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Thread: Hooray, it's May! ~Anniversary Challenge~

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  1. #1
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    Hooray, it's May! ~Anniversary Challenge~

    May the second is, of course, an important date in the Harry Potter calender. Here in The Three Broomsticks, we like to raise a glass to the Fallen, as well as those who fought and survived the Battle of Hogwarts.

    Your challenge this month is not a new one. But I hope with the vast crop of newbies, you'll like this and want to participate.

    I want you to write a drabble concerning one of the anniversaries of the Battle of Hogwarts. You may write in any tense and any POV, as long as it takes place on the anniversary - so that's May 2nd.

    The Catch: You cannot write from these POV's:
    Anyone born with the surname Weasley.

    They can be mentioned in the drabbles, but you cannot write from their viewpoint.

    Remember ... not everyone will be celebrating.

    Points ...

    I'm going to give 5 participation points this month as well as 15 for first place, 10 for second, and 5 for third. If we don't get enough quality drabbles, then we won't necessarily award a first place etc.

    Form for your drabble:

    PHP Code:
    B]Word Count:[/B]
    Because this is a monthly, the word count has been extended to 750 words. Please take into account all MNFF submission guidelines.

    This competition will close on May 31st at 10pm( BST)

    Good Luck and Happy Anniversary.

    The Barmaids

    Banner by the fabulous Julia - theoplaeye

  2. #2
    Fourth Year Ravenclaw
    Swallowing the Golden Snitch
    Liandrin's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2010
    Right Behind You
    Name: Lia
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: Time
    Word Count: 476
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd Year/None
    A/N: Ah, the Switzerlands of war ...

    + + +

    Outside they are toasting to the fallen with cheers and smiles and tears and tales of bravery and heroism. War stories. Stories of triumph and glory. She, however, remains indoors, alone with her thoughts and her sorrow.

    It has been a year since she last saw him, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, brooding as usual. He always had the look of a man hunted, lost and found, driven and hopeless, all in the same breath. A man – a boy – conflicted with choices, yet never making any. A slave to the incessant reasoning of his own beautiful mind.

    The months have passed quickly; so quickly, in fact, that she wonders if she imagined it all: the war, the senseless deaths, the allegiances formed and broken in the blink of an eye. It has all blurred before her vision like a fleeting image, like the flap of a hummingbird's wings – too quick to catch with the naked eye. The days between the months have stretched out, linear and predictable, and jarred like shards of glass beneath her feet.

    He has dropped clean off the face of the earth, and his departure has left an ache in parts of her that she had not even known were empty. The void in her heart, though, cannot so easily be filled. He has dissolved into the blood and water of her dreams, and maybe it is safer that way. Safer, but without closure, without substance …

    Time has become slow and cold. Not even the parades in the streets can do anything to lift her spirits or warm her heart to the possibility of change, of good triumphing over evil, of a day – of a life – saved. Instead, she sits in front of the window and waits for him to return – waiting on a hope and a prayer and on a miracle that will never happen. And this thought of him never returning to her sends a panic racing through her heart; fears begins to spread like rumours, ballooning until they takes over everything, including her last screed of hope.

    She knows that war changes a person: makes one reflect on who one is, where one is going, and who one has the potential to be. And the ending of war can bring peace, no doubt, a certain optimism and hope that cannot be easily taken away. But that peace – that hope – does not apply to everyone. In war there are winners and there are losers; there are those who celebrate and those who mourn. For some, the war is not over yet. Perhaps it never will be. For it takes time to heal the soul, as it takes time and dedication to change.

    No, she will not weep for the fallen. Not yet. For not all the soldiers have returned home.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:27 AM. Reason: Forum Friendly Now

  3. #3
    Fifth Year Ravenclaw
    People Hate Me for Losing Points
    eternalangel's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2008
    With Regulus
    Name: eternalangel
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: A Letter Unsent
    Word Count: 685
    Ratings/Warnings: 3rd-5th, Dark/Angst, Character death mentioned
    A/N: It has been quite awhile since I have done one of these. Hopefully I did everything right!

