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Thread: Weekly Drabble Challenge - Do You Believe in Magic?: Careers & Jobs - Results

  1. #1
    Ebil Gato Loco Ravenclaw
    He's The Dog... He's An Animagus...
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    May 2006
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    Weekly Drabble Challenge - Do You Believe in Magic?: Careers & Jobs - Results

    Your prompt this week is to a drabble about a Wizard profession that isn't Professor, Dark Lord, HoH, Auror, Quidditch player, potion maker, or Ministry-related in any way whatsoever. Be creative.

    The following form must be used when submitting your drabble responses to this post -
    PHP Code:
    Winners will be awarded 15, 10, and 5 points respectively.
    All drabbles must be less than 500 words; All standard grammar rules, and MNFF submissions guidelines apply.
    The challenge will be up for a week, and be closed exactly a week later (April 24th.)

    MithrilQuill and I will be judging them and posting results a couple of days later.

    All questions should be referred to the Question Corner #3 - Do not post questions here. Only drabbles!

    New for the Weekly Challenges:Due to a major lack of quality drabbles being submitted to the weeklies, Gato Loco will require that some real thoughtful, original submissions be posted from this moment on or you'll end up like this woman here. That's your one and only warning! XD

    Other than that...have fun!

    ~Gato Loco~

    I've left moddom/fandom...though don't be surprised if I get caught lurking once in a blue moon.
    All questions pertinent to Ravenclaw need to be sent to ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
    If you wish to keep in touch, feel free to friend me on LJ - I don't friend anyone under the age of 18. Sorry!

    Otherwise, so long, and thanks for all the fish!

  2. #2
    Name: Heather25x
    House: Hufflepuff
    Title: Where Did He Go Wrong?
    Warnings: None
    Words: 498

    A tinkling sound rang out from the front of the shop. Draco used to think it was a lovely sound. But that was long ago. Now it was just an annoying, all-too-familiar sound that he loathed.

    Draco sighed, knowing a customer was waiting for him. When old Ollivander’s son had died, the wand shop was going to close down. But Draco, certain that he could make a fortune out of it, had bought it. It had been his pride and joy, positive that business would be brilliant, sure that after a few years he would make enough money to open up a chain. But that had not been so.

    No one wanted to buy a wand from a Malfoy. Ollivander was a trusted wand-maker, and generations of families had purchased their wands from him. They all trusted Ollivander. No one trusted Draco.

    So now he was stuck with it, unable to sell it. Everyone had seen what a failure it had been under a new owner. Now, what was once his pride and joy was a burden, sitting on his shoulders until he died.

    ‘Hello? Can I have some service, please?’

    He stepped out to the front of the shop and gasped. Nothing could have shocked him more than the sight of the black haired man standing there, a little girl with bright red hair holding his hand.

    Draco stared at Harry Potter, unable to fathom the idea that this man was in his shop. Draco hadn’t seen Harry for years, but he looked the same. The hair, the scar…

    But now he had a daughter. Who else could it be? And of course she had the red hair…he had heard Harry had married Ginny Weasley.

    And Harry hadn’t recognised Draco. That was a horror, and yet a comfort.

    ‘Er, my daughter’s starting Hogwarts in September, so we’d like to buy her first wand.’

    The little girl looked up excitedly at her father, who returned the look happily.

    ‘Hang on,’ Draco managed to say, and went to fetch some wands from the back.

    And so began another part of his monotonous life. Going through wand after wand, trying to find the perfect one for each person. Usually it was just boring, unexciting, but today it was so much worse than that. With every new wand came the hope that that would be the one, that these people would leave and never face him again. And every time he was disappointed.

    Finally, after what seemed longer than an eternity to Draco, the little girl swished the wand happily and shrieked with joy when sparks flew out on the end, bright gold.

    They paid for the wand and left the shop. Back to their family. Draco had no one. His entire family gone, not wanting to know him. And as Draco watched Harry and his daughter leave, he thought about his past, and wondered where he had gone wrong, and when this desperate, desolate path in his life had begun.


  3. #3
    Name: evanescence17
    Title: Bidding Goodbye
    Warnings: none I can think of.
    Words:490 (phewww!)

