Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 3: The Gift
Gregory Goyle munched down the last bit of his cake and wiped his mouth with his palm. It was filled with chocolate, and fine chocolate it was too; he had not had such a good one for ages.
He didn't know who had sent it, along with dozens of his favorite sweets and some unfamiliar foreign treats that were equally delicious. Perhaps Draco, who had shared his sweet tooth during their Hogwarts years; but their Slytherin ringleader had seemed to disappear after the war.
His eyebrows crooked in concentration as his palm closed against the bare handle of the emerald basket, his mind trying to recall the adornment that had embellished the fine wooden weaves before. The way the silver ribbon interlaced into a knot had been a distinct reminder of his friend, who had years ago taught him how to weave the Malfoy emblem once; the method had long been forgotten but the result had looked just as breathtaking.
He gave a shrug and sucked his teeth for the last lingering taste of chocolate. Who cares.. unless he could owl that person to send him more. He would however have to write a letter and that thought did not please him at all.
Perhaps he would be sent another one; afterall, one should always hope for the best and this basket had been nothing short of a blessing from Lady Luck. He tilted his head and surveyed through the window of his jail cell the small patch of sky, the same greyish hue as the day his gift had arrived.
It had not listed a sender, and was therefore considered a potential Dark object. He was called to the interrogation room and there sat Potty, their new junior auror, with the delivery on the desk.
Once settled in the seat Gregory could not take his eyes off the basket, its contents already making his mouth water. He was vaguely aware that the speccy git was gawking in the same direction, although he seemed far more intrigued by the loops of silver slithering along the curve of the handle. He could have said a word or two, but Gregory was not exactly paying attention and his voice would have been drowned out by the pitter-patter of rain against the roof.
Gregory had always considered himself a man of action and that day he behaved predictably as such. His patience dissipated after minutes of silence; he rolled up his sleeves and reached to grab the basket, the silver knot yanked loose in the process.
Potty rose, a violent straightening of his body that caused his chair to crash backward. He withdrew his wand and directed it against the other man. Though the incantations he uttered were lost to a roll of thunder, within a second the basket had smashed on the floor and Gregory was yelping in pain. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room.
The door burst open at the commotion and in came the Weasel. Potty stood frozen, staring at the charred tattoo on the prisoner as he gripped his own weaponed hand by the wrist, pressing it hard against his shirtfront, the tip of the holly wand heaving violently with the rise and fall of his chest.
Gregory's mouth formed a gaping hole as his mind attempted to register what had come to pass. He looked up and saw the dim reflection of the intruder on the mist on the window, an anxious frown settling on the freckled face as the eyes took in the dense, heavy slant of rain outside. Gregory squinted, but before he could discern the cause for alarm the window faded, the wet glass coagulating into a solid wall. His mind churned in attempt to articulate a protest regarding his treatment, from the assault to the deprivation of Atmospheric Charms, but the Weasel brushed by him without a glance and seized the arm of Potty, still deep in trance, and tugged him out of the room. The door shut behind them with a loud slam.
That was all Gregory knew of that day; he was sent back to the jail cell and the next day another auror came by, offering him to keep the basket if he wouldn't spread the word about the incident, particularly the details of his injury.
He happily agreed. He couldn't care less about the reputation of Potty, although he prided himself in knowing their Saviour's weakness. That git was probably scared of thunder, would go nutter whenever it rolled… maybe that was why he fell off his broomstick during that Quidditch match in their third year.
He wondered if the Dark Lord knew. Probably not; he remembered the morning sun prickling his eyes as he regained conscious shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. They should have checked the weather before heading there.
Alas, Gregory shook his head and reached for a chocolate frog. Too late.