    Time was dwindling down slowly to twilight, and Narcissa Malfoy had done all she could to forget what day it was. She had cleaned the floors and polished the fine china. She had dusted the book cases in the library and pruned the roses. She had even rearranged the table and chairs in her dining room where she received what little guests her diminished social status would allow her. Despite having house-elves to do such menial work, on this day Narcissa would have all the work to herself. Her husband, the house-elves and her son had learned long ago that it was best not to disturb her when she was in this sort of mood; she only got like this once a year. Every year on May 2nd, from dawn until dusk Narcissa Malfoy became a reclusive workaholic.

    Yet despite all the work she found for herself and the throbbing ache that prevailed in her hands and back, time seemed to draw itself out into an impossible length. Every year at this exact time, Narcissa would find herself with nothing more to do and nothing more to think about than the events that had happened on this exact day. It was the day when she had lost nearly everything.

    At dusk, Narcissa would always have the same luminous thought, which she had been trying to avoid the entirety of the day. She would think: maybe this year…, and for a moment she would be seized with the wild notion of sending an owl to Andromeda. Narcissa would never admit it aloud, but with the death of Bellatrix, Narcissa found herself thinking about her other sister and what her life was like.

    Did Andromeda hate her for what had happened on that second day of May? Narcissa would tell anyone who asked that she cared not what her sister thought of her and her actions. She was a proud pureblood and would forever be one. But deep within her, the idea of her sister secretly hating her, despising her for what she still had in her life, her child, haunted her.

    Draco had long ago grown up and had a family of his own, but things could have been very different. Narcissa often pondered whether she would have hated Andromeda if their roles had been reversed. If Draco had been killed by an Order member and Nymphadora had lived, could Narcissa have ever looked upon her sister the same? Thinking of how close she came to losing Draco that night, Narcissa knew the answer. She could never have looked at her sister without some form of resentment if their roles had been reversed, and knew that the same would be true for Andromeda.

    And yet every year on May 2nd at around twilight, Narcissa would be seized with the same urge that maybe this year she would send Andromeda a letter. Maybe this year she would reach out to the only sister she had left. There were years where she even came as close as to getting a paper and a quill to write the letter she had already written in her head, but she never followed through with the action.

    And the years slowly fell away like wilted petals on a dying rose. No matter what she did, nothing could ever get her to send her letter because she remembered another terrible truth. On that fateful day in May, she had, in truth, lost two sisters. Death may have taken one, but resentment and grief had taken the other.

    Maybe this year…

    But like every year, Narcissa shook her head with a weariness that she never knew she had. The time of reconciliation had passed. If she were to see Andromeda on the street it would be like she was seeing a stranger. With that thought, Narcissa sat in her meticulously cleaned dining room, and shed a tear. It was the one day of the year she ever permitted herself to cry for both her sisters.

    And it was the one day of the year she would regret the letter which had never been sent.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:31 AM.

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  4. #4
    Fourth Year Gryffindor
    Swallowing the Golden Snitch
    indigo_mouse's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
    The Tower of Lurkishness.
    Name: indigo_mouse
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: Remembrance
    Word Count: 315
    Ratings/Warnings: None

    She came from a family of soldiers, conscripted to fight in the greatest wars of the century. Her grandfather had died choking on mustard gas in The War to End All Wars – which hadn’t. Her father had bled out his life on the Normandy sands in the same war that unleashed the power and horror of the atom.

    War had been her heritage; she would wake from dreams of destruction, surrounded by acrid gas and screams; from nightmares where The Bomb fell on her home and her eyeballs melted from her skull.

    She had thought she had left all that behind her when she had gotten the letter on her eleventh birthday - the letter that told her that she was magic born, a witch. It would make her safe, she thought, for surely wars would not come to those with magic. Undoubtedly, the potential for magical destruction would keep the peace.

    She had loved Hogwarts.

    When she came back to teach she got a secret thrill when the students called her “Professor”. It never wore off. When the Headmaster had warned of Voldemort’s rise to power, of the dangers, she had shrugged them away, not wanting to believe, wanting the safety the Ministry promised.

    The end was ugly for her – spinning in midair over the Malfoy’s dining table, listening to cruel laughter as fear hammered her heart until if felt like it would break. Terrified; a soldier in a war she had never prepared for.

    Now she is nothing more than a name on a memorial, letters carved deep on a black wall. Dead in a magical war she had denied would happen, fought between people she thought knew better.

