Here are this weeks drabbles. The prompt
The voting link is
Word beads (and with a ‘P’ theme). These words must be included in your drabble. Please highlight them. Park may be a verb or a noun. You may add ‘ing’ or ‘ed’ to verbs. Peeves must remain as Peeves – he’s a Poltergeist and not a pet peeve.
Title: The Birth of Peeves
Word count: 491
Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd, none
A/N: JK said that Peeves "came with the building." This is my interpretation. Prompt words bolded to show that I used them all.
Rowena levitated the last stone of their school. “Be prepared, friends,” she warned. According to the laws of the universe, a massive working of magical order required the creation of an equal and opposite being of magical chaos. As soon as the castle was finished, chaos incarnate would be brought upon them, so the three remaining Founders readied their wands.
As the stone settled into place, Peeves was born, dressed in lurid orange. “A poltergeist,” Salazar hissed.
“That’s right,” he cackled. “Peeves, the poltergeist, at your service.” He dived at them, dodging their spells, and ripped a flower from Helga’s hair, destroying its petals. Godric roared another spell, but Peeves had vanished. A moment later, they heard armor crashing.
The four Founders looked at each other and sighed. “After all the order we put into building Hogwarts, a being of immense chaos would come into existence to rebalance the universe,” Rowena commented, rubbing her temples.
“If you had listened to my suggestion for an open park with a few buildings, we wouldn’t have to deal with a poltergeist for all eternity,” Godric mumbled, fingering his sword.
“And in the rain and snow, Godric?” Salazar challenged. “We need a castle, if only to protect ourselves from the weather.”
“It’s much too late to be concerned with what we could have done,” Helga insisted. “I have pies cooling in the kitchen. Let’s go eat them before we worry about the poltergeist and the other finishing details for our school.”
The prospect of Helga’s pies silenced the debate. “What varieties did you make today?” Salazar inquired, as they walked to the kitchen.
“Well, I had to make two steak pies for you and Godric,” Helga responded with a smile. The men would have fought over the steak pie otherwise. “I also made two lamb pies.”
“I hope you have ingredients for more steak pies, I’m starving,” Godric proclaimed.
As they approached the kitchen, Peeves pranced out of a wall, holding the pies.
“No!” Godric shouted.
Salazar stepped forward, extending an arm to stop Godric. “You will return those pies, poltergeist. Your birth may have been a necessary byproduct of Hogwart’s creation, but you will respect us. I, Salazar Slytherin, may not be able to kill you but I can and will make your eternal existence a living hell.” His voice was whisper soft and dangerous.
Peeves paused in the air, hovering nervously. “Can’t help being what I am,” he muttered, as he dropped the pies into the Founders’ waiting hands.
“No, one should not blame the scorpion for stinging the frog,” Rowena said, trying to take the philosophical approach.
Godric huffed, but Salazar interrupted, “Now, poltergeist, we will leave you to roam these halls, but do not forget who the masters are here.”
Peeves attempted a clumsy bow. “No, I most certainly won’t, Master Slytherin.” He ran through another wall to escape.
“Student life is certainly going to be interesting around here,” Helga murmured.
Word count: 496
“I hear there’s a little wizard somewhere who needs a bedtime story? Is that right?” Harry called through the open doorway of Teddy’s room. Upon receiving a decidedly enthusiastic affirmative, he slipped inside, giving a boyish grin to his wife on the way.
It was the best part of having Teddy stay over, if you asked Ginny; she ended up with not one, but two children on her hands. One was just a lot bigger than the other.
As Ginny made her way around the house, tidying away the debris that always came along with small children, she smiled at the sounds of giggles echoing from Teddy’s room. The difference in Harry when Teddy was around was incredible; she would put up with any amount of mess to see him so light-hearted. Even when mashed potato ended up flung around the entire kitchen.
Besides, along with a mess, today she had gained the highly entertaining memory of Harry trying vainly to get a spoon inside Teddy’s firmly closed mouth. No amount of “landing the broomstick” or “parking the truck” had been of any use when faced with a stubborn three-year-old who declared shepherd’s pie to be “icky”.
