Drabble #1, by Fox.
I am not now, nor have I ever been, J.K. Rowling.


He makes a promise to a widow.

One of her surviving children is maimed, and one is blind; all are bitter. Her friends, and theirs - and his - are gone: dead, or fled, or in prison. Her house is ruined, the bits of it still standing now haunted by far less pleasant things than ghosts.

Her husband was to lead them, but the bleakest irony is that his loss may be the stem that turns the tide. The people's outrage at the death of that gentle man may be the key to victory.

I swear, in his memory, that we'll win.

Comments always welcome!