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  1. #11
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words
    Sorry for the delay. As I said in the announcement there was a voting anomaly that had to be looked into. After much thought and discussion with a mod and former mod, not connected in any way to the brawl, I have had to disqualify someone for duplicate votes.

    Please remember that although this is a game, and supposed to be fun, you want to win because you’re the best drabbler, don’t you?

    Eleanor Lupin (H) - Debt <2,0>
    Karaley Dargen (G) - Mudblood<1,2>
    Lolly Lovesick (H) – Perfection <1,0>
    The Owl (H)- The Stag and the Dragon <1,2>
    Majestic ginny (H) – How Vain, Romilda <1,3>
    AidaLuthien (H)– Scars <3,2>
    Weasley Mom (H)– Butterfly Blue <5,0>
    Maple_and Phoenix_feather (G) -Fighting <1,0>
    Free_Elf (H)– Charlie <1,0>
    The Cursed Quill (G)– Freedom Tattoo <0,1>
    Theo paleye (S)– Around the world and back again <6,4>
    Skarlett (H)- Rumour Has It <1, 9>

    Sadly leaving us this week are the lovely Ashleigh (Skarlett) and Nadia (majestic ginny) *insert sad face*.

    The winner is the fantabulous Lori, with an over whelming five votes and no negative votes. She will receive five points for being amazing (and persevering even though MNFF keeps banning her)

    Aaaand new prompt.

    Please take your inspiration from these lyrics to Overkill by Colin Hay.

    Day after day it reappears
    Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
    Ghosts appear and fade away
    There’s no catch. You can include the lyrics if you wish, and they won’t count towards the word count. (between 200-500 words)

    Please use this form:

    PHP Code:
    B]Word Count:[/B]
    All drabbles by Thursday 21st June 8PM (BST)


    The Fallen
    majestic ginny
    Broken Promise
    Lost Robin

    Sainyn Swiftfoot
    Sly Severus
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-17-2012 at 10:57 PM.

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  2. #12
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words
    Here are the drabbles for this week and the link is

    Please be aware that two of the drabbles have similar names, so make sure you differentiate when you vote.

    Here was the prompt.

    Quote Originally Posted by Overkill by Colin Hay
    Day after day it reappears
    Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
    Ghosts appear and fade away

    Remember to judge on SPaG, characterisation, use of prompt and whther you liked the drabble.

    There are nine drabbles.

    WORD OF WARNING: I am able to check IP addresses (I do most weeks) and thus I can check voting patterns. AnyIP addresses you use are logged by MNFF and I have the ear of Teh most fearsome Mod in existence. I won;t tell you her name, but she's fierce,and hasalongusername . Voting irregularities may lead to points deductions. However, if you make a genuine mistake, then PM me, and I can take it into account.


    Title: Insomnia
    Word Count: 464
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd, a bit of non explicit violence, lots of off screen character death
    A/N: The third line grabbed me and wouldn't let me go until this was written.

    Albus Dumbledore had chronic insomnia. The old headmaster of Hogwarts always had trouble sleeping. He was often spotted walking the halls of Hogwarts at night, and it was well known that he paced in his office many nights when everyone else was abed. His usual excuse was that his long years of studying late into the night had given him bad habits.

    He never told anyone the real reason. At night, the ghosts of those he failed come and haunt him. Father. Mother. Ariana. Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Dorcas Meadowes. James and Lily Potter. So many people whose deaths can be laid at his feet, grim trophies of the wars he has fought, the battles he has lost.

    “Why didn’t you stop me, Albus?” his father asked.

    “Why didn’t you help me, Al?” his mother murmured.

    “Why didn’t you love me, brother?” his sister whispered.

    “I tried. I wanted to. I did,” he replied to the empty air. Their spirits were resting somewhere else, these phantoms were the personification of his guilt. He knew that, but it didn’t matter.

    Father wouldn’t have stopped for anyone. He knew that, but part of him still believed that if he had tried harder, then Father wouldn’t have gone to punish those Muggle boys, and then Father wouldn’t have died in Azkaban, and then Ariana would have grown up with both her parents. Part of him still believes that ultimately, it is his fault.

    “Why did you let us die?” The Prewett brothers charged in perfect unison.

    “Why?” Dorcas coughed out, with blood.

    “Why didn’t you protect us?” James growled, arm curled protectively around Lily.

    “Why didn’t you save us?” Lily sighed.

    “I don’t know,” he answered. “I tried. I swear it.” He had done everything in his power, but it hadn’t been enough. Albus had buried members of his Order young enough to be his children, and his grandchildren.

    Tonight, on the first anniversary of the end of the war against Voldemort, he needed to drown these voices and remind himself of what was truly important.