Even the food-decorated kitchen was easily dealt with, and Ginny decided it was time to break up the fun in Teddy’s room, or else he would never go to sleep. In fact, judging by the smashed pot plant that had strewn petals and soil across the hall – which had definitely not been there when Harry went in – it was long past the time when a proper adult should have intervened.
She leant on the doorframe and smiled as she saw what her boys had got up to. The bedtime story had truly become an epic tale, with various toys enchanted to play roles. She could tell exactly what and who each one was meant to be. A fluffy, black dog. A small mouse that squeaked when it was squeezed – not exactly the rat it was playing, but close enough. The wolf filling Teddy’s lap indicated his role, and she had a suspicion that the pot plant had once been the Whomping Willow before its accident.
That would make Harry… Yes, there he was, prancing around the room with a pair of Muggle Christmas reindeer antlers perched on his head. Catching sight of Ginny in the doorway, he hurriedly wrapped up his story of full-moon mischief, and the toys settled back into their places around the room.
“More story!” Teddy demanded.
“What do we say, Teddy?” Ginny asked, as she tucked him back under the sheets.
“More story, please!”
“Go on then.” Ginny smiled at the identical pleading expression on both Teddy and Harry’s faces. “But make it a little less eventful, all right?”
Quietly, Ginny snuck back out of the room and left the boys to their fun. Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
“So, Teddy, did I tell the one about your dad, Peeves and the chewing gum yet?”
Word count: 488
Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years; Mild profanity.
The weird thing is that it’s not the noise that gets to him, nor the shouts and damning cries of warning that mean it’s time to bloody-well-move.
The thing that really gets to Lee Jordan is the silence afterwards. When he’s sitting in some chilled hovel in the countryside with only a bunch of other Muggleborns and his old radio set to keep him company, that’s the time when he feels like he’s going to scream.
With only his thoughts to distract him, he tries to think of Fred and George. Of Alicia Spinnet and the way she used to yell at him across the common room, and the taste of her lips when she’d grow too tired to continue. He thinks of his parents sitting in front of the telly in Peckham and tries not to wonder if they’re still alive. One night, after a rare feast of stolen cottage pie, he even dreams of Peeves. God, he’d give anything to irritate Peeves just one last time—to see McGonagall storming into the dormitory while the poltergeist prances about like there’s no tomorrow.
There might not be a tomorrow for Lee.
He fiddles with the radio, listening to the shh shh shh of static grinding its way past his eyes and ears and skin, right through to the part of his brain that makes him want to open his mouth and sob. He hates that—the weakness and fear. The guilt.
Lee Jordan is on the run while there are others out in the real world crying, dying, and fighting for him.
Shh shh shh. He’s not sure what he’s listening out for. All official stations are under the control of the Death Eaters now and the independent ones have been replaced with that infernal static. The radio is silent. Everything is so damn silent.
Lee wants sound! He wants to speak, yell, scream. He wants someone else to talk to apart from the muted whispers of his companions. He wants to reach out to Fred and George, to Alicia, to everyone else who’s sitting in a cold shack, or hiding in a cellar, or sleeping on some park bench waiting for that sweet warmth of freedom. To Harry Potter!
He wants to bloody well fight.
This is what he knows: he knows how to talk and he knows how to get his voice out there. This is what it means: Lee can fight.
It starts out slow, rummaging through a few electronic shop bins to find some gear, casting a few experimental charms, then testing and testing and testing. At first, he feels like he’s speaking into darkness but he keeps on going because at least he’s doing something. The words unfurl like some hellish flower that’s been shut for too long, petals flushed and blooming out across Britain.
Shh shh shh.
When Lee Jordan speaks, those who are crying, dying, and fighting, listen.
He breaks the silence.
Title: The Almost
Word count: 493
Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years; Mild profanity.
It didn’t happen the way she’d expected.
She’d thought it would be a decision, a plan of her own making with proper timing and precise execution. There’d be time to return to her dormitory and gather her personal items before moving with intention to the seventh floor, to a magical place born of need and existing still because need has a way of multiplying exponentially. And at that moment, when the time was right and the circumstances favorable, Lavender would join her friends in the Room of Requirement.
In all the times she’d imagined her escape, never had it happened on a Monday. Never had her heart slammed so hard against her ribcage that she was sure her pursuer could hear it. And never, never had fear unfolded itself inside her until it filled every space, oozing into every pore of her being.
