Team: Holyhead Harpies

Position: Keeper

Prompt: Someone making preparations for their death (natural or otherwise).

Muggle Studies: Write about being prepared

Word Count: 1461

Final Confession

The cell was almost pitch black save for the little sliver of light that crept in through the narrow, barred window. Inside, James had been afforded very few homely comforts as he awaited his sentence for treason.

In the corner of the cell was a bucket to use to relieve himself—something that left James feeling humiliated every time he used it since he had grown up being accustomed to using proper and more sanitary facilities.

On the floor, beneath the window, he had a small bed of straw to sleep on which did nothing to mask the hardness of the stone floor. He had been provided with the thinnest of blankets to cover himself with which he may as well not have as he could still feel the cold winter chill. James longed for his feather bed at home, and the feel of his wife's warm body next to him.

James would give anything to be woken in the night by his son's cries—something he had frequently complained about. He didn't even know what had become of his son since he had been imprisoned and sentenced to death. The only information he was privy to was that Harry was no longer in the care of his wife as was customary when a child's parent was found guilty of treason. It was better to remove the child from their family and have them raised as a ward of a respectable family.

It filled James with dread to think which 'respectable' family would be charged with raising his son and taking the income from his land until such a time as when Harry came of age. The families he trusted were few and far between, and many of them were under suspicion for the same treason he had been found guilty of. There was no way the crown would allow Harry to be placed in their care. It was more likely he had been entrusted into the care of a close ally of the crown—a family like the Malfoys.

As he sat of his poor excuse for a bed, he could hear the hammering of the workmen as they built up the scaffolding upon which he would kneel before a crowd of onlookers. The time of his execution was getting closer.

The door to his cell opened and in walked the familiar face of the guard he had come to dub Ratface. He placed the tray he was carrying on the floor and kicked it towards James. Upon the tray there was a generous portion of roast chicken, various vegetables, and a heel of crusted bread. A small glass of red wine was then placed on the floor. James knew in an instant that this was his final meal and his execution would only be a matter of hours away.

James coughed. "Excuse me," he said quietly, his voice hoarse and raspy.

"What?" the guard snapped impatiently.

"I would like to make my final confession," James replied. He had no say in what became of his wife, son, or estate before he left this world. The only thing he did have a say in was whether or not to observe the tradition of final confession before his death.

The guard sneered at him and made to turn away from him without acknowledging his words. "It is my right to make that request," James reminded him.

The guard grunted. "Eat your food, traitor," he said harshly. "Your request has been noted."

Ratface turned around and left his cell, slamming the door behind him.

James moved towards the tray and picked up the bread. He took a small bite and moaned, savouring the taste of proper food. It had been weeks since he had tasted anything other than sloppy gruel.

James ate and drank slowly, appreciating for the first time in his life the food and drink he had always taken for granted. His wife had reminded him every day of their married life, but he had never truly understood what she meant until now.

When he had finished eating, James decided to lie down on his makeshift bed and stare up at the ceiling. He had taken to counting the number of stones that made up the room which had become his home in an effort to find something to do and take his mind off his wife and child who he missed so much it hurt. It worked, but only for a short time and then the ache in his heart and soul returned tenfold.

He couldn't say how long he had been laying there counting when his cell door opened once more.

Ratface had returned, carrying a small wooden stool. Next to him stood a minister, who was dressed in dark, plain robes. He had light brown hair and kind green eyes. James recognised the minister from the few services he had attended, and sensed that he was a good listener who would hold true to the sanctity of confession.

Ratface placed the stool down and turned to face the minister. "Knock three times on the door when you're done, and make it fast. His execution will be in one hour."

"Mr Pettigrew, it will take as long as it takes," the minister replied. "A man cannot hasten his final confession."

The guard moved to the cell door and turned around as he placed his hand on the door. "One hour, Minister Lupin."

He slammed the cell door closed once more, leaving James and Minister Lupin alone.

The minister sat down on the wooden stool, and looked at James sympathetically. "You wish to make a final confession," he said as he passed him a copy of the Geneva Bible.

"I do," James replied, kneeling before the robed man. "I seek to cleanse my soul of sin in preparation for my death."

"I hope you understand that a man cannot forgive, only hear your confession," the minister replied. "Only God has the power to forgive."

James nodded. "Of course I do."

"And yet the treason you are guilty of is harbouring priests and relics of the Catholic religion," Minister Lupin mused.

James' eyes shifted to the floor to avoid looking at the minister.

"You're not guilty of that treason," the minister said. It was a statement, not a question.

James didn't reply straight away. He was trying to figure out how to word his confession. After weeks imprisoned, when the time had finally come to confess, he was lost for words.

"In your own time, Mr Potter," the minister spoke gently, reaching forward and taking his hand. "God is listening. He is always listening. That much I can assure you of."

"Forgive me, God, for I have sinned," James whispered, altering the old words of his childhood religion slightly to fit the occasion. "I have been obnoxious and unappreciative of the basic essentials I have been fortunate enough to have. I have complained loudly and frequently about things that do not satisfy me. I have so rarely given thanks to the people in my life who have helped and served me well—so arrogant and rude. My biggest sin though is that I—I perjured myself before a court of law to protect my wife."

James could feel Minister Lupin's eyes upon him and raised his head to look at him once more.

"Please don't tell anyone. She only wished to continue practicing her faith—my old faith—I couldn't refuse her," James begged, passing the bible back to the minister. "She doesn't deserve to face my fate as well."

"You are protected by the sanctity of confession," he replied. The minister turned to the door before turning back to James. "The Lord God Almighty has heard your confession, Mr Potter. By the power invested in me by God, I absolve you of your sins. By His grace you are ready to join Him in the kingdom of heaven."

James' eyes widened as the minister released his hand.

"We all must do what we must to protect the ones we love," Minister Lupin said softly. "In my case, my duty is to my flock and ensure that the Lord's word is heard."

He rose from his stool, walked towards the door and knocked on the door three times.

The door opened and the minister turned back to face him. "May God have mercy on your soul, Mr Potter," he said before turning on his heel and exiting the cell.

Ratface came in and collected the stool, offering James only a sneer before leaving again and closing the cell door once more.

James returned to his straw bed and lay down. He had confessed his sins. He had been offered absolution. His soul was cleansed. He was now prepared to die.