Page 1 of 3 123 LastLast
Results 1 to 10 of 23

Thread: Weekly Drabble Challenge: Scrapbook - Results

  1. #1
    MithrilQuill
    Guest

    Weekly Drabble Challenge: Scrapbook - Results

    I actually forgot to put one up this weekend!

    Well, anyway, here's your drabble challenge for this week:


    Scrapbook


    Have fun and don't forget to use the following form:


    Name:
    House:
    Title:
    Warnings:
    Words:


    Winners will be awarded 15, 10 and 5 points respectively as usual.

  2. #2
    Hokey
    Guest
    Name: Hokey
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Bliss and Melancholy
    Warnings: Character death
    Words: 439

    Dust flew into her face and eyes as she opened the old cardboard box, and she started coughing hoarsely. Wiping her eyes she peered into the carton, carefully lowering one wrinkled hand to take out the contents.
    Her eyes first fell on a medium-sized, dark red, leather-bound book. She blew the dust off its cover, and stroking with her hand along the spine she read, ‘Property of Hermione Jane Granger’.
    She opened the book and her smile widened. The memories starting coming back to her as she looked at the pictures of her eleven-year-old self, at home with her parents, with a wooden wand in her hand. It had been taken just before she was to go to the Hogwarts Express for the first time in her life. Her eyes watered slightly when she came to the oldest pictures she had of her two very best friends – Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Some of them were muggle pictures, whilst others were magical and had people waving and smiling at her.
    Memories, both happy and sad, flooded through her mind in the same pace as she flipped the pages of the book. A picture of her and Ron in their seventh year, kissing, another one with Harry and Ginny. One with all three of them – she, Harry and Ron – on graduation day, wearing dark hats and capes and proudly holding up their diplomas.
    The tears in her eyes had long since overflown when she gave a gasp from the pain inside her. She stroked the picture of a light brown casket, gleaming in the sunlight of the cemetery, in which lay the only man she had ever truly loved. Hiccoughing, she forced herself to turn the page, and her crying was mixed with laughter when she saw Harry and Ginny’s wedding picture. They were waving enthusiastically at her, but their smiles had nearly faded and concern was written in their darkened eyes.
    A tear splashed down on the first picture of her godson, Sirius Potter, who lay laughing happily in his cradle. She stretched out her stiff fingers in an attempt to feel his soft skin, but the tears in her eyes were making her vision swim and blur. She whimpered weakly, and in an act of frustration she forcefully closed shut the book and wiped her eyes angrily with the back of her aged hand.
    Slowly she returned her gaze to the cover of the old, tattered book. She touched the reddish leather, remembering when she had first started collecting all these pictures. With one final sniff, she bent down and put the book back in the cardboard box.

  3. #3
    Zara Ravenwood
    Guest

    House of Twigs

    Author: Zara ravenwood
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: House of twigs
    Word count: 482?

    Dedication: To all of us who have lost our dear friends due to our human frailty, and all our dear friends who have lost us due to theirs.

    A.N: Incase it is not clear, each picture was drawn some time immediately after the event it shows, the closest thing I could get to a scrap book for a founder.
    Thank you Babekitty_92 for bateing
    ****
    Godric walked stiffly through the corridors to his own chambers, his joints stiff with the strain and stress of a life time of conflict, creaked with tones that belonged to a much older man.

    Grunting in pain, he summoned the leather-bound scetch book out from its place on the shelf. Always a glutton for self flagellation, he began his nightly ritual, as he had every night for the last six months.

    The first page of the book held two running children, long before such words as “honour” and “ambition” entered their vocabulary. Penniless waifs, one trying to out run the baker with a tray of sweets while the other attempted to slip into his shop and run off a whole basket of long bread.

    Trapped for ever as Salazar had drawn them with his journal hand, it left out the next scene, though the scares on Godric’s back still bore witness to those events.

    Flipping several dozen pages, Godric found the scene he was looking for; painted in an older and more refined hand, four fingers dressed in fine robes were breaking a sweat, trying to keep their magically sculpted castle from tending into the lake below. The lot of them doubled over with laughter at the absurdity of the very thought that they, of all wizards, might be over come by something as primitive as as sandy foundation. The caption under it read in Godric's own heavy hand “The first attempt”.