She couldn’t think. Her legs were too far ahead of her brain--their frantic pace causing her to stumble more than once as she ran up and up the stairs to the seventh floor. The sound of shoes-on-stone pressed down on her from behind as she spotted a suit of armor. There was no choice: she squeezed her body behind it and slid down, hiding behind the base and Disillusioning herself for good measure.
When Goyle came into view, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She sat with her knees pulled into her chest and shivers of fear prancing up and down her spine, thinking that there were worse things than the Cruciatus and Killing Curses.
The way he’d looked at her, his eyes glazed with hatred and hunger… her skin had turned to water. She’d run from class, retched in the loo, and hurried toward Gryffindor Tower, to relative safety.
One thing was certain: she would die before Gregory Goyle put his hands on her.
She tipped her head back against cold stone, and Parvati was there, whisper-laughing with Lavender in the library. Then she saw herself hand-in-hand with her dad in the park. And just there… her mum’s kitchen table, littered with hydrangea petals and a fruit pie set out to cool.
Such idyllic images had once been normal enough to be mundane. Now, regular life was the stuff of nightmares.
When Goyle finally left, she rose and paced, concentrating on her need until the room welcomed her. Surprised at first, her friends embraced her, laughing one moment and soberly demanding news the next. She didn’t tell them the worst, the Almost.
Later, she sat with Seamus on a hammock. “What’s it like here?”
“Quiet.” He grinned. “Sometimes I get so bored I actually miss Peeves.”
She laughed, the sound strange in her throat.
“But now you’re here.”
Indeed. She’d come without a plan on a Monday. And as she turned her eyes to the place where she’d arrived only moments before, she couldn’t help wondering, who would be next?
Title: When I Was Your Age...
Word count: 499
Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd years; none
A/N: In my head, the park I mention is not a Muggle park, but one created by Wizards for local families to use. Also, Victoire does like her pet names beginning with P.
I don’t have many memories from when I was your age. This one is rather hazy, but I think you would like it, if you were awake to hear it. I’m in the mood to reminisce, so I shall tell you anyway.
The sun was shining that day. Most of my early memories are sunny. This was around my third birthday, so I was just a little bit older than you. The whole family was out on a picnic. We spent the day in the park near Ottery-St –Catchpole. I’ve taken you there, of course, after visits to your Great Granny. I think that she must have wanted to get out of the Burrow that day, or we would have stayed there.
I was high on excitement and sugar and, being one of the only children there, I was getting a lot of attention. Your aunty Dominique, and Molly and Teddy must have been around too, but this was my day. You know what that’s like. All of the adults dote on you, because you’re the youngest in the family by such a long way. I think it’s going to stay like that for a while too, Poppet.
Your Great Granny had baked for us. She always did. There was chocolate cake, fruit cake, treacle tart, fairy cakes, and, my favourite, cherry pie. You don’t like it much, but you would have loved the chocolate cake. I think I tried a bit of everything. Grandpa – your Great Grandpa, not that you’ll ever meet him – was forever feeding me titbits, and I remember a fabulous multicoloured lolly that Uncle George gave me. It made my tongue change colour every few seconds. I will have to let you try one eventually, although I doubt they’re good for you.
I remember prancing around, pretending to be a fairy and poking people with the toy wand I had been given for my birthday. It was from Aunt Audrey, so it was a sparkly Muggle-style one, with a star on top: perfect for the little diva I was back then. It would suit you down to the ground too. With hindsight, I must have been so irritating. More than once Dad has said that I could be like a miniature Peeves when I was little and I quite understand what he means. I know I’ve told you all about Peeves the Poltergeist, but please don’t follow his example, Precious.
You are very sweet when you’re asleep. Even when you’re awake, you’re sweeter than I was at your age. George and Charlie were forever trying to lead me astray and wind up your Grand-mère, but I think they’ve grown out of that now. Anyway, I think I’m harder to irritate than maman. However, Petal, when you wake up, you do manage it on occasion. Still, at least you’ve never dropped a melting ice-cream on my head as I slept. That’s what I did to Aunt Ginny that day. I hope you don’t follow my example.