Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings. They belong to J.K. Rowling and J.R.R. Tolkien, respectively. This is an amateur attempt. One which I am not making any profit over.
A/N: I had loads of fun writing this one. Hope you enjoy.
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Drabble Four: Maggot's Malfoy
Dig. Grip. Yank.
Dig. Grip. Yank.
Dig. Grip. Yank.
Draco shuddered with revulsion as he stopped for a minute to examine his hands. Calluses were spread liberally over his palms and at the joints of his fingers. Dirt had settled comfortably under his fingernails, and to top it off, he was sunburnt.
Horribly.
"When I find my wand . . ."
"What was that, boy?"
Draco sneered at the dirt, secure in the thought that the midget couldn't see. "Nothing, Farmer Maggot," he drawled. "Absolutely nothing."
"Hope it was nothing," said the Maggot, still sitting on his little stool and puffing away. "Or I shall be forced to set Fang on you again. Wouldn't want that would you, my lad? Wouldn't want me to hear any of your magic muttering again? Wouldn't want to go up on trial again, would you?"
Draco couldn't quite stop his hand from reaching over to rub his sore bottom. The teeth indentations still hadn't faded. "No. I would not."
That had been a degrading experience, and one he hoped his father never found out about. Loosing his wand to these mudblood midgets had been bad enough ― not to mention that mongrel of a dog ― but being forced to stand trial in their poor excuse for a courtroom. . . Just because he'd levitated one of them, exploded a house, and set fire to a cabbage patch. It wasn't like he'd done anything nasty, or something.
Stupid punishment. Stupid midgets. Stupid world!
"Splendid! Now get to work. I want those carrots properly harvested by dinner. Then you shall go back into your cellar."
Draco shuddered again at the mention of the dreaded cellar. He would be cold again tonight.
Dig. Grip. Yank.
Dig. Grip. Yank.
Dig. Grip. Yank.
When he found his wand . . .
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