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Thread: Weekly Drabble Challenge: Scrapbook - Results

  1. #11
    Slytherin Mom Slytherin
    Crouch attacked Krum!
    NikkiSue's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2006
    In a state of confusion.
    Name: NikkiSue
    House: Slytherin
    Title: While You Were Sleeping
    Warnings: none
    Words: 499 (I edited out 40+... that hurt.)

    Harry sat at the kitchen table of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with a large book in front of him. The pages were empty for now but he was thinking of ways that he could fill them with memories.

    Discouraged at his own lack of creativity, Harry arose from the table and walked upstairs for some quiet time.

    Walking up the stairs, Harry passed Ginny. She smiled at him.

    “Hey Harry, Where are you off to?”

    Now torn between joining his girlfriend wherever she was going and allowing himself some time alone, he opted for the latter.

    “Oh, hi Ginny. I was just on my way to my room for a nap. I was working on something in the kitchen and it wasn’t coming together as I had hoped so I thought I would sleep it off for a bit.”

    Nodding, Ginny said, “Oh, okay. Have you seen Ron or Hermione?”

    Harry pointed down the stairs and she seemed to understand his implication. “Ah, still in the library. Alright. I’ll see you later, then.” She kissed his cheek and walked downstairs while Harry made his way to the closest bed he could find.

    Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ginny almost ran into her best friend.

    “Whoa, hi Hermione,” she said as they avoided collision. The brunette girl laughed in embarrassment and Ginny soon saw why her friend was distracted.

    Ron had Hermione’s hand in his and he seemed to be in absolute bliss. Ginny smiled at her brother. “What are you two up to?”

    Hermione pointed to the book on the table. “Harry’s scrapbook. It doesn’t look like he has gotten far. I just suggested to Ronald that we should help him get started.”

    Ginny suddenly grabbed her coat. I’ll be right back.” She walked to the fireplace and called out, “Diagon Alley!” disappearing behind the green flames.

    Ron grabbed a sheet of parchment and drew a small picture, placing it on the scrapbook page. Hermione laughed when she saw what he drew. “You’re father’s flying car! That’s the spirit Ron.”

    They spent the next half hour adhering photos or small trinkets to the pages and soon saw Ginny reappear with a satisfied smile.

    “What did you do, Ginny?” Ron looked concerned. He knew she had a mischevious streak like the twins.

    As if they were summoned, Fred and George arrived. “We have something to add to the book,” George said with an excited tone.

    It took about an hour to finish the scrapbook and Ron, Hermione and Ginny were sitting at the table when Harry came to the kitchen for a drink.

    “What’s going on?” He looked nervous as Ginny handed him his scrapbook.

    “Ugh, thanks for reminding me why I left in the first place.”

    His girlfriend prodded him to open it and he smiled at the first page. A picture of them take the day before. He tried to comment but was interrupted by an enchanted firework show coming from the book.

    “Thanks guys,” he smiled.
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  2. #12
    Third Year Gryffindor
    Searching for Neville's Toad
    ProfPosky's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2006
    On a very large Island
    Name: ProfPosky
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: A Bit to Bring Along
    Number of words: 471

    Plain old Muggle paste. It’ll do the trick. Always does. I’ll jes’put a dab ‘ere an’ there. Start with the one from McGonagall.

    Minerva McGonagall had been at James Potter’s first party. James was tiny in the photo, and sleeping. Well, they don’ do much at that age. Not predators. Now, prey, yer larger prey, they can walk straight off, but predators, they have to be taken care of a bit. Too helpless to go killin’ their own food that young. Wizard’s ain’ no different, really.

    The paste brush was tiny, the photos were tiny, they were like large postage stamps in his huge, agile hands, and he was gentle with them: one of the four kids, when they called themselves Marauders, one of Lily and her two friends, the girls whose names no one could ever remember - the girls who were killed before Lily.