    'I told you we needed a plan Godric.'
    'And I told YOU that we needed to consult a builder before trying this.'
    'That was Helga.'
    'Well why didn't you listen to her, then?'

    Sighing, Godric flipped back to a much earlier drawing two very young vagrants building mansions of twigs.

    'When we're men, I’ll have the greatest hall ever built.'
    'Mine will be made of gold.'
    'Mine, of emeralds.'
    '...and we’ll have big parities.'
    '...feasts.'
    '...feasts with loads of food!'
    '...and gold!'
    '...and we'll share all of it with each other.'
    '...and never be divided.'
    'Never.'

    How quickly words of gold fell to dust at their feet. Thirty five years of friendship, gone in a blink of an eye. He had meant those words when he spoke them. Had Salazar ever? It would ease his mind to know that he did not. It would ease his heart to know Serpent Tongue had been traitorious from the start.

    But that would be a lie. He had met them, and so had Salazar. The other man’s betrayal of faith was no worse then his own.

    Godric looked at the walls of the great castle of Hogwarts. “It's all a house of twigs, isn't it? One great wind, and it all comes tumbling down.”

  4. #4
    babekitty_92
    Guest
    Name: babekitty_92
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Dying from a broken heart
    Warnings:Character death (only slightly)
    Words:495 - I did have 563 but I deleted it even though I really didn't want to but if I am allowed, can I edit it back in?

    She looked at the book, her eyes stinging with grief. One day ago, one day that she could have saved them. They were gone, both of them, her best friends in the world. She didn’t want to face it; it wasn’t right. They were hiding, they just had to be…



    “Stand still you two and stop snogging! I want at least one good picture!” She laughed, her best friend laughing in between kissing her boyfriend. If she told her best friend eleven months ago that she would be in love with her ‘enemy’, the latter would have called her a crazy fool.

    “But I love her too much and if I do stop, she’ll run! I know her!” the boy joked and his girl giggled, poking him in the ribs.

    “Come on, seriously! Say cheese!”

    “Cheese!” the couple grinned.




    “Why did you have to go, Boofie? Why?” She whispered as she turned the page, revealing two young girls in pyjamas, one with hair in all directions. She looked the most tired of the pair.

    Her tears starting to leak from her eyes and onto the layered page of paper and pictures. She had called her best friend Boofie since first year because of her hair. That beautiful hair…



    “Oh my god! You look a mess, just look at your hair!” She laughed at her newly found best friend. The friend glared at the girl.

    “Hardy ha ha, smarty, at least I don’t look like I haven’t slept for three years.”

    “Well my hair isn’t as Boofy as yours! Ha! I’m so calling you that from now on! Boofie! Boofie!” She yelled, jumping onto her best friend’s bed with glee.

    “I hate you now, I hope you know that.”




    She turned the page again to see a photo that had only been taken fifteen months ago. When Boofie and her husband had their newly born baby. He was so cute, just like his daddy, eyes like his mummy…



    “Oh my god, Boofie! He’s so cute! I’m so proud of you, Hun!” She squeaked quietly, looking at the blue bundle in Boofie’s arms. Her husband was at her left, along with his best friend and soon-to-be-godfather of the baby.

    “Well, excuse me, but of course he’s handsome, just like his daddy!” The husband said cockily and they all laughed quietly, taking in the site of the pink little face.




    She just stared at her scrapbook. The last page had a piece of parchment with two hand prints, made only weeks ago by the little boy. Right before Boofie took him and her husband into hiding. Before they… they…

    “Oh god, why? WHY?” She yelled at the ceiling, breaking down in tears. Lily had been murdered. James too. But Lily, her one true friend.

    “I hate you, Voldemort! I HATE YOU!!” She screamed, clutching her heart, overcome with grief as she fell the floor, the scrapbook at her side as she cried, dying of a broken heart.

    Edit: Here is another story that's a little more happier.