    He drank for his father, who had been blinded by his love for his daughter. “I’m sorry, Father.”

    He drank for his mother, who worked so hard to protect her children. “I’ll work harder, Mum.”

    He drank for his sister, who he had always loved, even if he sometimes had trouble saying so. “I will always love you, Ariana.”

    He drank for Gideon and Fabian, who had died as they lived, fighting back to back.

    He drank for Dorcas, who had been the epitome of Hufflepuff’s hard-working attitude.

    He drank for James and Lily, who had sacrificed themselves for love.

    Albus swore to their spirits, “I will protect this future that you gave us.”

    He drank for Harry and for hope.

    ************************************************** ******************************

    Title: The Truth in Red
    Word Count: 498
    Rating/Warnings: 3-5th, violence

    Every night they come… Dora and Remus and my Ted.

    They come in the black of night, in dreams, bringing me temporal comfort and happiness, and I welcome them. Right or wrong, I welcome a make-believe world where we are all together again and none of the Truth is true at all. We sit at the kitchen table enjoying food and drinking wine, talking of what life will be like with a baby in the family. And in that hazy sweetness, I don’t know if any part of it was ever real, and I honestly don’t care. It is enough to live in what should have been.

    What would have been.

    Eventually, the scene blurs, twisting and turning until green blows the house apart, billowing up and out, blinding me in dream-panic. After, the floor is all that remains and they are lying upon it, soft like sleep.

    But they are not sleeping. Instead, it’s the Truth—painted red across the floorboards where Dora used to play.

    And Teddy screams and screams.

    My eyes fly open and I suck in a desperate breath as my heart slams a frantic rhythm against my ribcage. The terror that paralyzes me upon waking eventually releases me to the silence of the still, dark house. I say calming things to myself. I am safe in my bed under quilts made my Ted’s mother. Powerful enchantments protect us despite the Ministry-assured safety of the post-war wizarding world.

    I press the tips of my fingers against my eyes in frustration. The Ministry can declare anything, but murder has obliterated my home. I will never feel safe again.

    The house is too quiet.

    I hate Teddy’s screaming in dreams, but his silence when I wake is equally unnerving. I crawl out from the blankets and press my feet into uneven floorboards as I hurry to check on him.

    As moonlight tumbles in through the window, the slats of Teddy’s baby bed form a prison-like sillouette against the wall. His tiny chest rises and falls in that shadow, and I feel the ache of relief spreading out over everything inside me.

    I rock in the chair and watch him sleep. I study every shade of color that appears on his tiny head, and I watch his arms flail in newborn-fear every little while. Mostly, I watch his chest rise and fall.

    This is my only comfort.

    His life is new every morning. He returns every day like the sun, awakening for something that is the same as ever, and yet, holds the promise of something more, maybe. Maybe today the corners of his mouth will pull up in genuine pleasure, or he will tire of his view and roll over for the first time.

    I watch and wait: he is all there is now.

    Dora and Remus and my Ted come in the night, but ghosts fade quickly. Teddy stays with me, and I with him. He's the only Truth I’m able to bear.

    ************************************************** ********************************

    Title: In Dreams
    Word Count: 441
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd/none

    She saw them nearly every night, lined up like some kind of morbid parade, every single one of them. Petrified, because of her stupidity. She knew them all too well.

    Tiny, cheerful Colin Creevey as rigid as the camera clutched in his stony hands. The dark shadowy form of Nearly Headless Nick which always accompanied Justin Finch-Fletchley. Hermione, the expression on her face so familiar despite its stiffness, followed by Penelope Clearwater, complete with shining Prefect badge. Mrs Norris would even take her place, her yellow eyes all the more unnerving for remaining unblinkingly staring ahead.

    Most of the time, they stayed Petrified, eerily unmoving as they simply faced her. But other times, they talked to her, blaming her for what happened to them.

    Those dreams were the worst. She would always wake up from them with her heart pounding and sweat-soaked sheets twisting around her arms and legs. Then, she’d spend the next few hours pinching herself to stay awake, terrified that they’d be back again as soon as she fell asleep, shouting more vicious accusations.

    Her parents had noticed the growing bags under her eyes and the tired, dull expression she constantly wore. Perhaps they thought they were being subtle, but she knew the worried, whispered conversations were about her.

    There was nothing they could do though; she had to face this alone. If only she could beat this, stop the horrid parade of ghostly, frozen figures that kept visiting her dreams, then she would be strong. Strong enough that she would never do such a stupid thing again. Strong enough that he couldn’t touch her again.

    Things were already getting better. Several nights would go by – even a week – and they would stay unmoving and silent, not like when she first started dreaming and they would pour rage and blame at her every second night. If she concentrated hard enough, she could even push them away and stop the dreams completely for hours at a time while she slept peacefully.

