Summary - Detention with Delores seen from a different angle. Ever wonder what objects in the HP universe might be perceiving? Maybe magical things have thoughts too...
Disclaimer - All characters belong to the talented J.K.Rowling and the nice people at Warner. The plot is inspired her work except the parts that are not so good. But if she who owns HP likes this, she can keep it.
Background - This is the scene as I imagined could be described from an inanimate object's POV. A version of this was originally posted in the "If these things could speak..." thread at thinkpotter but I expanded it a bit for this site.
The Quill
I sit on a holder, harmless, unused.
My feather is long and black, my point as sharp as a knife.
Every now and then I am held and then let go again, clearly admiring me and my purpose.
She has never used me herself, but waits for the opportunity to see me at work.
It is only a matter of time.
I am placed in his hand and told to use me instead of his.
"You didn't give me any ink."
"You won't be needing any."
Indeed he won't need an ink bottle, he will provide his own.
All I use is a bit of him while he uses me, he won't even miss it.
He writes. I cut.
He is clearly surprised at the effect.
He writes. I cut.
The words shine in the parchment.
He writes. I cut.
Just a pinprick, nothing to worry about.
He writes. I cut.
A little deeper, you won't even notice.
He writes. I cut a bit more.
You have had worse riding a broom or tending a rosebush.
He writes. I cut deeper.
Line after line he writes,
line after line I cut.
I am laid to rest for a moment but know he will be back. I await.
He is here again.
He holds me for a moment knowing what will happen and dreading it.
If he only knew his resistance makes me more effective.
He begins to write. I cut.
I sense his useless determination.
He writes. I cut.
I have worn down others, he will be no different.
He writes. I cut.
Red and bruised skin.
He writes. I cut deep.
Line after line he writes,
line after line I cut.
Time after time he comes back.
Time after time I cut.
He writes. I cut.
Blood flows.
He writes. I cut more.
The words shinning in the parchment now also shine on skin.
He writes. I cut.
The message must be written deep inside.
He writes. I cut deep.
Deep as skin, as blood, as bone.
He writes. I cut.
As many times as necessary to drive it in.
He writes. I cut resolve.
This is my purpose, grind you, cut you down, bit by bit.
He writes on. I cut on.
As everyone knows, in the end the quill is mightier than the sword.