    May second, and the students of Hogwarts gather to honour the dead. Someone recites a poem, a chorus sings a psalm and then the Headmaster reads the names of the dead...

    Charity Babbage ...
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:33 AM.

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  5. #5
    Seventh Year Hufflepuff
    Bowing To Buckbeak
    hestiajones's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2009
    The Fellowship of Non-Literary
    Name: hestiajones
    House: HUFFLEPUFF!
    Title: Before Redemption
    Word Count: 749
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd yr; None

    When I was a kid, Victory Day meant a day of excitement and fun. Gran and I would go to The Burrow, and the celebration would start as soon as we arrived. As the adults watched us, their faces solemn yet content, we would run amok. The day usually ended with a small birthday party for Victoire.

    Then I was eighteen and didn’t quite know how to feel.

    Hogwarts had its own way of commemorating the day. It was there where the people flocked because it was there where it had all happened. Parents were allowed to visit and take part in honouring the dead. The house-elves would go out of their way to prepare the grandest feast of the year, and everywhere, from the Great Hall to the Entrance Hall, even out in the grounds, tables had to be placed for the teeming guests.

    Ever since their children had started going to school, the entire Weasley and Potter families went there as well. Gran, too. The innocent parties which used to occur at The Burrow had been replaced by an ostentatious ceremony dedicated to the battle and the fallen. You had to see the pile of bouquets at the feet of the monument if you don’t believe me.

    I’m talking about the monument where they engraved the names of those who died fighting. I never left a single flower myself.

    Though I’d be sitting with my large, extended family, I mostly felt disconnected. There were voices and faces everywhere I looked. I often wished I could escape and be left alone.

    Victory Day began to have a more definite shape and idea only after I arrived at Hogwarts. I was old enough to fully appreciate the fact that it was the day when my parents died, and the constant stream of reminders, embedded in numerous speeches and condolences and random glances cast my way, didn’t help. Yes, my parents had been heroes. Yes, they died for a noble cause. Yes, I should be proud of them.

    But I hardly got a chance to know them, and I didn’t want to think about them anymore than I had to.

    Then I was twenty-seven, married to the only girl who mattered. She could tell how I’d try to act as though May 2nd meant her birthday and had no other significance in my life. However, she never made an issue out of it. One of the many reasons why I love her.

    I’m twenty-nine today, and I find myself on the verge of yet another May 2nd.

    It isn’t dawn yet, but the cry of our first baby has woken me up. Quietly, I slip out of bed and pick her up from her crib.

    Although she is just over a year old, she’s already the most beautiful creature on earth. I tickle her tummy, making her laugh. Then, I prepare food for her, feed her, and lull her to sleep with a badly hummed lullaby. As I watch her sleep, I ask myself: how can anyone abandon their child?

    How could my parents leave me? How could they both run away to fight? Couldn’t one of them stay back?

    Victorie pulls me towards her, murmuring, “Thanks.”

    I put my arms around her and snuggle up to her.

    “What would you do if you were in either of their positions?” she asks, running her fingers through my hair. “Would you stay, or would you fight?”

    “Don’t,” I mumble against her neck.

    “You won’t face it yourself, and yet you hate for parents for doing it?”

    I look up at her and try to pull away. “Have you been waiting all this while to drop that bomb on me?”

    Instead of looking offended, she smiles and doesn’t let me go. “I want you to resolve your own feelings and get some peace of mind.”

    “Don’t expect me to answer it.”

    “I don’t need you to tell me,” she says. “You only need to tell yourself.”

    In later years, I will remember this moment as the one that changed everything, when I understood for the first time why my parents had done what they did. I wouldn’t be able to go on without either my daughter or wife. Sometimes, love robbed you of logic, and sometimes, there were strange ways of showing it.

    But for now, I try to act normal, even as I weep inside. Let my redemption come when it does. I’ve been far too guilty to achieve it sooner.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:33 AM.

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  6. #6
    Name: abovelevel
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: Socks with Bows
    Word Count: 742
    Ratings/Warnings: None
    A/N: I haven't really written a drabble before, but this prompt gave me an idea I really wanted to write, so hopefully it's all right and someone (besides me) enjoys it. Thanks to the challenge organizers!