    With enough determination, she could do this, she could beat him. Some part of her knew it was all his fault. The dreams and their Petrified accusers could almost be one last cruel trick emerging from the pages of the diary, or maybe even his ghostly form, to plague her until she admitted defeat.

    She wasn’t going to admit defeat. He was gone, the diary was gone, and she was going to make sure every last Petrified person was gone too. She would never be beaten again so easily, not if she had anything to say about it, and certainly not by some frightening ghosts in her dreams.

    ************************************************** ********************************

    Title: Forgiven
    Word Count: 282
    Rating/Warnings: None, first-second year

    He comes to me in my dreams. Night after night, he visits me in visions. He never says anything, he simply smiles.

    I’ve been told it’s survivor’s guilt, this thing I’m feeling. I don’t know if I agree, per se. I certainly don’t blame myself for his death. I doubt I could have saved him in any way.

    I think that the guilt I’m feeling has more to do with leaving for three years. The last three years of his life. I should have supported him, told him his ideas were brilliant, and so many other things. Instead, I let myself be swept away by success and power. I gave myself up to the Ministry and their plans. What I wouldn’t give to have one more day with him, just to apologize, to take the time to see his work. I’d even relish being the butt end of one of his jokes if just to see him laugh again.

    I suspect that this is why he haunts my dreams with the smile that we buried him with. He needs me to feel this guilt, or maybe I need me to feel this guilt. I’m not sure which. I both fear and love his night time visits. I dread the day when he leaves me, for a fear his memory will begin to fade and I’ll lose his face forever.

    Tonight, he smiles like he always does, but there’s something more. I slight nod to the head, a slight change in the curve of his lips, a look in his eye.

    He’s forgiven me. That in itself is clear.

    What isn’t clear is if I`ll ever be able to forgive myself for leaving.

    ************************************************** ********************************

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  3. #13
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words
    Title: Scarred
    Word Count: 499
    Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th - violence

    She can barely recognize the girl she sees in the mirror.

    There are lines on her face that she is far too young for, blending in with the other scars, and her mouth has a downturn to it that it never had before. Her eyes are duller, older, and her ribs are plainly visible through her shirt.

    But that isn’t the most dramatic change in Lavender Brown, not by far.

    But she can’t think about it, not yet. She pulls off her shirt, but her eyes close before she can look at herself. She doesn’t want to see them, not again…

    She bites her lip and opens her eyes. Her once unblemished torso has several long scars running down it, a raw pink where they have healed over. The lines make her side look as though it had been torn open by a clawed hand, and Lavender remembers far too clearly that it has …

    She’s so focused on the man she’s duelling that she doesn’t even notice the thing, not until it leaps onto her back and starts tearing at her skin. She screams, eyes welling up, and attempts to fight it off, but Fenrir Greyback is stronger than she, and slowly a blackness closes in around her eyes as she falls, blood pooling around her on the stones …


    Lavender’s hand flies to her pocket for her wand, and she doesn’t relax until she sees his face in the mirror.

    “Lavender? Are you alright?”

    Seamus needn’t have asked, though, her pounding heart and pale face is enough for him to know. He puts an arm around her.

    “Lavender, talk to me.”

    Slowly, the fuzziness in her mind clears and she finds that she is being carried. There are the typical bangs and rushing noises of spells all around her, but her eyes stay shut. If she looks, who knows who she might see crumple to the ground like a doll, who else might be bleeding to death on the castle floor …

    “Lavender, you’ll be okay – I know it’s hard, but I’ll help you. I’ll stay with you at the funeral, I promise…”

    She is lying on the cold stones of the Great Hall floor, and somebody is hovering over her, moving a warm cloth carefully around her wounds, which hurt like nothing she has ever felt in her life. She wants to protest, tell this person not to touch her, not to move her, but she can’t. Her eyes move to another girl on the floor. A girl in the cold arms of death. A girl who she knows …

    “Lavender. You’ll be okay. You’re safe.”

    She’s sitting on her bed in black robes, and Seamus has an arm around her, saying something that she doesn’t really hear.

    As the two stand up and exit the room, Lavender realizes that Seamus Finnegan is the only person she has left to live for.

    But he’s enough. For now, he has to be.

    ************************************************** ****************************

    Title: Mist
    Word Count: 451
    Rating/Warnings: 2nd years, mental disorder

    He comes to me day after day after day. Sometimes he is gone for a while, but he always reappears.

    He terrifies me.