    Name: babekitty_92
    House: Slytherin
    Title: That’s what scrapbooks are for
    Warnings: Slight fluff
    Words:483

    “Oh, James! You were so cute! Look at that fuzz, just like it is today,” Lily laughed, ruffling her husband’s hair as she looked through the scrapbook Mrs Potter had brought along to the couple’s new flat.

    “Fuzz! You call that fuzz! It’s hair, not fuzz, you, my dear, have fuzz,” he replied, his eyes lighting up with cheek. Mr and Mrs Potter were talking to Mr Evans until Mrs Evans found Lily’s scrapbook from the boxes she brought over of Lily’s baby things.

    “Oh really? That’s not my fault and if you hate it that much then I’m not talking to you,” She said, pretending to be upset as she poked him on the chest and snubbed her nose in the air, turning to face the opposite way. He tried poking her to look at him, but she refused, so he sighed and whispered in her ear, “You know, I don’t care about the fuzz, only about you.”

    “Yeah, yeah, liar, liar,” She said, turning to face him again with a smirk, her eyebrows raised in that ‘I-know-what-you-really-mean’ look. She traced his mouth with her index finger and pecked him lightly on the cheek before getting up and asking if anyone wanted a cup of tea.

    As she went into the kitchen, James sat there looking through the scrapbook. There he was on page 10, aged five on his first broomstick that flew more than thirty centimetres high. He was so proud of himself that day, even if his did fall off and get a big lump on his head.

    And that time at the park! With his Aunty Gem and cousin Jacquie! That’s right, they went on the swings with the other kids and tried to go higher than the other. And there was Sirius as well on the slide, poking his tongue out at his mother in defiance who was yelling at him to “Get down this instant or your backside will be too tender to sit on for the rest of the week!” Sirius even hated her then.

    He closed the book as he heard Mrs Evans coming down the stairs with Lily’s scrapbook. It had white and pink lace around the edging of the cover and a black and white photo of a small little baby with an intricately knitted silk-thread bonnet on her head.

    “Oh, look at the little thing, reminds me of that fuzz-ball I married,” James teased and Lily snorted at him.

    “At least I’m not trying to copy the dog by drinking out of the toilet bowl,” Lily retorted back and he was horrified.

    “You put that photo in there, mum!” He cried, his face red in embarrassment.

    “Jaime, that’s what scrapbooks are for; those funny little pictures.”

    “Our baby is NOT having those sorts of photos, Hun.” The parent’s mouths all fell as Lily and James smirked, their hands interlaced on her belly.

  5. #5
    Onbegrepen
    Guest
    Name: Onbegrepen
    House: Hufflepuff
    Title: An Unfamiliar Feeling
    Warnings: None
    Words: 499

    An unfamiliar feeling settled in Harry’s stomach as his eyes darted around the room. The walls were yellowing and the wallpaper was peeling, and a musky smell filled his nostrils. Harry stepped through the doorway into what used to be his parents bedroom.

    He walked over and run one hand over the bed covers that were littered with holes, the bed was still neatly made but the covers were dirty and aged. Harry briefly wondered which side his mother slept on before the thought was banished from his mind as he noticed the large desk by the window.

    Approaching it he noticed a small glint of gold amongst a messy pile of papers. He dug his hand in and to his surprise he pulled out a tiny golden snitch. That unfamiliar feeling hit him again but he brushed it aside as he fingered the ball. With a sigh he pocketed it.

    Harry pulled out the chair by the desk and slid on to it. He found himself looking at a, dusty, leather bound book. On the front was the words ‘Our family Scrapbook’. Harry flipped open the cover and looked at the first page. He studied the picture that had been hastily stuck in, that horrible unfamiliar feeling stabbed him again.

    The picture showed his father, he was sitting sideways on a broom one hand raised in the air waving and a cocky grin plastered on his face. Underneath was scrawled…

    ‘This is me, James, I’m flying in this picture, one handed! One day there will be a picture of my son Harry here, he’s going to be a great flyer just like his daddy.’