    ’E probably thought they knew where Lily was, but they didn’. None of us did. Not to ‘urt her, not ter save ‘er. A single, large tear fell on the page, and he blotted it up with his elbow. He smeared a bit more paste on the back of the picture and used it to hide the spot. No one had been immune to Lily’s charm. He must’ve killed ‘er quick, like. If he’d known ‘er ten minutes he never coulda done it.

    He pulled out his handkerchief. He needed this done.

    No idea why Dumbledore won’ let him stay. I told him I’d keep him right ‘ere an look after ‘im. Wouldn’t be no trouble. Not after meetin’ them Dursleys. I can’ bear to send ‘im back alone.

    Long into the night he slapped paste on photos he’d begged from Moody, from Lupin, from the professors, and one he’d taken from the trophy room when Filch wasn’t looking. I’ll jes’ put names, an’ dates. Don’ have nothin’ else, really. ‘E won’ want the Daily Prophet stories, not jes’ yet. Jes’ – names, an’ dates, is all. Carefully, he trimmed a jagged edge with a huge pair of tin snips.

    I’ll jes’ say they’re from his parent’s friends. He’ll meet them by and by. Dumbledore’ll have had his reasons. Still, I ‘ate sendin ‘im back without magic.

    He looked down at the page, seeing again the tear he had covered with a picture. There’s always that.

    A unicorn hair, a hippogryf feather, a bit of claw he’d trimmed off Fluffy, his three headed dog , even a drop of his own blood, he added to the scrapbook. Easy enough to paste the pictures over them. He won’t know they’re there. I will though. I will.

    Long past midnight, finished, he slipped the book into one of the multitude of pockets on his coat, ready for the trip to the train station in the morning.

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  3. #13
    Name: Marley
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Montage
    Warnings: None
    Words: 498

    He had received it for his seventeenth birthday, a present in a plain brown box with a note that read simply: “For Neville, with love”. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, which ruled out Gran as the unknown benefactor. It was an old book, older than Neville himself, and although the cover was faded it was easily recognizable for what it was.

    A scrapbook.

    Neville had not yet opened it. For some reason, he was afraid of what he might find, or not find, within the yellowed pages. One night however, he found that his curiosity overwhelmed his fear. He glanced quickly around the room, and then, with a deep breath, Neville picked up the scrapbook.

    The book was heavier than it looked, as though weighed down by the memories it held. Neville reverently opened the cover and glanced the first page. It was blank. The yellowed parchment was crinkly but thick in his quivering hands, and Neville had to pause a moment to steady himself before he continued.

    There they were. His parents grinned up at him, their arms around each other, smiling happily at him from the past. Before the curse, before St. Mungo's, before their sanity had been snatched. Their eyes were different, more alive than they were now, and Neville felt a stab of loss and hatred.

    Why? Why had it been loving, kind Alice and Frank Longbottom who had been mercilessly tortured to insanity? Why his parents? Why him?

    These questions had tormented him for as long as he could remember, but the answers eluded him. Neville attempted to push such thoughts away as he gently turned the aged pages.

    There they were in their school days, dressed in the familiar Hogwarts robes and encircled by friends. There they were surrounded by a crowd of people that included Albus Dumbledore and a man who looked remarkably similar to Harry Potter as well as some others he didn’t recognize. There was Alice, showing off her wand, there was Frank with his mother, Neville’s Gran, and there…

    There was an old black-and-white photograph that had faded slightly over the years. Tears fogged his eyes as he stared at his parents, who for once did not look back as they did in the other pictures. Instead, their attention was focused on a bundle in Frank’s arms. They gazed lovingly at the baby, and Neville watched as the tiny version of himself stretched its arms and yawned while his parents smiled.

    Neville hurriedly turned the page, scrubbing angrily at the tears that insisted on leaking out of his eyes. He allowed himself to become immersed in his parents’ world, staring at photograph after photograph until he finally reached the last page.