    The heat from the frantic digging was suffocating him. Although, it was twilight already and a cool breeze was blowing, he could feel a thread of sweat rolling down his back. He stood up leaning his weight on his spade, his sole companion in that part of the town and he looked at his veined hands. He knew that he wasn't as strong as he used to be but it was his duty and he wouldn’t allow anyone else to do it for him. As he wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes involuntarily stared down at the freshly dug earth. There lied a cavity in the ground; an open abyss which would soon consume someone's lifeless body into darkness forever.

    It'd been 38 long years since Pete Keaton took charge of The Godric's Hollow Cemetery. It was probably the only cemetery in Britain which catered exclusively to witches and wizards. His father was the caretaker before him and had always believed that what they did was their duty to the wizard folk. "Helping the dead to go on to the next world, son," he always said. Pete was very fond of his old man. That is why when he died Pete decided he would stay on and look after the lands and the departed.

    He let out a long breath and shuffled his way back to the battered-looking place he reluctantly called home. There was no sound except for his dull footsteps, resonating against the hard ground. Even the birds didn't come anymore. Maybe they also knew that nobody was alive there. Pete’s life had become nothing short of monotonous. His ears hadn't heard a melody in years, the only sound he was accustomed to hearing being sobs and wails. The only colour his senile mind recognized was black. His eyes had become colourblind to rest of the spectrum. He never went to the town to have drinks or fraternize with the people there. He found more calm with his kin under the pearly whites. The epitaphs on the tombs spoke to him and comforted him when he felt lonesome. So the dead were all the company he needed.

    His tired knotted hands grasped the spade firmly. Pete never used magic to dig the graves despite of repeatedly being asked by the Head Priest of the Church. The only thing that kept him connected to the rest of the world was these graves. And every time someone died, it was his way of bereaving for the departed soul; to feel the pain within his body. And it was this mourning that helped him to remain sober as the service bade final farewell to the loved and cherished one.

    As Pete reached the wrought iron gate of the small cemetery, he turned around and fondly gazed at the pearly white tombstones glittering under the faint moonlight.

    “Good night Father. Sleep well,” he mumbled softly before proceeding into the dark street.

  4. #4
    Name: Wotcher-Tonks
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title:Little Shop of Horrors

    I hate my job. I really, really loathe my job. Well, right now I do.
    “They can’t just have disappeared!” my assistant protested.
    How many times did I have to explain this to the kid?
    “Yes, they can. It’s the Invisible Book of Invisibility, remember?” I said, clearly enunciating each word.
    A sudden insight dawned on his face.
    “Ohhh…mate…so we can’t find them, can we?”
    “As I have told you repeatedly for the last hour, Eric, we can’t.”
    The bell tinkled again as a harried looking parent rushed in, asking for the Monster Book of Monsters.
    “Over there,” I sighed, jerking my thumb towards the display.
    The parent halted in front of the cage, looking aghast.
    I sighed once more and slid on the tattered leather glove. Time to wrestle a book.
    “Watch out!”
    A book leaped up out of nowhere and attached itself to my bare arm. I grimaced in pain, and looked up, eyes streaming. The parent was nowhere to be seen.
    I hate my job. I really, really, loathe my job.

  5. #5
    Name: deeobee
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: Under Control
    Warnings: none
    Words: 496

    Lee Linux stepped out of the fireplace, brushing Floo powder from his robes, and took a deep breath. He opened his office door and was immediately assaulted by a loud buzzing sound as hundreds of bright blue insects flew past his head and into the lobby.

    “Oh, Mr. Linux! Thank goodness you’re back!” a voice cried. Startled, he looked up and saw Glinda, his secretary, floating twenty feet above him with a stack of papers in her hands. “I’ve got loads of paperwork for the new imports here that I’ve prioritized based on probability of infectious disease. And expect a visit from a woman named Mrs. Higgins sometime today. She claims Atticus permanently damaged her son last weekend.”

    Linux gave an exasperated sigh—he’d only been gone one day, for Merlin’s sake, how bad could things have become? He could only imagine the state Manchester Menagerie for Magical Animals would be in if he ever took a two-week vacation.

    “So I told her we can’t be held liable for the abusive words of a Jarvey in heat,” Glinda said, “but she wouldn’t listen. Then she had the nerve to tell me that no ‘respectable establishment’ would exhibit an animal of ‘questionable psychological health’ in a location frequented by ‘delicate and impressionable children like her son.’ I figured it would be easier if you dealt with her.”