    “Well your were right about that dad” Harry whispered. That unfamiliar feeling inside him was growing stronger. Harry turned the page and peered at the next picture. It was a picture of Lilly bending down in the garden that was once a forest of flowers. The picture turned to look at Harry and waved before going back to her weeding. In a neat curly script she had written underneath…

    ‘James playing around with that muggle camera he’s bewitched again, my roses are flourishing wonderfully in this picture.’

    James had added underneath…

    ‘My Lilly is flourishing wonderfully in this picture too.’

    Harry felt a few small tears roll down his face, he hastily tried to wipe them away with the back of his hand, but it was a futile attempt. The tears started to fall faster and this strange new feeling was bubbling close to the surface.

    Harry turned to the front cover and noticed a note.

    To Harry,
    This is for when you go to Hogwarts.
    To remind you of your family at home

    Harry let his head fall onto the desk and sobs wracked his body. He realised that the unfamiliar feeling was grief, grief for his parents. He had never had the chance to grieve before, but now sitting in their room Harry grieved for his parents for the very first time.

  6. #6
    Ron x Hermione
    Guest
    Name: Ron x Hermione
    House: Hufflepuff
    Title: Faded Memories
    Warnings: Character Death
    Words: 472

    A silent tear ran down Hermione Granger’s face as she looked at the small, faded with age book in her hands.

    A scrapbook.

    It was filled to the brim with pictures, all waving excitedly back at Hermione as tears flowed down her cheeks.

    Hermione closed her eyes tightly, trying to block her mind of those horrid events that had happened not that long ago…

    Bellatrix Lestrange leapt to her feet, pointing her wand at Hermione.

    “AVADA KEDAVRA!” she screamed, an evil grin coming upon her face as the curse left her wand. It was headed right for Hermione.

    “NO!” Ron yelled, running to Hermione’s aid.

    Hermione’s screams never left her throat as she realized what Ron was doing. It all happened so fast: The curse hit Ron squarely in the chest, killing him.

    Ron had sacrificed himself for her.


    Of course he had. It was just in Ron’s character to do something like that. Not to mention the fact that they were married. Ron and Hermione had married a few years out of Hogwarts, the Final Battle taking place soon after.

    Hermione had gone into a severe state of depression, ultimately making her lose a few friends because of it. She had just wanted to be left alone.

    Harry had been killed as well.

    Voldemort had been the murderer. He had done so many times before; taking Sirius, Harry’s parents, and even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley not so long ago. He had sliced through their lives like a hot knife, breaking hearts among other problems that had arisen recently.

    Voldemort was still alive, and out there. Hermione had pulled out the scrapbook from the musty attic because she wasn’t sure if she was even going to survive the night. She wanted to see her friends for the last time. No one was sure of much anymore, anyway.

    She flipped through the small book, memories floating in and out of her brain…smiles and tears coming to her face at the brief moments in time when she had purely and truly been happy.

    Ron waved up at her from the picture, holding a past Hermione around the waist, then kissing her passionately. It appeared that Harry had taken the picture.

    Ginny and Harry both filled the next page, they too expressing their love for one another with a kiss. Leaves swirled around Ginny’s fiery hair as Harry held onto her tight, their love unconditional.

    Hermione may not have been sure of many things anymore, but she was sure of one.

    She had lived, and she had loved deeply. Her friends may have been gone at that moment in time, but she would soon join them. She knew it.

    She was right. After she had closed the book, dust getting in her eyes as she sneezed, a familiar man walked into the room.

    "Avada Kedavra!
    I'm not really that sure of what I think about it. Ah, well. I hope you all like it. Glad to have participated!

    ~Lindsey

  7. #7
    Sly Severus
    Guest
    Name: Sly Severus
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Black Memories
    Warnings: None
    Words: 405


    The small leather bond book had been in her possession many times since childhood. She had always scoffed at it, much as her father had done. Unable to understand why her mother would want it, she had never looked at it. To her, it was just a book filled with pictures of people who didn’t deserve to be remembered.

    But she was older now and a lot had happened. It had been years since she held the book and for the first time she felt willing to look through its pages, after all these memories had meant a great deal to her mother.