    Daddy wakes me up early.

    “Can you wake up for me, Lilybug?” he says. He pulls my blankie off and I reach for it – it’s so cold! – but it’s already fallen down to my feet.

    “It’s early,” I say.

    “I know.” Daddy smiles. “But you don’t have to go to school today.”

    Immediately, I feel more awake. No school! Well, then!

    I sit up a little and scratch at the side of my cheek. “How come?”

    “It’s Victory Day, little girl,” he says.

    Oh, right! We get to see James today!

    Mummy picks out a blue dress for me to wear and socks with bows. I don’t normally like these socks, except with my blue dress. She ties a ribbon in my hair and I jump up and down a little so I can see how bouncy my ponytail is. My hair is extra curly because I washed it last night. It feels like a holiday, except without presents.

    After breakfast, we all Floo into Hogsmeade. I know a lot about Hogsmeade because Uncle George works there sometimes. I know his shop and the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes and some others, but I don’t remember them all. Mummy brushes sparks of my dress and then we all hold hands so we can walk to the Memorial, which is at Hogwarts.

    When we get there, I feel serious. Mummy had told us stories about the War and the Memorial so I know it is very important. I know that I have another Uncle, but he died here. I know that Teddy’s mum and dad died here too, and lots of other people we love. I wait quietly while Mum and Dad spend time with the names of our old friends.

    First we find Gran and Grandpa and then Uncle Ron, Aunt Hermione, Rosie and Hugo. We wait a little longer and soon the other Aunts and Uncles are here, too. Waiting is better with company, but it still feels like everything is taking forever. We wait even longer until finally, I see all the big kids from Hogwarts walking down the hill, down to the Memorial where we are standing. A lot of people see their mums and dads and go to meet them. James takes a long time to come, but finally, there, I see him! He walks over and I hug him and then Mum hugs him too. He groans a little bit, because boys hate hugs, but I don’t mind. I’m glad to see him.

    He punches Al in the shoulder, which is what boys do for hugs, I think.

    Then it is time to be very quiet.

    “We call today Victory Day,” says the tall man in front of the crowd. “And undoubtedly, there is a lot to celebrate.”

    He pauses. “Yet, today is a sad day for many of us here, too.”

    He points towards the Memorial and as everyone turns to look at it, I look too. It is covered by piles and piles of flowers and looks very pretty.

    “We feel this tension,” the man says. “We feel torn between joy at what this day represents and sadness at the reality of what happened here.”

    My nose is very itchy.

    “But we must take comfort,” he says. “…comfort in the …”

    He says a lot more, but it is hard to listen. Instead, I think.

    Victory Day is confusing. Victory is a happy word. And today feels like a happy day, because I get to miss school and wear my socks with bows. We wake up early like on Christmas and we get to come to Hogwarts.

    But on Victory Day, we don’t get presents or eat special food. We don’t sing songs and dance to Granny’s old music. We remember people who have died and we are sad or happy or both.

    On Victory Day, we get to see everyone in the family. We don’t get to play or tell jokes, but we do other things. We see James, even though he doesn’t like hugs, and all my big cousins, too. Grandpa lets me sit on his lap and Gran does my hair in a braid starting all the way at the top of my head.

    I don’t think I understand Victory Day yet, but I bet I will when I’m older.

    For now, though, I just think it’s nice. Because today, we all get to be together. Even though some of us are dead.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:34 AM.

  7. #7
    Seventh Year Ravenclaw
    Attending a Deathday Party
    Gmariam's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2006
    Wales (I wish)
    Name: Gmariam
    House: Ravenclaw
    Title: To Harry
    Word Count: 731
    Ratings/Warnings: 3rd-5th years
    A/N: Thank you to Lea for looking this over and making some spot-on suggestions!

    * * *

    Minerva raised her glass to the others in the center of the table. "To the fallen," she said, echoing the toast around the circle. Beside her, Filius Flitwick nodded in agreement; on her right, Hagrid sniffed loudly. Horace Slughorn patted the gamekeeper's back and drained his goblet. Aberforth Dumbledore filled his own dirty glass again before sliding a murky bottle of Firewhiskey across the table for Slughorn.