    He stared, dumbfounded, at the scrapbook. Someone had messily pasted in a dozen bubblegum wrappers in a frenzied collage of unbearably bright colours.

    This time, as the tears blurred the words “Drooble’s Best-Blowing Gum” from his vision, he allowed them to trickle silently down his face.

  4. #14
    Name: tc015
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Photograph
    Warnings: Mentions of Character Death
    Words: 499

    I was extremely bored that day. Snape had been missing from Spinner’s End ever since he had murdered Dumbledore, and it looked I wasn’t getting out soon. I was looking through the few possessions I had managed to retrieve. I found something at the bottom of my small orange bag that made me jaw drop.

    It was an old book filled with pictures. I was so surprised to see it; it had been years since I looked at the old thing. I opened up the book to a random page and laughed at what I saw.

    It was taken during Lily and James’s wedding. It was of all of us, who were all smiling brightly and patting James on the back. We told James about how now he would have to give up his mischief making for his dear wife. James replied that he would just tell his kids to do it. I laughed for the first time in months. Just looking at that picture brought back memories of all my good times spent with my friends. I turned the page, and the next picture made my smile disappear.

    It was from when I was around twenty. It was from my mum’s wedding. She was smiling brightly at her husband, my stepfather Neil Roberts. I was standing on Neil’s side as his best man. I was faking a joyful smile, pretending I was actually happy about it. It was a year after my dad died, and she had already gotten married. It bothered me that he was a pureblood. My dad was a Muggle. It felt so weird that my mum had been so quick to forget her Muggle husband for some pureblood wizard. My blood boiled as I turned to the last page of my album.

    It was my favorite picture. It was of my dad and me, in front of Kings Cross Station. I was twelve, and beginning my second year at Hogwarts. We were both beaming. Dad loved magic. He loved to see me do magic. It made him smile. It was the last picture I had of him. Shortly after that day, Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was long six years of battling the cancer.

    It was the worst thing for me, losing my dad. I can remember crying all night long, praying that somehow my dad could come back. I could never imagine inflicting that on a person. It was the worst punishment in the world.

    Then it hit me. I did inflict that fate on a person, on Harry. I gave the Dark Lord the location of the Potters. I led him to the Potter’s house. I let him kill Lily and James. I allowed Harry to be an orphan, to live with horrid Muggles.

    Tears were spilling from my eyes. I had felt never guilty about betraying the Potters until now. I had to make it up to Harry. I hurridly left Spinner’s End, knowing what I had to do.

  5. #15
    Madame Marauder
    Name: Madame Marauder
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Pictures Last Forver
    Warnings: Character Deaths
    Words: 499

    Molly Weasley looked at the sea of scrapbooks around her. There were seven, in all, one for each child she’d given birth to. Each time she’d found out she was pregnant; Molly would begin a book for the baby. First, baby pictures and memorabilia would go in. Then, childhood snapshots, school photographs. Every major event in her children’s lives was recorded, saved for years to come.

    The thickest one was Bill’s scrapbook. It was blue, with his name in gold typography emblazoned on the front. She had rifled through the pages. He was always such a handsome boy. The war had robbed him of that. Now scarred from Greyback’s attack, Bill was disfigured by the cursed wounds.

    The next volume was Charlie’s. A green leather book; dragon hide, how fitting. His name was written in bold, black letters. Molly had fondly looked at it. Like the letters, Charlie had always been a bold, daring child. Indeed, after Hogwarts he had gone to Romania chasing dragons, grinning, the entire time. That grin was always present, a flash of pearly white among the sea of freckles. The war had robbed him of that. Charlie rarely smiled now, rather twisting his mouth grimly. He had lost his spark.

    The third volume was Percy’s. It was a deep shade of plum; the writing was a clashing tint of silver. Yet, unlike the others, Molly refused to open this one. He was always a studious, serious boy, with strong beliefs. Even as a child, he would sniff at his younger siblings actions and straighten his glasses. The war had not robbed him of that attitude, but it had removed him further from his family. Percy never did apologize, nor did he admit fault, he was a stranger.