    Tonks pulled open the cover and stared at the first picture. She saw her mother; as a child, her long blonde locks glistened in the sunlight as she swung around in a circle with her two sisters. Her Aunt Bellatrix was an attractive child, her dark hair falling around her in massive curls, caught in the wind. Her Aunt Narcissa was hardly old enough to be walking, but it was clear that her sisters were willing to insure her safety.

    For the first time, Tonks realized why this book held such meaning for her mother. She looked happy and innocent. They all looked happy and innocent. This book was her mother’s way of holding onto the past. It was her way of remembering a time when she and her sister’s were close, a time when they were naïve and carefree.

    She continued to flip through the pages and tears began to sting her eyes. As she watched her mother and aunts grow up, she also watched them grow apart. They smiled less frequently and stood further away from each other. Looking at the pictures it was somehow obvious that they continued to love each other, but they were being pulled apart.

    After hours of agonizing over the photos, she closed the book. She wondered how much different life would have been if the three women had remained as close as three children in the first photograph. She wondered if their bond could have saved them. Maybe if they had stayed together they would still be alive.

    She reminded herself that it didn’t matter. Nothing could be done. The Blacks were dead—all of them. She was the last survivor of the bloodline and as such, she was the new guardian of the book that had meant so much to her dear mother.

  8. #8
    Sixth Year Slytherin
    Snape's Not Evil?

    Join Date
    May 2006
    Location
    North Yorkshire
    Posts
    394
    Name: Magical Maeve
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: Empty Vessels.
    Warnings: None.
    Words: 499

    The book was usually buried in a drawer. He had struggled to find one that he did not regularly open, but he eventually settled on the drawer in which he stored his dress robes. The scratched leather cover had settled itself nicely between folds of thick and expensive silk. The dress robes had been an indulgence, paid for with part of his ample, and often unspent, salary. He rarely wore them, and when he did he felt a vague sense of guilt over something - perhaps it was the feeling of happiness wearing such a fine garment provoked in him. Today, however, he had occasion to open the drawer and pull the robes from their confinement. There was to be a Yule Ball, of all things, and a Triwizard Cup resurgence. He had snorted and disagreed his way through the meeting that had decided the event, but as was so often the case, his objections had been entirely overlooked. It was a difficult enough task protecting the Potter boy without the added complications of so many strangers around the school.

    The removal of the robes left the yawning drawer empty save for the green book. He placed the robes fastidiously on his bed and allowed his fingers to touch the edge of the leather. Every instinct he had told him to leave it be and walk away, but something about the melancholic colour made his hand close around it and he lifted it from its solitude.

    He had been in possession of it for twenty-five years; a going away present from his mother. She had been so proud of him in his uniform, the pride swelling and bursting from her as she saw him onto the Hogwarts Express.

    "You'll do so well at that school, Severus," she had said, with such determination he had believed it for a short while. "Here's something for you to record everything in. You can keep it filled and look back in later years. I wish I had done the same thing."

    The colour had been brighter and the leather less scuffed on that bright day in September when he had gone of to school with the whole world waiting for him. Record everything, she had said. There had been so much; so many events and incidents that he could have filled the book a hundred times over. There had been the occasional triumph and many, many disasters, but he had treated them all with the same dispassionate sneer.

    He couldn't help parting the covers to reveal the yellowing parchment within. All those events and clippings and photographs and memories. His eyes looked down at the pages, taking in their emptiness.

    Severus had kept nothing but his memories, and they resided in his own head, safe from prying eyes. His mother head meant well. She could never have known what his schooldays would contain. Emotionless, he dropped the empty book back into the drawer and closed it. It did not do to dwell.
    Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.

    Alexander Pope

  9. #9
    Biscuits
    Guest
    Name: Biscuits
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Why was he still here?
    Warnings: Character Death, but before the drabble starts
    Words: 425

    He didn’t feel he should really be looking at this. It was Sirius’, not his. And could he, so soon after his death? Would it just bring back memories, overwhelm him with memories he didn’t think he could cope with?

    His hands acted independently of his brain, opening the scrapbook before he could argue against himself. There, on the first page, was confirmation he shouldn’t be looking. Sirius’ name inscribed onto the title page. Not his name, Sirius’. Despite this, the page turned almost without his hands moving them.

