Memoirs of a Broken Quill
The quill is suspended in mid-air above the clean parchment. A drop of ink slowly forms, almost like a tear, at its tip and then drops onto the fresh smelling paper and smudges the white surface. The ink is black, as always, and the quill, which still hangs in the shaking hand, is a deep purple.
Suddenly, and almost with ferocity, the quill crashes down into the ink once more and flies to the paper, writing with the determination of one who knows that if they pause, even for a second, all the resolve will be gone and the words will remain unwritten.
They are celebrating today; celebrating their victory and the death of the Boy Who Lived. Thousands of Dark Marks fill the sky, almost like the fireworks of old, and cruel laughter fills the air. Screams and wails echo throughout the country, because they take pleasure in the pain of others, and blood is spilt. I do not need to be out there to know the horrors that take place, because even as I write a thousand knives pierce my heart.
This is not the way it was meant to be. This is not what they promised, what he promised.
And as suddenly as it began the Quill stops its dance across the page. It is the same Quill. The same purple feather that once fluttered in the glorious light of the sun and begged to be released. And it was supposed to be free, finally free, once the Dark Lord won, but it will never be free as long as it is in this cruel world. And now it can only steal whatever light that comes through the small cracks in its wooden cage.
A thin hand throws it across the room only to pick up the incriminating piece of parchment and hold it to the flame of the small, dying candle. It bursts into flame and flies up a little way, lighting the elegantly furnished room for a few seconds before falling back onto the desk and dying out. And all it leaves is a small black mark on the wood of the desk.
…
The next time it writes it is scratching, screaming, fighting. The ink has to be pulled from it forcefully, as if every drop that sinks into the paper is a piece of its soul…and maybe it is.
My Lord, it shudders in the hand that holds it and bends and squirms. There are other quills, many others.
It gives me the utmost honor to receive this invitation from you for such an honorable event. I will make all the necessary preparations for such an event and I will be at your command.
The hand that holds the Quill tightens and almost crushes it and then loosens again, just a little, to scratch the signature. That is all the Quill has left in it before it is bled dry and slumps, like a withered leaf on the table to lie there until there is more torture to be inflicted upon it.
Suddenly, two hands pick it up, gently, caringly, and place it gingerly in its tiny wooden cage.
…
Even from the inside of the wooden cage it can feel the magic all around. This magic is powerful, terrible, and new because it was built on top of the ruins of war. But there is also something ancient about it, a taste of familiarity. The Quill’s hairs stand on end in anticipation of what it is to see; what is to come, but that anticipation is mixed with a feeling of dread because sometimes not seeing is better.
Soon the cage stops moving around haltingly and comes to rest and it is left there, on the edge of sanity, for a long, long while.
The wind whistles a little outside, and a bit of sun creeps in at first. Even the sunlight is tainted red.
Suddenly, heavy, tired footsteps break the long silence and a door is slammed shut. They run across the empty space in between, the footsteps that is, and two thin, weary hands fling the box open.
And it is an explosion of something that cannot be described. The Quill has been here, many times, it lay on this very tabletop and wrote many letters. It felt the sunlight creeping in and the cold chill of winter in Hogwarts. It is different now, though, dark and bloodied and oppressive. The new magic is trying to stifle all that remains of the ancient familiar magic. The Quill shudders as it is picked up in the hand that it belongs to. This hand, too, has changed.
It is long since Hogwarts was closed for the war. The quill is rigid now; ready. This is a different kind of letter than the last. It is long since those old words, those old dreams, the sweet secrets that mingled with all the oldest secrets of the castle.
It is long since the warm fires were lit and the feasts were laid out in the Great Hall. Long since the time the purple feather basked in the glow of the sun beside the lake and wrote about the growing shadow. It was light, then, and free, it didn’t understand what it was writing about then.
The war is over. We have killed the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and the dreams of the worthless half-bloods and Mudbloods. We have tortured the stupid traitors that forsook the Pureblood dream and heard their screams and cries. We have become killers and murderers.