    Not because he is threatening, but because I feel – I know I should know who he is. He is like a shadow, and every time when I feel like I can just make him out, really see his face, he slips away from me again. It’s like trying to take hold of a ghost. A ghost. Other ghosts appear as well and then fade away, but he is the only one that always returns. Every time he leaves, I am unsettled, restless. His name is like grey writing on a blue wall. No matter how hard I try I cannot read it, and yet it is impossible for me to stop trying. I lie awake at night, my heart racing. I know he is important, that he matters so much. I know that he means everything to me, but I don’t know why.

    Sometimes, when he’s here, I try to work up the courage to talk to him. There’s always a large wall of mist separating us, but there are days on which the mist almost seems to lift, and I almost seem to be able to reach through to him. Whenever I get close to him, though, I see the sadness in his eyes. It’s always the first thing that becomes really clear about him.

    His look of infinite sadness and hopelessness when his eyes fall on me shatters my heart every time. I grow scared of the pain, and so it becomes harder to try and see him clearly.

    I know he wants to talk to me, to reach me, maybe even as badly as I want to reach him. He hands me papers every now and then, secretly, wrapped around tiny, sweet balls. Every single one of those papers contains an important message. He seems so earnest when he gives them to me. I cannot read them, but I know what they mean. They mean that he cares, and that he will come back. I wish he would tell me who he is through them. There is so much must to ask him, but I never find a way.

    When I can manage, I give him a message back before he leaves. My messages always mean the same thing. I love you.

    I hope he understands.

    And then he leaves, and I toss and turn at night, trying not to fall asleep, because when I fall asleep, I forget. He gets swallowed by the mists again until he almost disappears. Until the next day. Everything else can vanish, but I will not let him go.

    ************************************************** *******************************

    Title: Strength and weakness
    Word Count: 453
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd years; possibly implied suicide. Oh, and it involves Snape's fantasies, which might repulse some
    A/N: Inspired by the fact that Snape's patronus was a doe, which probably meant that he felt protected by the memory of Lily.

    It’s like medicine.

    If he overuses it, it will become an addiction and a poison. If he uses it only when absolutely necessary, it’s a remedy.

    It’s not a charm or a potion. In fact it has nothing to do with magic at all, yet it strengthens him like nothing else. But he has to be careful – strength and weakness walk side by side. Too much, and he would be lost forever. Lost to memories that aren’t true.

    And that wouldn’t do. He has a task, a mission, a job to do, which means that he has to keep his head clear, his eyes opened and his heart closed.

    But there are nights when the reality of what he has to do is too gruesome to stand. There are nights when forgetfulness is needed for him to be able to carry on.

    This is one of those nights.

    Tonight he watched Charity, once a colleague and friend, die like one snuffs out a candle. His job demanded that he remained immobile.

    Nights like these make him wonder why he even bothers. They make him want to give up his task. The hiding and lying and spying. Declare his true colours and thus give himself over to certain death.

    And even if those thoughts only linger for a second, it’s enough to make him believe he might just do it. And the possibility of him not completing his mission is far worse than the possibility of not being able to come back from his realm of oblivion.

    If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to make an assessment of risks.

    Tonight, it’s necessary.


    As he closes his eyes, she appears. She slips into the bed and her body is warm beside him as she wraps her arms around his chest. She tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear and whispers:

    “Hello, you. What’s the matter?”

    He finds it hard to get the words out, a lump in his throat and a weight pressing on his chest, and she holds him even closer .

    “It’s alright, it’s alright,” she soothes, while stroking his hair. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

    “I’m not sure-- I’m not sure if I can do this much longer,” he says, clutching her hand. “I’m so tired.”

    “I know you are. But it won’t be much longer now.”



    “You know I’m sorry, don’t you? I never had the chance to tell you…”

    “Of course I know. It’s alright.”

    “Will you stay here? Will you hold me?”

    “I’ll be here until the sun comes up.”

    And with that promise, he sleeps.

    ************************************************** ********************************

    Title: Dreams
    Word Count: 442
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd years
    A/N: I'm not sure if I like this or not, but there you go...


    The dreams are still coming, thick and fast, night after night. I worry that I will disturb Harry with all of my tossing and turning. I try to conceal it from him, but I’m no actress. He worries about me. You wouldn’t want to hear about Harry though, would you? Do you hate the thought of him and me alone together for so long? You certainly didn’t want me to “choose him” over you. It’s your fault in a way for leaving, but my stomach still ties itself in knots when I think about what this must be doing to you.

    Maybe now you understand how I felt, seeing you with Lavender. Maybe or maybe not; I don’t know if you’ve made that connection. No, I mustn’t underestimate you. That’s part of the problem here. You feel second best, and you really, really shouldn’t, not to Harry, not to Viktor, not to anyone. You aren’t the second best to me, and surely that’s what matters. I hope that it’s what matters to you, but how can I be sure? I dream of you, think of you, all the time, but how can I know if you dream of me too? How can I know that you even want to come back?