    The fourth and fifth volumes were identical. A shocking shade of orange glared up at Molly. A smile touched her pink lips. These were Fred and George’s books. The last picture was one of them standing outside their shop. The war had robbed them of that, claiming it in a blazing fire, set by the Death Eaters. The boys then thrust themselves in the Order and gave up their antics.

    The sixth volume was Ron’s; it was maroon The yellowed writing was peeling. Ron, as a child, poured over this book saying, “Look, Mummy. It’s me!” He had met a girl at Hogwarts who also loved books. Hermione Granger was destined for Molly’s ickle Ronniekins. But the war had robbed him of that. Hermione had been killed during the war. Ron vowed never to love again.

    The seventh and last volume was Ginny’s, the only girl. It was a shade of baby pink with lavender lettering. The book was incomplete and always would be. Ginny was a lively girl, with a passion for the world around her. But the war had robbed her of that, cruelly taking her life during the final battle.

    But her memory survived, and Molly would preserve this book so it always would.

  6. #16
    Masked One
    Name: Masked One
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Tea and Approval in Azkaban
    Warnings: None
    Words: 282

    They called it their scrapbook.

    It was as much like a scrapbook as their monthly tea was like a relationship, which is to say that the word worked well enough in conversation, when the mutilation of its meaning was understood by both parties.

    Draco was careful which memories he saved. There was no point in letting his father see his work; that was undignified and below a Malfoy, even one whose fortune had been confiscated. It would only upset Lucius.

    So Draco saved the memory of Pansy, who looked beautiful in her silky blue dress robes (but did not show his father that he’d mastered enough Transfiguration to create them.) He showed him Narcissa, who smiled brightly as she waved (but not that she was waving to Andromeda, who was all she had left.)

    He allowed him to see Diagon Alley, rebuilt (but not the falling-down building where Draco sold used books) and Hogwarts with all the windows ablaze (but not that he was there to speak with Granger.)

    It was a trivial list of memories, saved month to month in a corner of his mind. Not the sorts of things he’d usually remember – unimportant moment in a life that seemed full of unimportant moments, special only because they would bring something like freedom to Lucius.

    And on the first Tuesday of every month, Draco would sit across a splintering wooden table from a skinny man in dull gray robes, and meet cold gray eyes. He would shove these memories to the front, and let some color spill into his father’s life.

    Lucius would smile, and tell him he was a good son.

    It was their scrapbook, full of half-truths and lies.

  7. #17
    Name: Sarakime
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Making the Memories
    Warnings: None, Cheeziness
    Words: After realizing 570 was far too much, I've edited it to become... 498!

    Sunlight shown through the windows of the small room, seemingly swirling and curving light through the dusty air. Hermione coughed lightly and inhaled through her sleeve as she reached blindly to grasp a large wooden box. She grunted in pain as she picked up the large item, dragging it behind her to the living room.

    Coughing and clearing her throat, she called out to her companion.

    "Draco? Would you come in here, please?"

    "In a moment!" A muffled voice projected from a distant room of the house.

    Hermione huffed and opened up the box, one flap at a time. She gathered its contents and placed them out on a table. Lace, Muggle stickers, scissors, glue, assorted paper and photos.

    Sputtering and clearing her throat yet again due to the dust of the unused utensils, she grabbed the box once more. Reaching to the very bottom, her hands clasped around a large white book. Well, it used to be white, she thought. Faded and discolored, the book's pages were blank and had gold tint to them.

    "Oh, Draco?" Hermione projected her voice again, excitedly impatient.

    "Yes?" His voice was deep and low, his breath hot on her ear and cheek.

    An unperturbed Hermione motioned for him to sit down. Draco sat beside her, his eyes opening larger as he looked around.

    "And what is it we are to be constructing today?" He asked teasingly.

    "We're going to make a scrapbook," Hermione said, rolling her eyes but still playful.