Daphne Greengrass who never could quite manage to cast that boil charm because it was too gruesome, she killed. We all killed. Even the ones that used to need house-elves to mop up their spilled pumpkin juice because they were too pure to get their hands dirty; they all killed.
It stopped, hung in midair and the fingers twirled it around lovingly, like they always used to before.
But this is not what it was supposed to be like. This is not what he promised. This is not the pureblood dream. We all had our own dreams, dreams that we thought we couldn’t fulfill without the eradication of the Mudbloods and Half-Bloods, because they were always taking our space, and our jobs and out perfect grades. Malfoy junior didn’t think he could beat Mudblood Granger at Transfiguration and Charms, but he created the most elaborate battle-plans and invented new charms for the Dark Lord’s service.
We killed Granger of course, along with many others.
Pansy Parkinson, she had a dream too. She wanted to marry Malfoy, because some girls are like that, and live in that Wiltshire mansion. She wanted to have horses and never ending green fields and spend her life being pampered. She wanted to be a pureblood princess. She’s a lot of things now, she killed for it, but she’d not a princess. She’s a slave, really, because she’ll always be a woman. And she’s not even Malfoy’s slave either. We always knew she’d never get Malfoy, everyone did except her, but now there aren’t any more green fields and flowers, only black.
Flint wanted to be a world-class Quidditch Captain. Obsessed, he was. But now every time you fly the chill of the Dementors creeps in all around you and your teammates aren’t carefree children anymore, they’re tired killers. And there’s no Gryffindors left for him to score points against, either, because he killed them all. No one for him to prove himself against, no Hufflepuffs to sneer at, and he enjoyed that. Far too much for a sane man, of course, but then again, there aren’t really any sane ones left are there?
Take Goyle, for example. He wasn’t exactly smart before, but now he’s insane. He thought he’d have respect, a high place, thought he’d be third right under the Dark Lord and Malfoy, poor bloke. He wanted to give orders; too, we all saw it. He always beat them up at school, he did, but when he saw the blood and heard the screaming: he went insane. Now he’s just a killer; doesn’t think, doesn’t really talk, doesn’t wipe the blood away when it splatters all over his face, just kills and tortures on command.
And then there’s that Ravenclaw, you’d think at least he would have been smart. He made poisons and perfected the Dark Arts. He dreamed of the day when he’d be able to research any bloody thing that hopped into his fancy, the bloke was just like that. But now he’s dead. Because he knew too much, was too powerful. Even he was stupid, we all were.
It shudders, now, almost imperceptibly in the cold. There is no candle on the desktop, nothing to burn the paper with. There was always a candle on the desktop, always. The Quill dips into the ink again and then resumes its dance across the page, resolved to make this a good one.
The Muggles and Mudbloods and Half-Bloods are running out. Soon we’ll have killed them all and then there will be nothing left for the mercenaries to do. I wonder if the Dark Lord will start killing us off himself or let the insane killers fight with each other like Gladiators.
Zabini knows it. He knows he’s been stupid, maybe he knew it all along, but couldn’t help it. He’ll never sleep comfortably because he was there the day we found Thomas. He saw what they did, but most importantly, he heard what they said.
A turn will come for each of us to pay far more than we owe, if it hasn’t already begun. I had a dream too; I thought I’d be able to fulfill it after the blasted Ministry Officials and the petty, frightened Daily Prophet Editors were gone, but I forgot that it was impossible for anyone to allow me my dream. I’m going to pay, dearly, no matter what I do, so I figure I might as well live it just once before the end. Because every day I wake up to blood and screams and every night I sleep to them and this is most definitely not what he promised.
It stops now, in midair and hangs above the paper. The air in the room is still, as if time has stopped. Finally, it comes crashing down on to the paper to write the last curving, elegant words; for the last time.
Theodore Nott