    That’s what keeps turning my dreams into nightmares: the fear that you won’t come back. They start off with memories, simple happy memories of days spent in the library and the common room, of hot summers of laziness and laughter at the Burrow. In the daytime, I can lose myself in their happiness. At night, they are twisted. They always end in the same way: you rage, you yell, you leave. You don’t come back. You don’t want to come back.

    Every day without you, I have to keep reminding myself that maybe you can’t come back. How could you find us, even if you wanted to? I have considered leaving too, to find you. I always talk myself out of it. Maybe you have returned to Hogwarts and aren’t missing me at all. Maybe you have found somewhere else that you are needed. I have to stay. Harry needs me. God, it always comes back to Harry, doesn’t it?

    Day after day after day, here in this tent with him, nothing changes. The same thoughts wander round and round my head. Harry and I keep dancing round each other. We discuss the same things over and over, getting nowhere, stuck in an endless loop of approaching despair and boredom. The ghost of your absence hangs over everything we do. We dance around the ghost of you.

    Come back, Ron.

    ************************************************** *****************

    Title: In His Madness
    Word Count: 499
    Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years; Mild profanity, implied violence and character death, mental disorders.

    In his madness, he sees them. The dead walk through his days and seem far more alive than anyone within the walls of Azkaban. He wanted to rid the world of Mudbloods and blood traitors, he didn’t damn well want to spend the rest of his days watching them wander around his cell, more free and open and full of life than he will ever be.

    It seems, though, that Rodolphus Lestrange doesn’t have a choice.

    (In the beginning, there was a little boy. Even now, after all these years, his eyes are open and brown and he holds a teddy bear under one arm. Rodolphus can almost hear the screams of the boy’s parents, and it’s like he’s back upstairs in that dirty Muggle house, listening to Bellatrix do what she does so well.

    No one ever forgets their first kill.)

    Rodolphus wonders if this winter will ever end. He’s more than just mad now but madness is to be expected, after all. Azkaban doesn’t need walls thick with mossy stone to entertain its guests. When the waves soften on some rare day that the wind decides to shut the hell up, and the screams fade into a distant clamour, he can hear his wife laughing. It doesn’t bring him the comfort that it should.

    Sometimes, though, he hears a harsh, barking shout that he supposes may be laughter, too. He knows the dog it belongs to and that does bring him comfort. If Rodolphus is going to rot in this endless winter then Sirius Black can fester right along with him. He finds it amusing that the outside world despises the blood traitor just as much as they must despise him.

    (The day Regulus goes missing is the day he first feels fear. Not the everyday fear that being married to Bellatrix entails. But the fear that maybe, one day, he will die.

    Often, Regulus sits with him inside his cell all day, staring, staring, staring at Rodolphus until the light wanes and he can no longer see a thing.)

    The rattle breath of a Dementor echoes through the air, and he braces himself. He’s learnt to hear them now before the unending cold descends. It’s why he can still think. It’s why he can still hear Bellatrix’s laugh and know that it belongs to her. He may be more than mad but that doesn’t mean he’s not sane.

    (For some reason, the Longbottoms always come at dusk, and he can never quite tell if their eyeless faces are looking at him, or straight through his bones and into the stone wall beyond.

    They make him feel the most alive.)

    If Rodolphus could dream, he thinks the dead would walk through his nights, as well.

    For the first time in years, the mark is burning on his wrist and he knows the time will come when he can leave this rotting place. It will not free him, though. He’ll never truly leave.

    (Sometimes, Rodolphus sees himself.)

    ************************************************** **********************

    Poll will close a little later than normal due to the barmaid having a small thing called 'life' that occasionally intrudes.

    So get your vote in by Sunday 24th June 6PM BST.


    Banner by the fabulous Julia - theoplaeye

  4. #14
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    Eleanor Lupin (H) - Scarred <2,4>
    Karaley Dargen (G) - Mist <5,0>
    Lolly Lovesick (H) – Strength and Weakness <2,5>
    The Owl (H)- Dreams <1,2>
    AidaLuthien – Insomnia <4,5>
    Weasley Mom – The Truth In Red <2,1>
    Maple_and Phoenix_feather - Forgiven <1,4>
    Free_Elf – In Dreams <2,0>
    The Cursed Quill – Disqualified
    Theo paleye – In His Madness <3,1>

    The winner this week by a staggering FIVE votes to ZERO is the marvellous, hair-swirling, amazingly wonderful


    Sadly leaving us this week are Lolly Lovesick and Maple and Phoenix Feather. Both will be hugged squished and given shiny points for their house. (Lovisa also has five points for a stage win).