    Draco simply grunted and reached out for one of the photographs. At the very top was one of Hermione and himself at a Muggle-filled beach in Hawaii. Tapping the picture with his hand, he used wandless magic to enchant it to move. Hermione laughed and grasped Draco's hand as they walked on the edge of the ocean. Their feet made imprints in the sand, and then seconds later the water would wash them away. The sun was setting behind them and Draco smiled at Hermione and kissed her.

    "How did we even take that picture?" Hermione's voice came from off in the distance of Draco's mind. "Hmm?" He murmured, tearing his gaze from the photo to look into her eyes. He shrugged his shoulders as he registered what she said, at a loss for the answer. He smiled at her happily.

    Hermione smiled at him and grabbed the next picture from the pile. It was a picture (taken by Ginny, she recalled triumphantly,) of Draco and Hermione at Diagon Alley during winter. Snow covered the road and every rooftop, every tree and person. Draco had his arms wrapped around Hermione to keep her warm as they both smiled at the camera.

    Draco was now looking over Hermione's shoulder to see the picture that had made her become quiet. He sighed at yet another happy moment, and grasped Hermione's hand in his own.

    "Ready?" She asked, grabbing the scissors and a sheet of emerald paper.

    "Ready." He said, reaching for the glue.

  8. #18
    Name: crazy_purple_hp_freak
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Photographs
    Warnings: Mentioned character death
    Words: 500 exactly. (I hope the word count is inclusive? Otherwise, I'm sure I could squeeze a word out somewhere.

    Find seven photographs –
    Seven best memories –
    Of seven happy years at Hogwarts …

    She dumps the pile of photographs next to the she is sitting on. The older ones (first, second, third year – before she knew him) are the ones at the bottom, some slightly torn at the edges, or creased down the centre. She looked so young back then. Somewhere along the line, as documented carefully in smiling, photographs, she has matured – is somewhat more serious now than seven years ago – older perhaps, (less innocent) she thinks.

    First year, second year, third year. She smiles at Halloween, two months into Hogwarts but already comfortably at home. Laughing, she eats mint humbugs despite their oddity, because she has always liked them and cares not what others think. She laughs with her friends – summertime, when she does not yet care too much about exams; life is too full of things to enjoy and she vows that she will always make the most of them. She had always loved Quidditch and in the third year she is picked to play for her house. Dynamic, this – she can see herself, weaving in and out of the edges, blurring in and out of view – enjoying the fresh, cold air whipping around her body – freedom in the sky. She cares for no more than this, no more than (perhaps) a small victory, a good game.

    She does not yet know him.

    She picks three photographs and sticks them into her scrapbook – the most evocative so far. Smells, emotions, touch. Innocent still – seven happy years – at least three are true.

    Fourth year, fifth year. She meets him – and everything changes. Hogsmeade; a small teashop houses a world of memories. Her eyes are closed, wrinkled with laughter. Confetti on the table, in their hair (a matching background), Valentines Day. And she is still happy.

    Next – she sits in the crowd (a silent photograph clearly ablaze with sounds). The crowd roars and urges him on. She wants nothing more than for him to win.

    Dancing. Elegantly whirling around the polished floor – smiling again. (Because she thought it would last forever – not just one moment.) Forever, she scorns – how naïve.

    She reasons that it would be all right to use two photographs for one year – double one year, none the year after. (No happy memories? None that I can think of.)

    Newer photographs are less creased – viewed less; she does not want to remind herself about what happened. Happiness of seven years was really happiness of five (before what happened destroyed it all), and the remaining two brought nought but confusion.

    Photographs blur – not from rush of air on a Quidditch pitch but from the shake of trembling hands, the salty trail of tears. (No longer innocent, then.)

    No memories can be called the best if they are not more painful than the worst combined; memories of what used to be, what could have been. Hurt.

    She gets up from the chair – gives up. Six photographs will be enough.

