A/N: Hi everyone! This is another submission for a challenge at the HPFC, for ToxicRainfall's challenge. I'll leave what type it is at the end, because I don't want to spoil the story. :) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, the books or the character. Or any of the characters, for that matter.
Kingsley sat up in the straight-backed wooden chair, his head bowed, his fingers loosely clasped. It was dark, but that was nothing new. They had kept him in the dark for weeks, both literally and figuratively. He could feel the ropes cutting into his skin, leaving striped red welts wherever they touched him. If he shifted so much as an inch, they would dig further into his flesh, scraping against him with barb-like threads. His back was sore and stiff, his muscles locked into formation from sitting in the chair in the one position for so long.
His eyes were dry, and he blinked them copiously to attempt to get just a little more moisture into them, but to no avail. His throat and mouth were similarly arid. He swallowed, desperate for saliva, but it only sent him into a harsh, racking coughing fit. He would do almost anything for a glass of water or something to eat. He could feel the faint spasms of his stomach, tensed, hungry for anything to satisfy the gnawing.
The door gave a soft click, as the handle turned, and it swung inwards towards him. His head snapped up, and he hissed in pain as the bones clicked against each other, and the muscles groaned in protest at the sudden movement, when he had been in the same position for so long. He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare from the open door. After being in the dark so long, any form of light stung his eyes. Kingsley Shacklebolt squinted, then glared at the man entering the room, keeping his head held high, chin tilted defiantly.
"Who are you? Why have you brought me here?"
The man ignored him completely, and turned away from Kingsley. He was a small, squat man, not fat, but perhaps solid. He had a buzz cut, a dull grey colour, and his face was crisscrossed with white risen scars, more like welts than scratches. He used two fingers to gesture to someone out of sight, and then spun on one foot to face Kingsley.
"My name is Werman. They title me as Chief Snatcher, but I do not appreciate that title. I am simply the boss, and I am here to make your life hell."
Kinsgley scoffed. He was Kingsley Shacklebolt, famous Auror. Nobody could ever make his life hell. They had taken his wand. They had taken his freedom. But they could never take his pride, his secrets or his loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix. He said all of this, and more, to Werman, who, in return, called out.
"Bring it in." Two men, whom Kingsley recognised as his initial capturers, carried in a large crate, without any air holes or gaps. "Do you know what is in here, Kingsley?"
"No. I don't give a damn."
"Such rudeness," hissed Werman, taking a step towards Kingsley. "You really don't deserve any freedom or liberty, do you, scum?" Kingsley raised his head a little higher, gathered all the saliva he could, and spat straight into Werman's face.
The Chief Snatcher's face contorted with fury, and he motioned to the two men behind him.
"Open it, and then leave. I will come back later to check on him."
There was a pregnant pause, as the two men leered at Kingsley. They strolled up to him, enjoying his uncomfortableness. The taller of the two, with uneven teeth and dark, malicious eyes, stuck his face right up against Kingsley's.
"You shouln' 'ave dun that. The Chief Snatche' dusn' like to be insul'ed like tha'." Kingsley said nothing. "I'm serious. 'e'll make your life 'ell now. You were warned. And me? Well, le's jus' say I'll take great pleasure in doin' the same." Kinglsey, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, curled his upper lip into a look of pure contempt.
"Very well then. Do your best. Whether it's a dementor, withheld curses, or even Voldemort" – the two men hissed in horror at the name – "in that box, you'll never break me. So go ahead. Give it your best shot."
"Oh, we will," said the shorter one. His voice was soft, almost girly, but with a hint of frozen steel in the back. "You can bet we will. Your worst nightmare is in this box, Shacklebolt, and I'll bet that you'll be a blubbering wreck within ten minutes."
Kingsley shook his head, amused at their confidence. But he glanced into the eyes of the shorter man, and saw nothing but cold certainty that what he said was true. A tiny worm of doubt began to crawl into his mind. What could possibly be inside that box?
