nail, but I untangle my pants from the stool and soon am ready to face Voldy, lowering my eleven-gallon hat to look tough.
"What do you say? On the streets, for all to see what a yellow-bellied coward you are?" The rancher hollers, and the drunks yammer on with their consent. One fires a shower of sparks into the air with a little too much vigor and burns a good-sized hole in the ceiling. Personally, I think it adds to the decor.
"Yer as ugly as a mud fence, Voldy, and yer promises are just as dirty." I retort, and the gamblers give me a halloo of consent. Puffing out my chest, I give him a three-by-nine grin. "But I'll take you up on that offer. Let's duel."
Everyone in the groggery cheers and jumps to their feet, stampeding out of the now-broken swinging doors and into the dusty, sandy streets of Hogsmeade. The cries of "It's a duel!" Echo through the streets until practically everyone has gathered into the town center, fannin' themselves with their hats (ten-gallon, the sissies) and setting off firecrackers from their wands. Voldy and I are ushered out into the way and set on a good distance apart, which worries me. I can barely hit the broad side of a barn with my wand touching the wood, how am I supposed to hit the sleazy rancher with a spell from here?
A few of the townspeople are cheerin' my name, which is encouraging. "Potter, die!" They cry, and a smile warms my face. They may be ten-gallon sissies, but they have heart.
"Are you ready to settle this, boy?" Voldemort demands, sweeping his hat off of his head on one graceful gesture and settling his arm near his holster, where his wand sits ready to put me six feet under.
"Sure am! I studied defensive magic in the Auror office!" I holler back, recalling my days back in the Ministry, a fancy sheriff's office in London. Only the best cowpokes and wizards of the west are invited to become Aurors, crime-solving sheriffs that fight evil and protect the peace.
Voldy's already pale face pales even more till he looks like a right bit of parchment. "You were in the Auror office?" He calls back, voice wavering with worry. He should be worried! I'm about to whoop him good.
"Sure was! I was the janitor!" I reply with a grin, recalling the good times back in the Auror office, even if I was just sweeping the floor.
My opponent visibly relaxes, only boosting my morale. He's obviously preparing himself for death, like he should be. Back in Chester they call me the Polish-Offer Potter, not that I actually killed anyone, but I can wax a floor like nobody's business.
"Prepare to die, Voldy!" I cry, and he pulls his wand out at the same moment I do.
"Avada Kedavra!" He screeches, and I scramble for a spell to defend myself with.
"So... what exactly is that spell? It's on the tip of my tongue... Executiate? Expressionize? Oh! Expelliarmus!" I roar, and a bolt of red light leaps from my wand like a six-shooter horse, darting towards the rancher and ramming into his green spell with enough force to blow my eleven-gallon hat from my head. After a few seconds of standing still dramatically pointing sticks at each other we both come to the same conclusion that this isn't going to end any time soon and glance at each other, confused.
"What do we do now?" I yell over the rushing wind and the crackling of our magic, which makes for quite the ruckus. Already the townspeople are getting bored and walking back to their houses now that no one's doin' any killing.
"I'll give in. It's essential for the climax of your character arc. Or something like that." Voldy shrugs, then lowers his wand. My jet of red knocks the weapon from his hand and he stands in the middle of the road, looking disinterested. For a character climax, the situation seems very antibacterial. No, that's not the right word. Anti-aircraft? Ah, anticlimactic! That's it.
"So... Do you just crumble to dust now or something in a disappointing and lame way?" I offer, and Voldy shrugs, like he's got nothing better to do.
"I suppose." He replies, and promptly crumbles to dust. How anticlimactic.
As I walk away from the pile of ash previously known as the rancher Voldemort, one thought echoes in my mind.
This will be a great story to tell Rosmerta!
Side note: Any spelling errors (i.e. decievin') is for stylistic purposes. Same with the Western slang. Thanks for reading!