  9. #19
    Third Year Gryffindor
    Searching for Neville's Toad
    wendelin the wierd's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2006
    Slowly decomposing
    Name: wendelin the wierd
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: She Who Was A Black
    Warnings: Hmmm...mild character death.
    Words: 400

    The pages are yellow and cracked and have that mustiness which comes with old parchment and also that faint odour of saltwater and seaweed. With every page that turns, a memory is lost, once, twice and then forever gone.

    She tries to hold on to them but they are slipping away and the more she tries, the further they go until even she can’t remember them anymore. And she just stands there, her eyes black and her soul blacker wondering when all the happiness faded out.

    She is seven and she tugs her father’s arm. ‘Daddy, why don’t we talk to Mudbloods? They are wizards and witches too right?’

    Her mother answers before her father does. ‘Bellatrix, your blood is pure and when you have nothing else…’

    And a drop of dried blood lies on the page, the blood which had changed her life and predetermined it before she was even born. It wasn’t ‘pure’; it was black blood to her. Black.

    She is thirteen and she is chasing her cousin around the Christmas tree, her face is red with laughter but she barely notices, the tree’s fresh pine scent fills the air and she tackles Sirius and they both fall on the ground laughing, ‘You are a Slytherin all right.’

    She is seventeen and this time she is chasing Sirius but for entirely different reasons, she is trying to hold on to him before it is too late. ‘Sirius! I am your family, now leave the Mudblood here. We need to talk.’

    ‘I have no family.’ he replies and his gray eyes are no longer laughing,

    And the pine-cone still emanates the same scent, except to her it comes from a different world. Why couldn’t she have seen then that it wasn’t Sirius who was leaving but her?

    She is nineteen and married. Her husband is not with her this afternoon and without him the house is nothing but cold stones and rubble.

    Her husband never returns.

    She sees the ring on her finger her tears catch in her throat. She had to let go of the memories, they were all she had but they were killing her from inside. She didn't want to be like the rest of them, she didn't want to die.

    What once was will never be…

    And she throws the scrapbook into the darkest corner of the attic and never looks at it again.
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  10. #20

    Inward Feelings

    Name: SiriusismyCrony
    House: Slytherin
    Title: Inward Feelings
    Warnings: None
    Words: 359

    Bella leaned back on one of her new green couches.
    “Almost done unpacking.” She sighed and glanced around at the boxes that surrounded her. Some were brown, some were the green and silver colour of her old Hogwarts house. A small smile played on her lips as she remembered all of the good times she’d had in Slytherin.
    She stood once more and walked to one of the house coloured boxes and opened it gingerly. Inside were some of the things that only she, Bella Black, knew of. Her eyes scanned the contents of the box quickly. She reached inside and pulled out a small book where she’d kept letters, pictures, news clippings, and other momentums. “My scrapbook.” She whispered happily. Inside the pages were some of her best memories, and parts of her that the others had never known about.
    She opened the book and leafed through it quickly, landing on a page that made her cheerful. It was a picture that had gotten into the Daily Prophet of their Care of Magical Creatures class. The day the picture had been taken they’d been learning about Unicorns.
    “She came to me… out of all the other girls.” Bella smiled and touched the picture longingly before going to another page that held more good memories.
    “There’s Rodolphus.” She grinned at the silly look on her boyfriend’s face. She turned a few more pages and stared at a dry flower, it was from a bouquet that her sister has sent her, something she’d never let anyone see for fear they’d think she loved her sister.
    Rodolphus entered the room. “Are you okay? I haven‘t heard any movement for a while.”
    Bella closed the book quickly and placed it back in the box, turning to her boyfriend. “Yeah. I was just looking through a box.” She smiled at him and nodded.
    “Okay.” He left the room to finish unpacking his things.
    “Goodbye.” Bella turned back to the box and took out her wand. A silent tear slid down her cheek as she sent the book to an unknown place. The side of her no one else knew was now gone, forever.

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