Falmouth Falcons
Chaser 1
The Giant Chessboard
(word) matchstick, (colour) Rose gold, (word) scandal
1001 words.
As the White Queen watched the red-haired boy crush her subjects with humiliating ease, she despaired. If she had tears, she would cry.
She had known this would happen. She had known it long ago, ever since the day, years ago—or perhaps it was mere weeks, time was strange in a dark room—an old man cast a wicked spell on her kingdom, cursing it to die to a young boy with hair the colour of blood and fire.
Nothing could be done about it. In the face of the Great Sorcerer, Albus Dumbledore, what could be done?
Her creator, a cat witch by the name of McGonagall, had memories that showed of his kindness, his justice. But what justice was this? This was pure cruelty. It was tyranny, it was malice.
To be born, only to die. The White Queen wept inside.
They were innocent of any wrong, except for being born the wrong colour, on the wrong side.
Then, there was a great shattering sound that echoed throughout the room. Her bishop lay lifeless on the chessboard. The one that had killed him wore a smile of triumph on his face.
The Queen stared in horror. She wanted to run, to call a retreat. Why couldn't they have peace? Why did humans have to drag them into all their petty little plots?
If they'd been left alone, her kingdom could have lived for millenniums. Now, they had to die by the hands of happy children, who didn't even know they were sentient too. Already, they were blinded by sides. Black versus white. Heroes and villains. Kill everyone different, and leave no survivors! No pawns to grow and become rooks, knights, or queens! Leave no child to take vengeance.
She glided forwards in silent agony. The binds of the spell commanded her to move. She could see her fate. It was leading her into a trap set by the red-haired boy, and all she could do was walk to her death like a lamb set for slaughter.
Black square, then white, then black again. Onward, to death.
Bitterly, she tossed her head. What right did the old man have to condemn her entire kingdom to die? It wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. Still, the Queen knew the rules of the game. It was a sordid and terrible game of life. And right there, on the front page of it, was the sentence: "MIGHT MAKES RIGHT."
Magic is Might. This was the law of the world. The Ministry itself had said so, according to McGonagall's memories, and this bloody law the Chief Supreme Mugwump would uphold with three children as his pawns.
Black square, then white, then black again. Onward, to death.
A matchstick-thin boy with black hair and green eyes riding a black horse waited for her, patiently. She could almost imagine him as one of the Horseman of Death. Master of Death? His sockets held the undiluted essence of Death—Avada Kedavra—and if McGonagall wasn't wrong, he had staved off Death, once.
Perhaps he really was Death's master.
The Queen raised her head.
He galloped in front of her, paused for a brief moment, and drew his sword.
It sliced across her slender neck, and the crown with the head which once carried it, fell with a clatter.
The boy moved on.
The White King saw his wife's beheading. He knew it would soon be his turn. He heard the Weasley boy cry to his friends his little plan. What, did they think he was deaf?
It was a weak, and terrible plan. The king could think of no less than six methods to crush the boy, and yet, he could implement none. Helpless to the cursed enchantment, he commanded more of his people to die. His heart wrenched in guilt and anguish.
He waited for his turn.
Harry Potter killed the king, and for a moment afterwards, he smiled. I've proven myself, he thought. My friends and I are going to be heroes, he thought.
If only he knew he was just another lamb born to die, a pawn trapped in this never ending game of life.
Or is it death?
When it was all over and done, the pieces dead and the kingdoms in ruin, The Chessboard rebuilt everything in the dark. Everything was pristine once again. It was as if all that death and grief that had occurred in the last war had never happened. As if it didn't matter.
In a way, it didn't. Why else would mankind keep playing this game? This bloody, cruel game of war. Once this war was over, there would be another. Another martyr, another pawn, another life saved through the sacrifice of another life lost.
They all cry for peace and equality, but it all ends in brutality and war. They say that there is freedom and democracy, but everyone knows there's only fate. There is no kindness, only power. If you're born a Mudblood, you will always only ever be one. If you're born a chess piece, you will only live to die.
It was disgusting, really, the way all the commoners allow themselves to be played. At least the pieces that lived on The Chessboard didn't throw themselves so willingly to death.
When a scandal of corrupt politicians draining from the people's coffers surfaces, the commoners shout, "WE THE PEOPLE ARE IMPORTANT! THE COUNTRY IS MADE OF THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THEM, THERE WILL BE NO COUNTRY!"
But when war arrives, the plebeians all scream, "KILL FOR YOUR COUNTRY! DIE FOR YOUR COUNTRY!"
Miles and miles and miles of lies. Hypocrites. Then again, who isn't?
Despite all its previous criticism, the Chessboard waited in the dark room, hopelessly eager to be played again like all commoners do.
It was enchanted to, after all.
Outside the castle, Harry Potter watched a rose-gold sunset. He grinned, guilelessly, the way only children could.
Life was great.