The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You're late. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute Feasts — It's Magic!

And unless Harry's ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was "Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck."

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like "don't know what you were thinking of," and "never would have believed it."

"I don't blame you, dear," she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine sausages onto his plate. "Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we'd come and get you our-selves if you hadn't written back to Ron by Friday. But really" (she was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), "flying an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone could have seen you —"

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

"It was cloudy, Mum!" said Fred.

"You keep your mouth closed while you're eating!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.

"They were starving him, Mum!" said George.

"And you!" said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a slightly softened expression that she started cutting Harry bread and buttering it for him.

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, red-headed figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again. "Ginny," said Ron in an undertone to Harry. "My sister. She's been talking about you all summer."

"Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, Harry," Fred said with a grin, but he caught his mother's eye and bent his face over his plate without another word. Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

"Blimey, I'm tired," yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. "I think I'll go to bed and —"

- Chamber of Secrets, Page 31 (British Edition)

The Tragic Tale of the Sausage Family

They didn't know how they were born, or how they were able to speak – unlike their kin. They just knew they could.

In the market, they sat together as a family and contemplated their fate.

All, even the youngest – Ferguson – knew what would happen once they were bought. They would be cooked and eaten. And, even if they weren't, they would be thrown into the garbage – left to rot as dogs tore their intestines apart.

Then one day, it was the same as any other – longer than them too – when a round woman, plump and full of happiness, purchased them from the on sale section of the store; smiling happily, the woman took them home even as the family said their goodbyes.

Papa nuzzled his wife and eldest, as they were the only ones he could reach, mourning the loss of such happy Sausages. "Goodbye." He whispered softly, feeling his wife's tears slide down her face and Jane – his eldest – nod in resignation with tears of her own.

Ferguson - the youngest and smallest – tried to keep their spirits up, but the five knew there were no happy endings for food items such as them.

Mama chocked on a sob, kissing the middle child – Damien – on his head, listening to his litany of woes, of sorrow and not wanting to die like this. "Is that all we are? Pawns in this world of death and destruction."

Mama, Papa, Ferguson and Jane said nothing – merely staying silent in an effort to sojourn what little time they had left.

Two Days Later

The morning was like the last two, except... there seemed to be a commotion outside. The Sausage Family saw nothing as they were flipped on their stomachs, eyes not able to see anything.

Then they were taken.

With the rest of the litter – about two more packs of Sausages – the one able to speak did nothing but wait with an air of reluctant acceptance.

It was worse than they anticipated.

Slowly, the world around them burst into flames, setting their intelligent minds alight with an intense heat and indescribable pain.

The oil, their tears, only served to make it worse – turning the heat into something intolerable to something that should have been completely mind numbing. Except, it wasn't as mind numbing as the Sausage family would have liked.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the excruciating pain grew terrifying. Their skin was beginning to peel, leaving their innards exposed directly onto the horrifying pan.

Their screams of mercy went unheard.

Minutely, pink skin turned nearly a dark brown, signaling that the sausages were cooked and were ready to be eaten.

It seemed, even as the Sausage Family was tired of pain, there would be no end as sausages didn't sleep… or pass out from the unbearable agony.

Dropped onto a child's plate – the Sausage Family was still coherent enough to see it was a small child, black hair and green eyes – The child looked at them and they stared back… not that the child knew that.

Slowly, the child lifted his fork, the piercing utensil heading directly for Ferguson. "No!" Mama shrieked; and before Papa could do exactly what Mama was doing, she used what little strength she had left and pushed her child out of the way and screeched as oil squirted out from her – the fork continuing even if it wasn't the sausage that was being aimed for.

Stalling the inevitable, the Family watched, a tear falling as Mama was eaten.

Then, one by one, they followed.

It was almost worse than the fire from before. This child, unlike the others in the red house, chewed slowly as if he knew they were alive and was prolonging their anguish.

Unhurriedly, they were torn to pieces, coating the child's mouth and screaming in fear and pain.

But the humans didn't hear them, they never did. Their voices were too quiet for something like ears to hear them.

The remains dropped into the child's stomach acids, burning every inch of them as it seemed they were both everywhere and nowhere. Some pieces of them were still stuck in the child's teeth.

But, there was one that was nearly whole, one that was lucky enough to die without any pieces of himself missing.

Ferguson.

And, as Ferguson died, he thought – Why god? Why?

Word Count with Story Alone: 700

Challenge: Page Number Challenge

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