    "And to those who survived," added Poppy Pomfrey, sipping at her gillywater. Pomona Sprout nodded sadly in agreement. Septima Vector handed her a tissue and they both dabbed their eyes.

    "Speaking of survivors," barked Aberforth, "where the hell was Potter? Bit dodgy skipping out on his big day."

    Minerva sighed, wishing he hadn't brought it up but knowing it was inevitable. It was probably being discussed at each and every gathering that night. It was the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry Potter had not attended the memorial ceremony at the castle. The Hero of Hogwarts had been nowhere to be found when his turn to speak had come.

    Only Minerva knew exactly where he was, and she was guarding that secret closely, for it was almost too heartbreaking to share. He had shown up in her office the night before, a bleary-eyed, bedraggled wreck of a man. He was thin and unshaven, with deep hollows under his eyes. He was obviously suffering, tormented—and strung out on an endless series of Invigorating Charms that let him work far too much but barely kept him upright and coherent.

    After a long, heated talk with Dumbledore, Harry had collapsed on the sofa, eyes staring blankly into the fire. Minerva had tucked the Chosen One under a blanket and cast the most powerful sleeping spell she could to ensure a full night's rest free of nightmares. And first thing the next morning, she had taken him to St. Mungo's under the strict secrecy of his invisibility cloak. Now he was resting once more, under the watchful eyes of Healers who could treat the wounds left untouched for so long and begin to bring back the man he was meant to be.

    Poppy was watching her closely and reached forward to pat her hand. "Is he all right, Minerva?" she asked, her keen insight reading the thoughts floating across Minerva's face. "Just tell us that much, so we don't worry."

    Minerva shook her head. "No…no, he's not. But I think he will be now." I hope so, she thought to herself. She couldn't imagine a more tragic end to Harry's story than for him die a broken hero, lost to the untamed monsters within as pain and anger claimed his soul in a far worse way than Voldemort had ever done. She hoped with all her heart that Harry found peace after the difficult trials of his Hogwarts years; he deserved more than anyone to live the life he had earned, in the world he had saved.

    "Course he'll be okay," stated Hagrid, setting down his mug with a frown. "I never met a stronger, braver boy than our Harry."

    "He's not a boy anymore," said Minerva. "We've always said he was forced to grow up far too soon, far too cruelly."

    "And there are consequences to what he's gone through," murmured Poppy, and Minerva nodded sadly.

    "Indeed there are," Minerva agreed, thinking back to Harry's wasted frame, the dead look in his eyes, the desperate shouting at the portrait on the wall the night before. "I fear for Harry, more than I ever have before."

    Aberforth snorted into his glass. "If Potter can put down a demon like Tom Riddle, he can conquer his own as well. He'll figure it out."

    Minerva raised her eyebrows at the disgruntled barkeep. "So sure, Aberforth?"

    "Every man must walk through the darkness in order to find the light," he stated, earning a few surprised glances from around the table. "I did it, my righteous brother did it, we've all done it in one way or another. Potter will do it too. He's a fighter."

    "To 'Arry," said Hagrid, raising his glass again. He did not sniff, but instead seemed to put all his confidence in Harry into his words. Slughorn echoed him, and the sentiment traveled around the table, until at last Minerva raised her glass once more.

    "To Harry," she whispered. "May he find the light."

    * * *

    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:37 AM.

  8. #8
    Seventh Year Hufflepuff
    minnabird's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2009
    Name: Minnabird
    House: Hufflepuff
    Title: Endings and Beginnings
    Word Count: 492
    Ratings/Warnings: mention of character death
    A/N: I've been meaning to write this thing for so long. Also - why am I so obsessed with the WWN now?


    The fourth-year Gryffindor boys were all gathered around Nathan Crowley’s battered wireless.

    “Good evening.” Lee Jordan’s voice over the radio sounded uncharacteristically solemn.“Thank you for tuning in for this special Victory Day edition of Potterwatch. But first, a moment of silence as we remember those we lost in the war that ended a year ago today.”

    In the staticky silence, Dennis Creevey thought unhappily that he could never stop remembering.

    Dennis felt like he’d lost an essential part of his soul when Colin had died. The pair of them had always been inseparable, with Colin always playing leader. Everything had been an adventure with Colin around. Dennis hadn’t been surprised to learn that Colin was a wizard; he always could bring magic to life. What had surprised him was that he was a wizard, too. His parents had just laughed and said he’d wished it into being so he could follow Colin to that school of his.

