Hagrid Quest
"… Rubeus Hagrid, you have been judged guilty of murder. Your wand shall be snapped, and all further tutelage in magic denied. The Wizarding World will not have you. We, the legally appointed Wizengamot, abjure you. You are exiled in our eyes, fit only to live among muggles or worse."
The verdict is like the toll of some great bell in your head, ringing again and again. You can't stop imagining those solemn old wizards looking down on you as they pronounced your sentence. The pronouncement is the best you could expect, really. Everybody seemed to think it's a foregone conclusion, your guilt. Your barrister had gone over exactly what the punishments were going to be, he hadn't seemed to hold out hope for anything better either. Nevermind that you wouldn't have hurt that poor Ravenclaw girl, and Aragog wouldn't have neither!
You think Aragog might have made it into the forest, and you take some comfort in that. Even if you never see each other again, he'd do all right, wouldn't he? Just thinking about not getting to see your little Aragog grow up hurts, but better alive and apart than... oh, you think you're crying again!
The neatly-presented bureaucrat in front of you sneers. Maybe at the sobs you're trying to muffle with your fist – you swore you wouldn't cry - maybe that he heard the verdict… but sometimes people just look at you like that. Suspecting you're half-giant, maybe, not totally human. Or just for being bigger and more awkward than everybody else. Not that that's your fault, you assure yourself! Your da' told you, life might be hard, but it wasn't your fault for being born big.
"You should be grateful not to be thrown in Azkaban," Rupert Pennwether told you as he threw the broken sticks that used to be your wand in your face. Or tried, anyway, since you tower over him by at least two feet. They bounce off off your chest before you carefully cup the broken pieces in your hands. "If they'd had evidence you'd killed that muggleborn, you would have been!"
Your forehead wrinkles as you realize, "Bu' if they don' have evidence, why'd they snap me wand?"
"Well, we needed to show you there were consequences for killing muggleborns, didn't we?" Pennwether says logically.
"Bu'…"
"Enough! Do you think you're above the law? No, sir, you are not!" Pennwether shuffles the forms in front of him with finality. It's like you just stopped existing.
It was good your da' died years ago, or this would probably have killed him, you think sadly as you leave. The doors of the Ministry slam with finality behind you.
You don't know what you're going to do. Starve, and die alone and friendless, probably.
Before that happens, you could probably try and:
[X] Throw yourself on Dumbledore's mercy. Great man, Dumbledore.
[X] Throw yourself on Flitwick's mercy.
[X] Throw yourself on Grubbly-Plank's mercy.
[X] Run away to join the giants.
[X] Run away to join the muggles.
[X] Put things off until tomorrow. Things will probably seem better in the morning, after a few pints.
They gave you back your poor wand, snapped in two. Will you:
[X] Try and get it fixed, in all defiance of Wizard law. (Ideas?)
[X] Keep it. It served you well, and deserves better.
[X] Leave it behind you, along with your old life. A clean break, that's best.