    Moving on (with indecent haste)

    Round Four of The Brawl is traditionally ... a brawl ... and a brawl about something trivial. This year is no different, however, I am planning a small smidgeon of a twist (or two).

    Your two (or more) brawlers must have been born before 1979.
    You must mention Madam Rosmerta. How you do this is up to you, but she has to feature somewhere in your drabble.

    EDIT: I realise I didn't mention whether your characters had to be canon. You may use OCs, however, I should warn you that traditionally OCs fare badly in the Brawl where people cannot make an immediate connection to them.

    Please use this form:

    PHP Code:
    B]Reason for brawl:[/B]
    B]Word Count:[/B]
    All drabbles by Thursday 28th June 8PM (BST)


    The Fallen
    majestic ginny
    Broken Promise
    Lost Robin
    Lolly Lovesick
    Maple and Phoenix Feather

    Sainyn Swiftfoot
    Sly Severus
    The Cursed Quill

    NB- We are now down to SEVEN Brawlers, and thus I have decided that this week only ONE brawler will leave us.
    Last edited by Equinox Chick; 06-25-2012 at 08:11 AM.

    Banner by the fabulous Julia - theoplaeye

  5. #15
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    The prompt is here

    Round Four of The Brawl is traditionally ... a brawl ... and a brawl about something trivial. This year is no different, however, I am planning a small smidgeon of a twist (or two).

    Your two (or more) brawlers must have been born before 1979.
    You must mention Madam Rosmerta. How you do this is up to you, but she has to feature somewhere in your drabble.

    When you vote, please bear in mind SPaG, characterisation and how well the prompt was followed.

    Title: Nymphadora
    Reason for brawl: Andromeda refusing to call her daughter Tonks (or even Dora, for that matter).
    Word Count: 499
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd years - none
    A/N: I don't know how good this is, but I had fun.

    Ted loved rainy days. There was a sense of security about being inside a warm house with rain beating down on the roof and a fire crackling in the grate, especially when you had a good book in your hand and a cup of tea next to you. Ted smiled and went back to his book, enjoying the peace.

    “How may times have I asked you not to call me that?” A door slammed in the hall and Ted sighed. Not this again...

    “I named you, so I have the right! Even if you force people at Hogwarts to call you by your surname, so help me I will call you by your name!” Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. Soon, Dora came bursting into the drawing room, followed by Andromeda.

    “You’re being stubborn,” Dora spat, “give up!”

    “Sooner or later you’ll realize that you have a perfectly lovely name and that you’re just being a teenager, I know you will! When I was sixteen I thought Andromeda was an odd name too! Then I grew up!”

    “That barmaid in Hogsmeade thinks her name is stupid too, and she’s your age! Rosemerta, that’s not nearly as bad as Nymphadora.”

    “Rosemerta? I went to school with that woman, and so help me, she is not going to be your role model!” Ted sighed and attempted to look as absorbed in his book as possible to avoid being dragged into the conversation.

    “That’s not the point! I’m just saying, Dadcalls me Dora, and I’m okay with you doing that, just … just enough with the Nymphadora!” Ted winced and feigned being preoccupied by his novel again, but he knew it was in vain. As soon as you're brought up, you’re dead, Ted knew that…

    “Lots of people dislike their name as a child, and what you’ll hate when you’re my age is being called Tonks! Am I right, Ted?” Quietly, Ted did agree, it was a rather silly name to call an adult…

    “NOBODY IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD EVER LIKE A NAME LIKE NYMPHADORA! I MEAN, HONESTLY! THAT’S NOT EVEN A BLOODY NAME!” Dora’s hair turned as red as Andromeda’s face; they both looked absolutely livid.

    “DO NOT TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” Andromeda finally yelled.

    Ted decided, in what he would later call a moment of insanity, to attempt to diffuse the tension a bit. “For what it’s worth, I tried to name you Hannah…”

    “SEE,” Dora shrieked, “EVEN DAD KNEW IT WAS RIDICULOUS!” That had not had the desired affect in the slightest. Ted sighed.

    Thankfully, Dora was fed up. She turned on her heel and stormed from the room. Andromeda sighed and sank on the couch next to Ted.

    “You know, you could just try calling her Dora…”

    “Oh shut up.” Andromeda snapped. Ted put an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

    “You know, I think it’s a beautiful name too.”

    And there they sat, listening to the rain pounding on the windows.


    Title: The Effects of Firewhisky
    Reason for brawl:Aberforth's snarkiness
    Word Count: 500
    Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years, substance abuse, mild profanity (if 'git' counts as that) and threatened violence
    A/N: The narrator is rather unreliable and mildly hypocritical. Any non-standard English and bad grammar is his, not my own. Also, I must warn you that this is the product of a sudden onset of writer's block, and as such is rather silly...