    There he was, happy, before all of this had begun. A photograph taken in their fifth year, all four of the Marauders grinning happily at the camera, oblivious of the problems they would face. James had no idea he would be murdered by Lord Voldemort trying to save his wife and baby son. Peter had no idea he would betray him, and Sirius had no idea that he would spend the best years of his life imprisoned, only to escape and be imprisoned again.

    And Remus. He knew he would have problems, even then, but only once a month. He didn’t ever think he would be left alone. How could such a happy photograph make somebody so sad?

    Remus withheld his emotions, pushing them back into the back of his brain as he flicked through the scrapbook. So many happy pictures, notes written in lessons, random drawings done instead of homework essays. That time was gone, to be replaced by emptiness where his friends had been, and an empty house where the comforting walls of Hogwarts had been.

    Still fighting his emotions, he carried on reading the book, until the very last page. A single sentence in Sirius’ hand filled the page, ‘Why am I still here?’ Why was he still here?

    He’d hated this house since he had known what it stood for. And yet he’d spent the last year of his life here. Remus knew he’d hated it, but never bothered to talk to him about it. Why had he not said anything? He could have helped Sirius! Sirius might not be dead now if he had!

    And now Sirius had a full pardon from the Minister too. He could have been free… free to get out of this house…

    A single tear fell onto the parchment of the final page, just before Remus closed the book. He had seen all he could cope with, and more. He would never be able to see Sirius again, except in these photographs. His best friend, gone.

  10. #10
    Fifth Year Gryffindor
    I See Dead People... In Mirrors

    Join Date
    Aug 2006
    Posts
    235
    Name: kehribar
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Save Me from the Grey
    Words: 496

    Silence.

    Dusty and airless silence, filled with the intriguing smell of past years. The crowd of memories; a calm, peaceful, but nevertheless sad crowd.

    The only visitor of the attic was the sun. The loyal, faithful sun; passing by the small, triangular windowpanes every single day, touching its light to the faded colours of old pictures, trying to liven up the grey that slowly, but surely swarmed on the old sparks of life that once coloured several people’s lives.

    But it was no avail.

    The memories in the attic were dying. They’ve been buried alive under the dust.

    But today, something happened. Something that hadn’t happened in years.

    A click tingled in the room. A faint, almost inaudible click; but it spread through every single particle of dust. The pictures held their breaths. The click became louder. A key was put in to the lock… and it turned… the rusty old padlock clanged… and then came the long-waited creaking of the hatch.

    The first real movement in the attic in years. The trap-door straightened, pushed by a shoulder from below. It made a muffled, huffing sound; the dust that covered the wooden floor splashed in the air with soundless joy. A head rose from within the opened trap-door – a head with thick, curly black hair with a few strands of grey on the sides. The first real colours in the attic in years.

    A man made its way through the dusty place. Heavy breathing filled the stiffened air; a few coughs shook the shoulders and sparked more of the dust. The wooden floor moaned under the feet. Every single picture in the attic kept its stare on the man; silent, begging, insistent. The man stood still and uncomfortably surveyed the memories.

    With two wide steps, he crossed the room, reaching a huge, wooden trunk. On the top of it stood an opened scrapbook, covered with the grey dust like everything else it kept company. The man held the scrapbook; raised it close to his face, and filling his lungs with the old air, he blew on the page. The dust sprayed up and glided down to perch on the floor. From under the thinned grey layer, faint traces of colours and shapes appeared. The man stood still; his eyes hard on the scrapbook, a frown creasing his forehead. And then, with a harsh movement, he wiped the remaining dust off the page with one hand. The sketch of a woman came in sight. A confused, unbelieving look on her rough face, she gingerly stood up from the corner of the page, and looked at the man with widened eyes. A smile made its way up to her face; timidly, she held up a hand, and waved.

    The man smiled back. With the scrapbook in his hand, he turned and passed the attic in two steps. Climbing down the hatch, he pulled the trap door, and once again, condemned the memories to the remorseless dust and loneliness.
    The Run of the Mill

    The phenomenal banner is by MissBean

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •