To capture a fairy

A bad dream turns into a nightmare for Gregory Goyle when he and his father are assigned by the Dark Lord to kill Luna Lovegood. But Gregory is his father's son and his grandmother's grandson, he is of the Old People. He knows who he is. Characters belong to Rowling.

A wood, far from human dwellings. Smells of the wild and the untamed. A camp and a campfire. Just the two of them.

Father and son.

His father looks him over, and approves of what he sees.

A recognition. "You're a man now, son." An obligation. "It's time for you to do a man's work."

A choice.

Gregory Goyle nods, hiding whatever he thinks behind an empty face, as he is used to.

His father grins proudly.

The fire burns.

"Why are we here, father?"

"To kill someone."

"Oh," and then "Why?"

"Because the Dark Lord says so."


Flames that sputter. The wind in the canopies.

"Her name's Lovegood. You know her?"


"Tell me."

Silence. Sorting his thoughts before answering.

"Ravenclaw. A year younger than me. Rather weird. Not many friends. Hangs with Potter. Her dad writes 'the Quibbler'."

"Nothing else?"


Nightly creatures that move in the grass around the glade.

"Son... I've told you to use your eyes."

A short nod. "Yeah."

"Who is she, then?"

"She's... one of them."

"One of who, son?"

"One of the Fair People."

"Right, son."

"Why her?"

"Does it matter?"


"Isn't it enough that the Dark Lord has ordered it?"

A quick answer. "Yeah."

A smile. A large hand on his shoulder. It was the right answer.

"Remember this, lad. Never question the Dark Lord. Not even when we're out here by ourselves. You can't hide anything from him. Only fools try."


His father looks into the fire, a thoughtful expression.

"Potter has escaped the Dark Lord," he says. "Hidden under fidelius charm. The waif's his secret keeper."


"The Dark Lord thinks Potter's preparing... something. Something bad. Some kind of weapon or suchlike. He has to be stopped."


"He sent the others. Bella, and Snape and the rat and so on. They failed."


"Not surprised, son? The Dark Lord's most trusted servants can't capture a single little girl?"

A shrug. "She's of the Fair People."

A nod. "That's right lad. That's why we're here."


"You know who you are son, don't you?"


"And why we're sent?"


"Tell me."

A deep breath, then, "I'm my father's son and my grandmother's grandson. I'm of the Old People. I know who I am. I'm here to claim what's mine."

"Good. Don't you forget it."


And they sleep.