    Everyone knows Roy Wright’s a bit of an idiot; that’s why The Three Broomsticks ain’t doing so well lately, what with his missus needing to keep her feet up. Me, I’m a Hog’s Head man. That’s where I was when I last saw Roy. He was, to nobody’s surprise, off his head. Most blokes drink a bit when their first kid’s born, but Roy can’t do moderation even on a good day.

    I dunno why he came into the Hog’s Head. Him’n Aberforth have never really got on. I guess he just wanted to show off a bit, rub it in Aberforth’s face. Anyway, it was a quiet evening, it being a Tuesday, but Roy comes bellowing about his missus and interrupts all our conversations.

    “Shed it would be a girl all ’long, she did, ‘n you gotta trust women on these things,” he slurred, loud as could be.

    Course, Aberforth wasn’t best pleased. He’d been talking to this Greek-sounding bloke, trying to get hold of some cheap Gillywater I reckon. Anyway, when Roy showed up, this bloke started looking shifty and scarpered pretty quickly. Aberforth lost a pretty good deal, judging by the look on his face. That got him muttering, of course. Well, muttering isn’t exactly right. He was perfectly audible, if you wanted to listen.

    “I pity Madame Wright, having to deal with this on top of a new baby,” was the first remark, just loud enough for me to hear. Then it was, “Poor babe’s gonna have to live this all down later,” swiftly followed by, “Great example she’s being set.”

    His voice was getting louder the more irritated he got. By then, Roy was raving about how beautiful his daughter was going to be, how much like him she was going to look (to an unsubtle snort from Aberforth) and then how she had the perfect name to match.

    “Rosmerta Rebecca Wright, she is,” he declared, mangling the syllables horribly.

    Aberforth, sure of being ignored, gave the loudest snort yet. “A great one to try and say when you’re drunk,” he sneered.

    Roy heard him. Turning unsteadily to face the bar, his face grew even redder. “You insulting my daughter, you, you sad git?” he snarled, threat implicit in his voice.

    Aberforth wasn’t having any of it. He strode out from behind the bar, about ready to throw Roy out I reckon. Roy wasn’t going to make it easy for him, mind. He started to square up to Aberforth, despite being a foot shorter than him. Aberforth was puce enough to match Roy himself. He doesn’t take well to having someone abusing him in his own pub. Who would?

    Anyway, at that point the door opened, and, well, someone walked in, except I don’t actually know who it was. I kinda passed out at that point. I’d had some extra Firewhisky in celebration of Roy’s good news. Apparently, the fight broke up, but I wouldn’t know really. Embarrassing, starting a story that you can’t finish…


    Title: All That Glitters
    Reason for brawl: Umbridge's choice of writing utensil
    Word Count: 499
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd years, mild profanity, violence
    A/N: Yes, toads were harmed in the writing of this drabble

    Percy Weasley sat in the saccharine-sweet office of Dolores Umbridge and he couldn’t bloody well wait to leave. He could feel the familiar, sickening hole of guilt in his chest, he could feel a cold sweat prickling his brow, and he could feel the aching, ever-present exhaustion that meant he’d suffered another sleepless night.

    He glanced up at Umbridge and watched her scribbling notes on some parchment. It was then that he noticed her new quill. Percy inhaled deeply, glaring at the offending object and wondering how on earth he hadn’t noticed it before.

    The colour—pink, of course—was nothing exceptional. It was, however, encrusted with jewels that looked like they were worth a small home, and to top it off, there was a fluffy pink bobble attached to the end, that throbbed and swayed as Umbridge’s hand moved across the page, letting out small puffs of glitter with every flourish.

    Percy gritted his teeth. Muggles were being murdered every day by Death Eaters. Muggleborns lived on the cobbles of Diagon Alley, wandless and rejected from society. And all the while, here was Dolores bloody Umbridge, using this disgusting quill, which was probably purchased with public funds.

    Percy couldn’t stand it any longer.

    He felt the words bubbling to his lips, and, before an inch of cowardice could come between keeping his mouth shut and his impending outburst, Percy exclaimed:



    “I beg your pardon?” He could hear her voice shaking with a quiet fury.

    “I’m so sorry, Madam Umbridge. What I meant was, I find your quill rather offensive and would like to hex it into hell, if that is that okay with you?”

    And with that, Percy Weasley walked over to her desk and plucked the quill out of her chubby fist. He looked down at her toadish face in triumph.