    “That’s fine,” Linux said, taking out his wand and lowering her to the floor. “And I assume your levitation is the work of the Billywig shipment I ordered from Australia?” he asked.

    “Yeah, sorry, the crate broke while I was setting it down and they stung me and flew out,” she said. “Oh, and before I forget, Hendricks told me to tell you that he used the last of the anti-Chizpurfle potion on the Nifflers, so you need to order more.”

    “Thanks,” he said, sitting down behind his mahogany desk and rifling through the papers he had just been handed.

    “No problem, sir. If you need anything else—”

    A piercing shriek came from the lobby.

    Linux jumped up, pulling his wand out, and hurried to see what the commotion was. He watched as an overweight woman surrounded by a swarm of Billywigs slowly floated up to the ceiling and began to spin around. The insects flew away, and he stared, open-mouthed, as her flowery dress fell below her head, exposing a pair of even more flowery undergarments.

    Linux closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glinda, I do need you to get something else for me,” he said slowly.

    “Of course, boss,” she said.

    “Coffee. Extra-black.”

    Above him the woman was now cursing, frantically trying to pull her dress back down. Linux sighed deeply, feeling a migraine coming on.

    “And a pain-relieving potion!” he shouted at Glinda’s retreating form. He had hundreds of insects to round up, an irate and embarrassed Mrs. Higgins to deal with and mounds of paperwork to finish, and it wasn’t even 9:00.

  6. #6
    Fourth Year Ravenclaw
    McGonagall Likes My Quidditch Skills

    Join Date
    Oct 2007
    Glaring at my computer
    Title:Guardian Angel

    I set down the glass I'd been polishing when I heard the bell chime. Another customer, and at this time of night, it was likely to be either a sleazebag or someone who's been drunk for hours. That's the only kind of people we get in here around midnight.

    "Butterbeer, please," a quiet voice requested. Now that was a change! For one thing, the voice sounded coherent and there wasn't a pick-up line that occupanied his request. For another, no one orders Butterbeer here, no one! I wasn't entirely sure that we even had any in stock. I ducked under the counter and rummaged around until I came upon a dusty, amber bottle.

    "Here you go," I said, handing up the Butterbeer. Finally glancing at my customer, I found myself looking into one of the most dejected faces I've ever seen. "What's wrong, love?"

    "Just lost my job," he answered, taking a sip. His pale face flooded with color. "My girlfriend just left me because I lost the job, and she kicked me out of the apartment too! I've got no where to stay, no job, no girlfriend, and to top it all off, my boss said he wouldn't give me a reference."

    "You poor thing! Do have anywhere you can at least stay the night?" I asked.

    He nodded, "I owled my mum; she said that I can stay for awhile, but she lives all the way up in Ireland, and that's not exactly convenient for job-hunting. Better than nothing, I guess."

    "Well, there's something then. As for the job, maybe I can help you out there. One of my friends works at Florean's. She mentioned that they were looking to hire someone; I'll see if I can get you a job there. Nothing big, but something to get you off your feet."

    "Thank you...thank you so much. You've helped me in more ways then you know. It's good just to have someone who'll listen, without lecturing. I bet you get a lot of sob stories like me in here, don't you?" he said gratefully.

    "Actually, no. Most of the time I'm catering to people who try to pick me up, or I'm trying to make sure there aren't any drunken brawls. You're a breath of fresh air in the place." I said, smiling at him. "What's your name? I'd like to know who I should owl about the job."

    "It's Seamus...Seamus Finnegan. And whose shoulders have I been dumping my problems on tonight?"

    "Molly...Molly Garner."

    "Well, Molly, you've been my guardian angel tonight. Thank you so much. Can I make it up to you by taking you out to lunch sometime next week?"

    I smiled at him. "You must have the luck of the Irish, for you're the first guy I've met in this place that I've actually said yes to."

    "Good night, Molly." Seamus walked out the door and I picked up the abandoned glass. Guardian angel, huh? That's a new one. I thought to myself
    IB + Senior Year = Hiatus...again
    Kate...iPoem!...iWrite!...iBanner!...Dumbledore's Navy!
    Avvie and banner by me! Please request!