    Dennis had wondered, in more morose moments, if his magic would eventually disappear without Colin around. It felt like everything else good had.

    Next year he’d have to start thinking about the future. He had no idea what he wanted. Oh, he and Colin had talked about it plenty: they’d be a dynamic journalistic duo, Dennis penning the articles – he had a way with words, Colin said; he’d always been the one to talk Mum round when they got into trouble – and Colin taking the pictures.

    He’d never planned for a future without Colin.

    Lee Jordan’s voice had come back on while Dennis was thinking, but he had been tuning it out. He jerked back to attention when he heard his brother’s name, followed by “Dirk Cresswell.” A list of the dead, he thought. He’s dead.

    Why did it still hurt so much to think that?


    “Good evening, and thank you for tuning in to Potterwatch.” Lee Jordan smiled, though his audience couldn’t see him. “As Friday is Victory Day, we would like to take a moment to remember the dead.” He let the silence drag on for about ten seconds, and then he spoke again. “The end of the war was a beginning of a new world for us all. Now, I would like to announce another ending and another beginning. One of our regular correspondents, Alicia Spinnet, will be leaving us for good today to manage the Ballycastle Bats. Good luck, Alicia,” he added to her.

    “Thanks, Lee,” Alicia said, grinning. “I’ll miss this, but I never intended to work in radio all my life.”

    “We’ll miss you too,” Lee said. “And to all of you wondering who will fill Alicia’s place, I’d like to introduce our newest correspondent: Dennis Creevey. Welcome to Potterwatch, Dennis.”

    “Thanks, Lee,” Dennis said. “I’m glad to be here.” He wondered, for a moment, what Colin would think of him now, pursuing a career neither of them had dreamed of.

    He grinned. Colin would be proud.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:38 AM.

  9. #9
    Fifth Year Gryffindor
    I See Dead People... In Mirrors
    TM_WandStick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2009
    Improper Use of Magic Office
    Name: TM_WandStick
    House: Gryffindor
    Title: They'll Never Know
    Word Count: 476
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st/2nd Years, none
    A/N: Thanks go, as always, to Sarah for beta'ing.


    In the sweet-scented garden of a quaint cottage tucked away on the edge of a wood, two small boys were playing make-believe.

    “You be the Death Eater,” one brother commanded. “And I’ll be an Auror, and I’m in the Order of the Phoenix, too.”

    “No, I want to be in the Order of the Phoenix,” the other boy complained. “I’m always the Death Eater.”

    “Nuh-uh,” the first boy said, shaking his head and crossing his arms resolutely. “I was Death Eater last time.”

    “No, I was,”

    “No you weren’t,”

    “I was!”





    The two brothers looked up guiltily as a man’s head materialised around the kitchen door.

    “What are you doing?”

    “Just playin’,” one boy said, scuffing his foot against the ground.

    “It sounded more like fighting to me,” the man said sternly.

    “We’re sorry, Daddy,” the other boy said. “We won’t fight anymore.”

    “Are you sure?”

    The brothers nodded their heads enthusiastically.

    “Okay, you can play nicely, then.”

    The father leaned against the doorframe and watched as his sons waved twigs and cast pretend enchantments on each other. The sinking sun cast deep shadows on his sober face. After a moment, a slender, blonde woman followed him through the doorway and laid a gentle hand on his arm.

    “What are you playing?” she called to her sons in the garden.

    “Aurors and Death Eaters,” one called back before throwing himself in the dirt to avoid an imaginary curse.

    The couple watched their children play for a moment in silence before the man spoke.

    “I wish they wouldn’t play that,” he said quietly. The woman merely looked at him, her silver eyes trained on his face.

    “I mean, how could they ever understand? They’re never going to be able to even begin to comprehend what it was like back then. Back when nobody knew who they could trust, when there was another murder every week! They don’t have a clue what a Death Eater really is!”

    The man clenched and unclenched his fists and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

    “I just don’t think they should be playing that,” he said quietly.

    The woman, who had been silent throughout her husband’s rant, turned to look at her sons.

