Disclaimer: You see, here's the thing. If they were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanficiton, now would I?
(Zerlina here, by the way. Not Maria. But go read Maria's drabbles too, under this pen name.)
i.
Word
Count: 100
Characters: Just guess.
Rating: PG
He rides in on a nightmare—his steed is all wispy shadows and staring, opaque eyes that see nothing but the vulnerabilities that trace through you.
He relishes this feeling of power and of fear, both inseparable elements of the supremacy he will soon wear like a second skin, more fitting than his first.
He knows the sacrifices he must make, the blood he will need to dye his robes a royal, crimson red.
His hand never once falters as magic courses through him, through his wand, through the people who aren't people anymore: just the bodies he leaves behind.
ii.
Word
Count: 125
Characters: Sirius
Rating: G
When Sirius runs away from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, he does not scream or storm the way his mother expects him to do, this petulant child of hers.
He does not walk out with his head held high in true, aristocratic Black fashion the way his father expects him to do, this arrogant son of his.
He does not do it with desperation, does not tremble or falter the way Regulus expects him to do, this fiery, rebellious brother of his.
When Sirius runs away from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, he turns back at the door, flashes Kreacher a grin, and promises only to come back to visit when they're all dead and cold in their graves.
iii.
Word
Count: 130
Characters: Dobby, the Malfoys
Rating:
G
Dobby did not really, could not really dislike the Malfoys.
No, Dobby would never speak ill of his masters. He would never mention the loose floorboards and hidden cupboards Mr. Malfoy concealed from Ministry investigators when they came to call time and time again.
Would never say anything about the alarming amount of brandy Mrs. Malfoy would ingest daily in the privacy of her own study when her husband was out and her son was away at Hogwarts.
And would never speak of the young master's inclination (when he was home for the holidays or for the summer) to smash the keys of the elegant grand piano to splinters when no one was home, his face a perfect mask of solitude, self-destruction evident in the pale, trembling, bloodied, wood-sliced fingers.