  7. #7
    Name: Rushia
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: Something for Everyone
    Warnings: none
    Words: 497

    Geoffrey slouched against the counter, eyeing in particular the teenagers who stood in his shop. Annoying little buggers, always thinking that they were clever enough to pull something over his eyes. But not once has any little brat managed to steal anything from his store. Ever since the Firebolt came out, those kids had been getting bolder. Little kids shouted or cried, parents and would-be Quidditch “experts” gossiped about its specs, and teenagers tried to steal things under the cover of the crowd.

    Geoffrey smiled to himself. Ah, and he never had to lift a finger to prevent it, either. Everything in Quality Quidditch Supplies from the Firebolt down to the polish had an Anti-Theft charm on it, and charms were his specialty. He had tweaked the incantation enough to give those brats a nasty little surprise when they tried to steal something from him. Not one of them could complain about it, though, because they had been trying to steal, and anyone with a wand and half a brain could see there was only one spell.

    He scratched his nose to hide a smirk, watching a boy about fourteen hastily put back an engraved Bludger bat. He looked just fine for now, but about the time he got home.... Geoffrey coughed behind his hand. Serves him right.

    “Excuse me,” said a pompous voice in front of him.

    He stood up immediately, snapping his attention to a man standing before the counter, one portly hand resting on his young son’s shoulder. Geoffrey was struck by the volume of this man’s well-groomed mustache. He self-consciously ran a hand over his neatly parted black hair. “Yes, sir, what can I help you with?”

    “Jonathan will be attending school soon and was looking for a broom well-suited to playing Keeper.” Said Jonathan, however, had only eyes for the Firebolt, though his father appeared to be studiously ignoring this.

    “Well, of course sir, the new Firebolt is well suited to all positions on the Quidditch pitch,” Geoffrey said, but switched tracks smoothly upon seeing the darkening face of his customer, “but I’ve always had a particular fondness for the Byakurai. Japanese model, you see, very slim and light, but extremely sturdy.” He stepped out from behind the counter, moving over to one of the displays holding a bamboo broom with elegant lavender Japanese characters painted along the handle. “It gets so little attention, being foreign-made, but its name means ‘White Lightning.’ And, of course, you must remember the traditions of the Japanese. Very concerned with quality, they are. Guaranteed to be an excellent broom, and promises to be very quick because of its lightness but bamboo is extremely tough, two qualities essential in a Keeper’s broom.”

    Jonathan was starting to pay attention, his father looked intrigued (so long as it wasn’t too expensive), and Geoffrey saw from the corner of his eye the boy from earlier slip out. His fake sales smile gained some real feeling. I love my job sometimes.

  8. #8
    Title:Flying high, flying low
    Warnings:None really. Just that, despite the beginning, I promise he isn't a Quidditch player.
    When I was twelve my mother gave me my first broomstick. I loved it with all my heart. Swooping high, high above the tree tops, until my incredulous muggle father and my anxious mother, who hadn’t thought that a broom might be such a dangerous present, were rapidly vanishing dots on the ground, and low clouds soaked me to the skin. I whooped with exhilaration, adrenaline rather than blood pumping through my veins.

    As I got older, I tried out for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team many times, but was eventually forced to admit to myself that I had neither the agility nor the space-awareness to play Quidditch. However, my love of flying stayed with me, and most Saturday mornings would find me skimming over the lake, trailing my broom tail in the water for the pure pleasure of seeing the foamy white trail curve behind me as I went.

    When I left Hogwarts I had no idea what I was going to do. My one love had been flying, and although I had scraped NEWTs in Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology, I had no desire to continue in any of these subjects. I spent three long years working as a waitress in The Three Broomsticks, but finally decided that I simply could not spend the rest of my life serving firewhiskey to old warlocks trying to look down my top.

    One Saturday I was absent-mindedly flicking through The Daily Prophet, when I discovered an advert for The Nimbus Broom Company. I almost laughed aloud at the perfection of it. For once in my life, Lady Luck was on my side. I got the job then and I’ve never looked back. I have been testing brooms for them for six years, and despite countless opportunities for promotion I have steadfastly stuck to testing. The pay may be low, and hours long, but I really love my job, and no many people can say that.

