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Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:
365 Prompts: 70. (object) Weasley jumper
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Scavenger Hunt: 20. Write a story with the genre family.
Arts and Crafts: The Five Types of Crafts: Task 1 - Include a jumper/sweater significantly in the fic.
Teddy Bear Picnic: Victoria Sponge Cake (weather) sunshine
Birdhouse Building: (theme) remembrance
Spring Petting Zoo: Sheep (object) sweater
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Aquarium Month: Hood/Lid - Write about someone moving into a new home.
Zoo Lover's Day: Orangutan - Write about the Weasleys.
Spring Colors: Spearmint
Crystals and Gemstones: Ruby (emotion) sympathy
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Link Maker: Same Fandom 1,234 words
Warning for angst and mentions of character death. Word count is 1,234 words. I hope that all enjoy The Prankster's Last Gift.
The hands that crafted me were soft and kind and gentle. Putting all the care in the world into each knitting stitch and purl that were done. Gently folding me before putting me safely to bed in the basket of supplies next to the rocking chair. A I knew of life was brought out of the basket during the lulls in the action of the day, and being put back in when something needed to be done or when it was the end of the day.
"Mum, who is that one for?" the maker's only daughter by blood asked. She is starting to look much like the maker and I wonder if there is someone much like myself waiting to be worked on at her house.
"I don't know yet," the maker replies, casting her eyes at the yarn that will be added to label me as belonging to my new owner. "One of your brothers, more than likely, Ginny."
The maker's daughter, Ginny, comes and takes a closer look at me. I wonder what she's thinking as she does so. She gives a small shake of her head and I see as tears start to form in her eyes. She must know that I've seen as she backs up quickly and tries to make it seem like she's looking at something across the room.
"Spearmint used to be one of….one of Fred's favorite….." I can see her shoulders hitching and know that she's crying. The maker has shed many tears during my making and has had to put me back to bed and walk away. Her shoulders usually hitched like her daughter's are now when she'd do so.
"I know," she said, putting me down in my basket bed and walking over to Ginny. I can't hear what she's saying to her daughter but I can tell that it only makes the crying worse. I can also tell that the maker is crying as well.
"What's wrong, Ginny, Mum?" asks the maker's son-in-law. His bright green eyes are sharp and alert behind his glasses as though searching for whatever has made the women folk cry. He doesn't have long until his eyes cast upon me in my basket bed and a look of dawning comes over his face. Quickly followed by sympathy as he goes over and pulls both women into a hug.
"Spearmint," is all that Ginny can get out and I know somehow that she's talking about me. Although I wasn't aware that I was called Spearmint, that must be my name.
"Spearmint?" the man asks in confusion, looking between the two of them.
"She's referring to the color of the sweater that Mum's working on at the moment," one of the maker's many sons who all seem to look alike says as he walked down the stairs. "It's spearmint colored. That used to be one of Fred's favorite colors during our childhood. The year we kept changing our favorite colors to whatever we were looking at at the moment. He happened to be looking at spearmint ice cream and the color seemed to stick for much longer than any of the others."
Was I also named sweater too? Was I called Spearmint Sweater? Was that my name? It was a rather strange name but it was nice to be called something other than yarn as I had been called before.
I then noticed the mention of this Fred seemed to cast a gloomy note to the room and its occupants. All except for me, having never met anyone called Fred in all of my life. It was almost as if something horrible had happened to this Fred and not everyone had gotten over it quite yet.
"But who is that sweater for, Mum?" the one who'd been on the stairs beforehand asks the question that Ginny had asked before without an answer. "You've already finished the rest of the family's sweaters for this year. You even included one for Neville, Seamus, and Dean too. Who else is there?"
The maker takes a deep breath and I can audibly hear her gulp back tears that are more than likely forming in her eyes. I can't see by this point as they're all standing between the two of us. I wish that they'd move and allow me to comfort the maker. She really does take such great comfort from working on us.
It is then that the maker's husband comes into the room and sees how upset she is. He tells the other occupants of the room that the maker needs some room. They all seem to accept this as the final answer to the unanswered question and file out of the room whisper amongst themselves as they do.
"Are you alright, Mollywobbles?" the maker's husband asks, using a strange name must also mean the maker's name as well. I can't tell. But I do know this, the name seems to make her smile a bit.
"I was just finishing up with my final sweater for the year, dear," she says, indicating my basket where I wait patiently to have the gold yarn weaved into my pattern, marking me for my owner.
"Fred?"
She doesn't speak but nods as she wipes furiously at her eyes and heads back over to my basket. She picks me up with all the care that had used when setting me down. She gently runs her hands over the front and back of me. Up and down the sleeves that make up my arms and then she sits down once more and begins the work of marking me for my owner.
When she's done with the marking, I am put onto a table and something strange is put over me so that I can't feel the chill of the air anymore. Not that I want to feel the chill of the air or anything like that. She steps back and takes a look at me with a smile. I am finally finished and perfect. I can feel the gentle hands of the maker folding me up and carefully setting me back into my basket. But what I don't know is that this is going to be the final time this basket is my bed for the night.
I wake to golden rays of sunshine on my face and the cold sense that I'm not at the comfortable house anymore. The maker is never going to smile kindly upon me anymore. I can see something overhead. A huge gray looming thing with strange carvings all over it.
"Little Freddie must have left one of his sweaters from your mother here the last time George and Angelina visited Fred's grave," the accented voice of the maker's eldest son's wife says.
Once more gentle hands pick me up and fold me once more. Before I am put into an oversized purse I can see that thing that I was lying in front of was a gravestone. The carvings were words. The words formed a name. Fred Weasley.
"We give it back to him when we go over to George's for dinner tonight, Fleur," the maker's eldest son says, smiling down upon the grave. "See you next time, Fred."
Then we leave the gravesite and I am on to my new home. A home with a Fred that will be able to wear me proudly. Hopefully, he likes spearmint too.
I hope you all enjoyed The Prankster's Last Gift as much as I enjoyed writing it.