Written for round 8 of the Quidditch League
Team: Chudley Cannons
Position: Keeper
Prompt: new laws introduced by death eaters after Voldemort won
The warehouse is dark and musty, the little light reflected off pale faces, the air thick with the acidic smell of enclosed humans. Each person is almost identical to the next, all in the same drab and tattered robes, their hair matted and greasy. But the most striking thing about them is their lack of hope. There are no smiles. No whispers of the 'Chosen One'. No eyes glittering with the knowledge that there is a way out. Just faces set grimly, eyes cast down, praying not to be singled out.
One boy stands alone, Dean Thomas. His wand is long gone, thrown out with thousands of others, taken to be resold to the fresh intake of pureblood witches and wizards to Hogwarts. His warm hoody was lost somewhere in Scotland, his left shoe in Somerset. He's one of the only people in the warehouse to wear muggle clothes. He doesn't have any of the necessary papers that are now obligatory. That in itself is punishable by Azkaban.
The room of people are being slowly processed. Papers are shuffled, money passes hands, families are torn apart. Dean, who has been waiting nearly five hours and who is faint with hunger, is near the front. He knows it won't be good. He's been listening to Potterwatch, reporting the new laws put in place by the Ministry; once an international hub of justice, now a corrupt honey pot of death eaters. Blood status dictates quality of life. Hogwarts has been segregated, all the original members of staff sacked. Curfews and trade rules have been put in place, businesses not run by death eaters destroyed. Courts are run by death eaters. There's no defence, no fair trial.
He watches as the people ahead of him - a family with young children - is lead up to one of the desks. They're muggle parents with wizarding children. The children are sent to the left, for the new wizarding school solely for muggle-borns, training them up to do the menial tasks of the wizarding world. The muggle parents are for the ghetto. Everyone is crying, the parents desperate not to leave their kids, but also trying to maintain a strong facade. At least the children will get fed and have a place to sleep. The same cannot be said for the ghettos, and the parents know it. The truth about the ghettos is spreading fast.
Dean Thomas steps up behind them. A thug stares back at him, his piggy eyes squinting.
"Name?" He grunts.
"Dean Thomas," Dean says loudly, enjoying the look of disgust on the man's face.
"Papers?"
"Don't have them," Dean says, glad that his fear isn't causing his voice to quiver.
The man snarls. "Straight on then."
Shaking, Dean walks straight on, through a door and into a slightly smaller, and more claustrophobic, room.
He's surprised to recognise a few faces - so far he has been completely alone. Madame Rosmerta, from The Three Broomsticks. Tom, the bartender from The Leaky Cauldron. And to Dean's horror, Luna, her blonde hair bright against the murky scene.
"Luna!" Dean cries, tears springing to his eyes when Luna turns and smiles back.
"No talking!" A guard barks.
But they don't need to talk. Just sitting by Luna, her hand reassuringly squeezing his, is enough.
Seconds, minutes or hours later - Dean can't tell - some bread is brought in. People fight over it, desperate to feed themselves, any shred of dignity lost. Dean is about to throw himself into the scrawl, but sees Luna, demure and composed and decides against it. They sit together in silence, watching humans turn to animals.
Although Dean doesn't recognise everyone in the room, it is not hard to find connections. All have helped Harry Potter out before, all had been loyal supporters of Dumbledore. Dean can't help but worry that he's been thrown into this room. In the eyes of the new Ministry of Magic they are the scum, and they need to be destroyed.
Finally more guards enter the room, smart in their long black robes, distinguishable by the dark mark embroidered on the chest - red for the thugs, green for the smart ones and finally, for the original death eaters, silver. Not that you often see them; too busy rolling in the wealth and power that came with Voldemort's triumph.
The death eaters start processing the people. It's more violent and aggressive than before. Dean notices that there are no children in here. Without papers, there is no proof that anyone is telling the truth, and the death eaters are treating them like criminals. No lawyers, no trail. Just a string of new rules and laws written quickly after the victory. Dean watches as Madame Rosmerta is taken to Azkaban, Tom to a work camp. A few are sent to a ghetto, still more to Azkaban. Finally Dean is at the front of the queue. He's shaking, mouth dry.
"Name?" The death eater barks.
Dean considers lying, but decides against it. "Dean Thomas."
The man scans his lists. Dean's heart is pounding in his chest. He wants to vomit.
The man's finger stops and he grins nastily, flashing several gold teeth.
"Sympathiser and a blood traitor. That'll be a camp."
He says it happily, and Dean has to physically stop himself from reaching forward and punching him. Instead he allows his feet to carry himself towards left door, remembering just in time to turn behind and smile at Luna, before a guard shoves him through the threshold.
They're thrown like cattle into a small van, pressed shoulder to shoulder, suffocating in the heat. Dean is close to collapse, but he's forced to stay upright, his head rolling backwards until someone angrily tells him to stand up straight. They drive until Dean's entire body is cramping, and he's soiled his murky trousers.
Finally the van is thrown open and they're moved out again, stumbling, their muscles blue, clear sky is marred with black scars. Dementors. Already the last remaining hope is draining from Dean. He reaches for his wand, ready to produce the Patronus he learnt in Dumbledore's Army two years ago, before remembering that he doesn't have a wand anymore. That he's no longer officially a wizard.
The group are marched quickly through the barren landscape. The horizon is broken up by low lying huts, and they're moved towards them. It's hot and the air is humid. Lack of food and water causes a few people to collapse, but the group doesn't stop. When they finally reach the hut they're made to strip and given a dirty grey uniform. They have to stand whilst their prisoner number and status is branded on them, on the left wrist, where others now have the dark mark. For Dean it is number 5543, and a bold red S. Sympathiser.
When they're finally released into the shade of the huts, Dean sinks down on one of the wooden bunk beds and tries not to sob. Everything is pounding, his blood hot in his veins.
"You'll get used to it."
Dean turns his head incrementally, trying not to cause any more pain than necessary.
Cho Chang is staring back at him, a small smile on her face. She looks even worse than Dean, dried blood on the side of her face, bruising across her cheeks.
"Sympathiser?" she asks, and Dean nods.
"Food?" He murmurs.
"Not much. They'll serve up in an hour. There's water over there-" she points at a dirty trough in the corner. "But I wouldn't drink it."
"How long have you been here?"
"A month."
Dean's eyes widen. A whole month!
"It's pretty grim. They're brutal. It's even worse for the half-breeds."
Dean remembers Hagrid, praying that he is still evading capture.
"Why aren't people fighting back?"
"They're trying," Cho Chang says sadly. "But it's so hard. Now Harry's gone...all hope has been lost. And there's no justice out here. They can do whatever they want. And we're completely helpless without wands."
More shouts. They're separated, swallowed up the crowds of once noble witches and wizards. Dean recognises nobody, faces swimming in and out of his murky view.
Why keep trying? Harry's gone. Voldemort can't be destroyed.
What's the point? There's no life for muggle-borns.
Why is it so unfair?