    “I think it’s a perfectly fine game to play,” she said calmly. Her husband fixed his eyes on her, a small frown creasing his face.

    “Do you know what day it is?” he asked her after a moment of consideration.

    “You mean National Plant-a-Dirigible Plum Day?” she replied with a voice totally devoid of inflection.

    “Luna....” The man sighed and took his wife in his arms. “They have no idea what they’re playing at.”

    “Yes, Rolf,” she said. She turned and took her husband’s hands in her own, pressing them against her face as she looked steadily into his eyes.

    “That’s the point.”
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:39 AM.

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  10. #10
    Title: Unlisted
    Word Count: 748
    Ratings/Warnings: 3rd-5th, implied sexual situations


    The Prophet is heavy in the hand today. It is a special edition, complete with the sort of didactic front-page that will soon be framed and hung upon pub walls- or worse- tacked into family albums next to the smiling faces of those forever gone. Over a list of names centred on the page, the headline “We Honour the Fallen” looms bold, black, and unchanging, the ink stamped heavily into the thin newsprint.

    Draco unfolds the paper and lays it where the candle light is brightest upon the table. He stands and reads, his eyes rolling over the list of names, lingering a fraction of a second on the ones he recognizes, then sliding onward. He reads the names under the sub-heading “Missing” as his fingertips glide across the smooth wood to touch the edge of the paper. “Missing“, as in, ‘gone‘. “Missing“, as in, ‘missed‘.

    Of course, no one has wasted good ink adding her name to that list.

    The fire behind him flares, and, at once, the room feels ten degrees warmer. Beads of sweat swell around his hairline and at his temples. When he looks down, he sees that the moisture of his palm has marked the surface of the table. He watches as most of the print fades, evaporating into the air as he wipes his hand against the outer thigh of his pants. The heat and the feel of the damp cotton starts a chain reaction and he is occupied with thoughts of sweat, of hot, hot hands, of the high-shine polish of manicured nails and glossed lips.

    If he closes his eyes, the fire behind him could be the fire from that last night in the common room. He can recall those sharp, dark eyes, glancing at him through her lashes as she pretends to work. He can hear the ticking of his laces bouncing against his shoe as his leg jumps, pounding the floor with nervous energy. He can see her one leg draped over the other, her hanging foot rotating, her ballet flat dangling precariously from her toes. Once again, he can watch as she finally closes her book and slinks over in her non-regulation length school skirt.

    That night he could smell her lip-gloss mingling with the remnants of her perfume. It was a strange scent, that of worn, leather gloves smeared with pulp from the fruit of some exotic tree. The effect had been too lush, too sticky and over-ripe, and ultimately too alluring for him to remain as detached as he had planned.

    That scowl of hers, those storm cloud brows- even after she had abandoned his sinking ship in true Slytherin fashion, he couldn’t resist. For weeks, she had avoided him. For weeks, he had feigned indifference. But the truth was he needed her cold core of viciousness. He needed her untainted arrogance to counter the crippling fear he now carried.

    And maybe it was because he needed it, that he had to destroy it.

    Or maybe it was the way she looked at his Mark, always as if it were the best part of him. But, that night, when she stroked her thumb over his forearm, he had grabbed her wrist, wrenching her arm up between them.

    “You think you know what this is,” he had whispered. “You’ve no idea.”

    She had tried to back away, but he pulled her in closer.

    “Listen,” he said, leaning in, his lips brushing her ear. “There are two sides… and then there’s just you. You don‘t owe anything to anyone.” He let go, but held her gaze as he picked up his shirt from the chair. “If you're smart, you'll keep it that way.”

    As he moved past, he had glanced at her, finally seeing his own fear mirrored in her face.

    He had heard it in her voice as she rose up in the Great Hall later that night, pointing at Potter, blurting out what every Slytherin had probably been thinking. The tips of all those wands, all that self-righteous vitriol, had turned her way, and Draco had seen those brows snap together. He’d seen that haughty tilt of her chin, the condemnation of all those fools so ready to die, and he knew. She had listened.

    He watched her stalk into the darkness, never once looking back.

    Now, a year later, he can only wonder if she’s still breathing. He can only wonder if today, wherever she is, she thinks of sweat, of hot, hot hands.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-04-2011 at 08:39 AM.

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