  9. #9
    Fifth Year Gryffindor
    I See Dead People... In Mirrors

    Join Date
    Aug 2006
    Name: kehribar
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Taking a chance
    Warnings: None
    Word counts: 381

    This time of the year had always been the most difficult to manage.

    By principle, Seers avoided looking into their own future. They wouldn’t be punished for doing so, but as Sybil Trelawney used to say, the burden of knowledge tended to become too heavy. Grace Anderson was a hundred per cent sure that she wouldn’t want to see her own death merely days before.

    But April 20th, her birthday, she could not avoid. This was her job: it had been three years that she had been preparing the Astrology column of the Daily Prophet, and the third time she was faced with the obstacle of writing her own future. Every day, aside from predictions and suggestions for each Horoscope, she posted a detailed paragraph for those whose birthday was then. Today she was supposed to do so for herself.

    And – Merlin – the previous year’s experience had been more than enough for Grace to try again. A little sideways glance at the crystal ball after carefully avoiding it all day had told her that a catastrophe was coming. Happy Birthday! You get a catastrophic mess as birthday gift, use it nicely! Surely enough, before midday, a particularly clumsy colleague had spilled tea all over her, she had realized having forgotten her wand at the pocket of her other set of robes, she had found out having been kicked out of her apartment for not paying the rent, and the next day owls had invaded her desk, carrying dozens of angry letters from readers. Dear readers, please note that I don’t make these things happen. If this is going to make you feel better, I also have had a terribly day.

    Grace sighed heavily and glared at the crystal ball which she had covered with a piece of cloth. It had been a bad week, and she didn’t want to see the news of another horrible birthday in the ball. She sat up and reached for a quill, her lips curling upwards.

    Sometimes it’s your point of view that makes things good or bad. Whatever happens today, try to see the bright side and make a laugh out of it. This way, I hope that you will have a great day with many wonderful things happening, with family, friends and gifts. Happy birthday!
    The Run of the Mill

    The phenomenal banner is by MissBean

  10. #10
    Name: Enneirda/AJ
    House: Hufflepuff
    Title: A Single Portrait
    Warnings: A bit language
    Words: 488

    It had been a couple of hours since I had been contacted. I stood near the dying fireplace, already shivering with cold, a coat over my pajamas. I gazed around my studio: My unfinished pieces stared back at me, inanimately. I hadn't placed the spell on them yet. I had been told to wait that night, and silently thought of just going back to my extremely warm bed.

    I lit another cigarette and sat down on the cluttered floor. Being an artist wasn't easy, as a lot of people think. First was the notification of the deceased. Then I needed to paint. Last week had been a famous Quidditch player in Russia - I had forgotten the name - and that night I was told it was extremely important. What was so important that I needed to stay up, half-past one, shivering in the dying light? Bloody Hell, I hated late-night painting.

    Without warning, the fireplace spat out a tall, thin man. "Well, good morning, Michael," I greeted, putting out my cigarette. He looked more ragged than usual, dark circles forming under his eyes from lack of sleep. He dusted himself off and nodded his greeting. "Who is it today?" I asked tiredly, rubbing my own eyes. He sighed and handed me a folded piece of paper.

    "He was commissioned a while ago, but they have asked for a better one, since he died," he explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

    "Better one?" I repeated angrily. "Better? Haven't I always given my best? Besides - if people didn't keep waking me up in the middle of the night - "

    He held up a hand to silence me, and I involuntarily obeyed from force of habit. “Look, Emily, this man was important; an idol to most. They want a dignified portrait – by tomorrow."

    "They can kiss my arse," I muttered under my breath and shoved the folded paper into my pajama pocket. I grabbed another cigarette from a carton and lit it.

    “They’re paying double, you know,” he said tipping his hat and exiting through the fireplace once more. For a moment I stared after him, my brow furrowed. I was usually allowed to paint for a few days before actually sending the finished portrait to them. Why would they need it now? And why would they be paying double? Curiously, I took out the note and unraveled it. My cigarette dropped from my mouth and landed on the floor.

    "Is this a joke?" I said quietly, staring at the two words scrawled elegantly on the parchment. "Is this a joke?" I repeated, this time I knew the answer. Realizing a small fire had started at my feet, I stomped on the loose pages, but I still was confused. Looking back at the note, I crumpled it in my hand, unsure what to do - what to paint.

    There was no possible way Albus Dumbledore was dead.

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