"Oh, I'll bet on tha', I reckon it'll be more like 'round, uh, five minu's," said the taller man. "Ten galleons, alrigh'?" Hands were shook, a bet was made. The taller man walked around, behind Kingsley and fiddled with the ropes. "I dunno wha's in there for you, but I ain' gonna keep yous tied up. Where's the fun in tha'?" He sniggered cruelly, as he finished untying him.
The two men walked to the crate, shooting contemptuous glances back over their shoulders as they went. They crouched down by the crate, and, with shaking fingers, pried the lid open. Without warning, the their quick eyes glimpsed what was in the box, and ran, scrambling and tripping over each other, out the door, slamming it as they went.
Apprehensively, Kingsley wrung his wrists in front of him, and took a few weak, unsteady steps towards the box. Each step was agony, as the muscles in his legs, unused for weeks, screamed in protest. His mind was in a turmoil. What was in the box that made the men so terrified? He hesitated, only about a metre away from the box, torn between running to the furthest corner of the room and crouching there, or looking into the box.
As he waited, a funny change seemed to come over the room. The air grew colder, and took on a frozen lilac hue. Icy breezes, with no seeming pattern or regularity, swept through the room, from every possible direction. Glancing out the tiny window at the top of one wall, Kingsley could see through the bars, the sun disappear behind the clouds, which stretched on for miles and miles, a dull grey-green colour. He knew this couldn't be good, but then, what was good in this time?
He took a deep steadying breath, and looked into the box.
It was empty.
What was this? The most terrifying thing, his worst nightmare, was an empty box? This was ridiculous, he couldn't possibly be scared of this. He glanced around, expecting a joke, Harry or someone to jump out from behind the door and yell, "SURPRISE!" But nothing happened. He sighed, and went back to sit in the chair. Perhaps it was the suspense of what was going to be in the box that qualified as his worst nightmare? But that was hardly terrifying, just a little annoying that there was nothing in there.
Without warning, a large crack appeared in the ceiling, sending tiny, fine particles of dust floating down in a jagged line. Kingsley glanced up at the ceiling, horrified. What was happening? Even as he watched, more and more cracks spread out from the first once, creating an ominous spider web. More and more dust fell, waterfalls of dirty brown powder, creating tiny piles on the tile floor.
Kingsley could hear it now, too, a soft crackling, as the entire ceiling slowly, but surely, disintegrated. Larger pieces were beginning to fall now, small, coin-sized chunks, then larger, quaffle-sized, and then as large as a human. He leapt up out of the seat, and began dodging the falling debris, as they crashed all around him, sending up clouds of brown dust. The walls themselves began falling inwards too, crumbling like old cheese.
With a horrified expression, Kingsley looked out over the wall, fallen down to past half of what it was before. This was what had happened while he was out, trapped in this tiny room? The world had died.
Looking out over the city of London, despair seized him, and brought him, choking, to his knees. Old, favourite buildings of his, disintegrated into piles of mere rubble. Smoking towers of ash, with tiny spot fires sprouting up here and there. Nobody in sight.
The world as he knew it had ceased to exist.
Whose doing was this? Voldemort? Was this the end? Had the battle been fought, and lost, while he was still being held in captivity by the snatchers? Was that why he had been captured in the first place? So he couldn't help fight in the battle and possibly tip it their way, just a minuscule amount, so that they would win?
Holding his breath, Kingsley waited to see if the snatchers would come to check on him, to see if he was dead- for their must have been a collapsing charm in the box, designed to cause the room to collapse and let him see the pain that was the outside world.
But nobody came.
His head bowed, now in grief rather than submission, he crawled over the jagged edge of the wall, and began to make his way down the steep cliff outside it. As he continued through the destroyed town, his heart became heavier and heavier, grief weighing it down, at the loss of the world he had once loved.
There was nothing he could do here. Nobody had survived. His surroundings were as lonely as his state of mind. Did this mean Harry Potter was dead? He crouched down to the side of a road, and pinched a small amount of ash in between his fingers. Standing, he cast it away. He was at a complete loss at what to do, so, he simply continued walking.
