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the baffled king
I had intended, today, to work on my end-of-year portfolio, and get the webpage coded, and finish a few chapters that have been sitting on my hard drive. Instead, I wrote several hp100 drabbles, 500 words of Ron/Draco, 1000 words of Pettigrew/Fudge, and Narcissa teaching Ron to play chess.
* * *
She hates these Ministry parties. They are completely without class. The conversation is insipid and the company is worse. There are even children here. And Mudbloods; she cannot stop herself from shuddering when she brushes against one in the crush. She wishes she could leave; but someday her husband might need a favor from someone, so she steels herself to work the crowd, acting the gracious wife, sipping nasty cheap champagne and smiling at Fudges and Bagmans, reassuring everyone of her family's loyalty and how happy she is to have her real husband back, free at last from that horrible, tragic curse.
Eventually she decides that she cannot stand this any longer, and slips away from the crowd, looking for the small parlor she remembers from earlier visits here. When she finds it she is about to sigh with relief when she notices she isn't alone. There is a child here, standing silently in a corner, no older than her own son. Her son, who had been put to bed by the housekeeper several hours ago, thank you. She has never considered herself a good mother, but even she would not let her son wander alone through this minefield of a party. Then she notices the red of his hair. Ah, a Weasley. No wonder. They can afford to be careless; they'd never miss a few brats.
He is staring at a shelf, just beyond his reach, which holds an ornate chess set of jade and serpentine; the pawns are taking turns peering over the edge at him and whispering. For such a young child his intensity and stillness are disconcerting; she has seen Dark wizards with less pureness of concentration. --But then, this is Molly Weasley's child. Molly Weasley who had married her own cousin; who, it had been rumored at school, used love potions for her own advancement and spent nights in the Forbidden Forest practicing forbidden rituals; Molly Weasley who had-- There were some magicks so old and dark that even the Malfoys only whispered of them in dark corners; magicks which could mold a child in the womb, shaping its destiny and powers, twisting it so that it would be born speaking and knowing as an adult . .
Suddenly, on impulse, she moves over behind the child and lifts the chess set down, placing it on a low table. He does not startle or question as her son would have, but merely watches silently. She finds this oddly unsettling.
"Do you know how to play?" she asks him harshly. She has never had the patience or empathy to treat children as anything more than miniature adults; this usually serves well to convince them to leave her alone.
But he only shakes his head, running his chubby hand along the polished surface of the board. "It's pretty," he says in his lisping child's voice. "What is it?"
"It's a chess set," she says, disbelieving. "A very old and valuable one, I'd say. But then, I suppose, at that house you wouldn't be exposed to such things."
He shakes his head again, not looking away from the board. "What does it do?"
"It doesn't do anything. It's a game," she says, and then, she isn't sure why, "Would you like me to teach you how to play?"
He looks up at her then, and nods. "Please."
She sits down on the floor by the table, her stiff skirts crumpling around her, putting her almost on a level with him. "Very well. First you have to learn how all the pieces move."
He assumes an attitude of absorption, and the pieces mimic him, settling in a circle between them.
"There are eight different pieces, each with its own set of rules. The most important is the king." She points, and the green king crosses to his side of the board, robes sweeping behind it, and gives him a shallow bow, a sardonic expression on its face. It reminds her of someone, and she lifts it up, focusing on it instead of the boy. "If the king is lost, you lose the game. He's powerful too-- he can move in any direction on the board-- but he's limited by what he is. He can only move one square at a time. . ."
***
Discipline! Discipline, dammit! Finish what you start! *YOU DO NOT NEED MORE WIPS!*
* * *
She hates these Ministry parties. They are completely without class. The conversation is insipid and the company is worse. There are even children here. And Mudbloods; she cannot stop herself from shuddering when she brushes against one in the crush. She wishes she could leave; but someday her husband might need a favor from someone, so she steels herself to work the crowd, acting the gracious wife, sipping nasty cheap champagne and smiling at Fudges and Bagmans, reassuring everyone of her family's loyalty and how happy she is to have her real husband back, free at last from that horrible, tragic curse.
Eventually she decides that she cannot stand this any longer, and slips away from the crowd, looking for the small parlor she remembers from earlier visits here. When she finds it she is about to sigh with relief when she notices she isn't alone. There is a child here, standing silently in a corner, no older than her own son. Her son, who had been put to bed by the housekeeper several hours ago, thank you. She has never considered herself a good mother, but even she would not let her son wander alone through this minefield of a party. Then she notices the red of his hair. Ah, a Weasley. No wonder. They can afford to be careless; they'd never miss a few brats.
He is staring at a shelf, just beyond his reach, which holds an ornate chess set of jade and serpentine; the pawns are taking turns peering over the edge at him and whispering. For such a young child his intensity and stillness are disconcerting; she has seen Dark wizards with less pureness of concentration. --But then, this is Molly Weasley's child. Molly Weasley who had married her own cousin; who, it had been rumored at school, used love potions for her own advancement and spent nights in the Forbidden Forest practicing forbidden rituals; Molly Weasley who had-- There were some magicks so old and dark that even the Malfoys only whispered of them in dark corners; magicks which could mold a child in the womb, shaping its destiny and powers, twisting it so that it would be born speaking and knowing as an adult . .
Suddenly, on impulse, she moves over behind the child and lifts the chess set down, placing it on a low table. He does not startle or question as her son would have, but merely watches silently. She finds this oddly unsettling.
"Do you know how to play?" she asks him harshly. She has never had the patience or empathy to treat children as anything more than miniature adults; this usually serves well to convince them to leave her alone.
But he only shakes his head, running his chubby hand along the polished surface of the board. "It's pretty," he says in his lisping child's voice. "What is it?"
"It's a chess set," she says, disbelieving. "A very old and valuable one, I'd say. But then, I suppose, at that house you wouldn't be exposed to such things."
He shakes his head again, not looking away from the board. "What does it do?"
"It doesn't do anything. It's a game," she says, and then, she isn't sure why, "Would you like me to teach you how to play?"
He looks up at her then, and nods. "Please."
She sits down on the floor by the table, her stiff skirts crumpling around her, putting her almost on a level with him. "Very well. First you have to learn how all the pieces move."
He assumes an attitude of absorption, and the pieces mimic him, settling in a circle between them.
"There are eight different pieces, each with its own set of rules. The most important is the king." She points, and the green king crosses to his side of the board, robes sweeping behind it, and gives him a shallow bow, a sardonic expression on its face. It reminds her of someone, and she lifts it up, focusing on it instead of the boy. "If the king is lost, you lose the game. He's powerful too-- he can move in any direction on the board-- but he's limited by what he is. He can only move one square at a time. . ."
***
Discipline! Discipline, dammit! Finish what you start! *YOU DO NOT NEED MORE WIPS!*
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