He came across a side alley, and began to walk down it. What more did he have to lose? Everything else he ever accounted for was gone, so what did it matter if he exhausted himself further? His body was sapped of all its energy, from both the weeks of captivity without food or water, and from the extreme shock and despair at what had happened to his world.
He glimpsed a small mound down the end of the alley, blurred slightly by the swirling ash and the heat of the air, distorting his vision. He hurried along, but stopped short a few metres from it. It was a body. Not dead, but close to. He knelt down beside it, and put a hand on her shoulder. He wiped the grime and dust from her face, and opened his mouth to say a few words of comfort as she left this hell hole, but his words stuck in his throat, as it swelled with horror.
"Molly?" Molly Weasley's eyes flicked open, the blue faded and tortured, bloodshot, with the pupils widened, more grey than black. She raised a trembling arm up, and held her palm against Kingsley's face.
"You're a good man, Kingsley." His throat contorted, the lump inside growing so that he could hardly swallow. His heart felt like it was going to drop out of his chest, and lie in the grime in the alley next to Mrs Weasley. " Arthur is gone. Everyone is gone. I'm the last one. There is nothing you can do."
"No! No, Molly, there has to be something!" She shook her head, then coughed harshly, a small trickle of blood worming its way out of the corner of her mouth.
"Give it up."
Cursing under his breath, Kingsley stood. This was not the Molly he knew. She would never, ever tell him to give it up. She would keep going, like him, until the bitter end, and she was killed by another.
A spark suddenly flared up in his mind, as he considered the possibility. Could it be? He thought back to what had happened in the room, and his heart slowly lightened, as it became more and more likely that this was what had happened.
"You can bet we will. Your worst nightmare is in this box, Shacklebolt, and I'll bet that you'll be a blubbering wreck within ten minutes."
They crouched down by the crate, and, with shaking fingers, pried the lid open. Without warning, the their quick eyes glimpsed what was in the box, and ran, scrambling and tripping over each other, out the door, slamming it as they went.
As he waited, a funny change seemed to come over the room. The air grew colder, and took on a frozen lilac hue. Icy breezes, with no seeming pattern or regularity, swept through the room, from every possible direction.
He took a deep steadying breath, and looked into the box. It was empty.
It was a Boggart! This was merely an illusion! It wasn't real! He knew that, under normal circumstances, Boggarts produce an object or a being. Under normal circumstances, Boggarts are fairly harmless. Under normal circumstances, his was Lord Voldemort. But as time passes, his changed. It must have changed. Into a setting. A state of being. A world. The destruction of the wizarding community, through losing the battle.
He knelt down next to the Boggart Mrs Weasley, muttered a hasty apology, and began to rummage through the folds of her cloak, almost immediately finding what he was looking for. Her wand.
Standing, clearing his throat, holding his head high, he uttered one word, one that would make the world right again, would relieve him of this horror.
"Riddikulus."
The dark tinge to the air disappeared. The temperature returned to a mild warmth. The piles of ash disappeared, as well as Molly Weasley's body. Buildings all around him resurrected themselves. Fires were extinguished. Birds began chirping. People peered out from doorways, and stared at Kingsley, disbelief, hope, and delight mixing together into a beautiful gaze directed at him.
All was well, and London was back. Now all they needed to do was defeat the Dark Lord. It would be a walk in the park.
He was back in the small room, but this time, it wasn't falling apart. It was tiny, contained, and solid. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and without any effort, brought up a calm, patronising smile. He rested his eyes on the door, startling Werman as he entered.
"Shacklebolt- why the happy face?" Kingsley stood up, towering over the frog-like man.
"The happy face, Werman, is because I am finally able to do this." With lightning-quick reflexed, he flashed his arm out and snatched Werman's wand. Pointing it right between his eyes, so that the Chief Snatcher became cross-eyes, he smiled confidently.
"Expelliarmus."
He knew Harry would have a good laugh at that.
A/N: Hey guys, thanks for sticking it out until the end! It was the Boggart Challenge, and obviously, my character was Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Review it- you know you want to!
Thanks
~youcanreachthestars