    “You give that back, you ratty—”

    Percy yelped as she jumped out of her seat, faster than he thought possible, and hit him in the stomach with a hard jab of her wand. He doubled over, grabbing at her robes as he fell. She tumbled to the floor beside him, clawing at his face with her sharp nails.

    “Get off me, you hag!” yelled Percy, surprising even himself at his audacity.

    Suddenly, he felt a blow to the back of his neck. The lights dimmed as his head hit the floor with a thud.

    Oh, not again.

    Percy blinked, wiping his eyes. He looked over to where Umbridge was still scribbling away at whatever noxious pamphlet she’d decided to propagate. Obviously, she hadn’t noticed he’d taken a short nap, and a part of him wished the opposite. What he would give to face her wrath, to march out of the Ministry forever, straight to the Three Broomsticks for a nice pint and smile from Rosmerta, even if it was with a black eye.

    But that would require bravery, wouldn’t it?

    Again, Percy glared at the quill.


    Title: Besting Audrey
    Reason for brawl: to impress a girl?
    Word Count: 498
    Rating/Warnings: 3-5th, mild suggestive talk

    “They’re much more physical,” said Audrey, scrutinizing his brothers. “It’s interesting because you were raised together.”

    Percy shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Her innocent observation made him feel like the runt of the litter. “I’m not that different.”

    “Really?” she said playfully. “Right, then. Pick a fight with one of them.”

    How had he fallen for this strange girl? She was brilliant at work but impossibly spontaneous and often just plain silly in her amusements. He hadn’t considered that introducing her to his family would lead to him being all but declared an anomaly among his own brothers—a group she had already deemed “great fun.”

    Still, he adored her. “No.”

    “Like I said, you’re not physical like that.”

    Percy leaned in. “Say that again, and we’ll have to leave so I can reacquaint you with my own brand of physical,” he said suggestively.

    “Promises, promises,” she grinned, putting her index finger on his chest and pushing him back. “This first.”

    As petty and unreasonable as it was, he wanted to prove he could hold his own with his brothers. Feeling ridiculous, he began studying them, looking for a good candidate.

    Bill wouldn’t do—he’d only laugh if Percy tried to provoke him to anger. Ron’s temper was the most fragile, but it had been years since Percy had got the best of him, and this was no time for a challenge. With Charlie away, that left George, who was usually the instigator of such nonsense and not easily bothered. But with Angelina in the third trimester of her first pregnancy and their wedding day quickly approaching, George had become rather volatile lately.

    With his eyes on Audrey, Percy asked George about Angelina’s latest batch of hormones, mentioning her obvious edginess. The response was tense silence. “Getting pretty big, too,” he added.

    Despite warnings from Ron and Bill, Percy commented on her short temper, too.

    “Shut up, Percy,” George growled.

    Later, Percy would wish he’d heeded this warning, but instead, he kept on.

    “No worries, George. There’s an obvious upside. At this rate, her chest will be the size of Madame Rosmerta’s when the baby arrives.”

    He regretted it immediately—he’d never said anything so inappropriate in his life. Audrey was right: picking fights wasn’t in his nature. He opened his mouth to apologize, but it was too late. A fist slammed into his jaw with ferocious accuracy. He tumbled into a table, which splintered loudly as a glass dish slid onto the floor and shattered.

    Percy saw only circling stars and ceiling.

    Then Audrey was helping him up with an apologetic look on her face. Laughter drew his eyes left: Angelina had emerged from the kitchen and was now rubbing her knuckles.


    Percy sunk into humiliation. He’d been pummeled by his brother’s very pregnant fiancé, who had only one thing to say for herself: “Rosmerta wishes hers looked as good as mine.”

    Clearly, besting Audrey would have to wait for another day.

    ************************************************** *****

    Title: Mix-up
    Reason for brawl: Jealousy
    Word Count: 499
    Rating/Warnings: 1st 2nd none

    Everybody knew Rosmerta. She had just quit Hogwarts after her fifth year to work in her father's pub in the village. Everybody also knew that every other boy had a massive crush on her. Tall, blonde curls, a pretty face - who could blame them?

    Arthur Weasley was no exception. Although he had never said a word, Molly knew. He made it clear enough whenever they went to the Three Broomsticks together. Of course, it didn't bother her at all. It wasn't like Arthur was her boyfriend. She had never liked him that way. But Molly and her friend Sarah had decided that they had let Arthur get away unscathed for too long. Being their friend didn't mean that he should be able to escape Hogwart's two most notorious troublemakers forever. This was their final year, and Molly and Sarah had a reputation to uphold.

    Their plan was easy: they had made use of professor Slughorn's independent autumn partner projects to brew a simple love potion. Arthur fancied Rosmerta anyway – secretly. All they wanted was to get him to admit his feelings – in front of everyone who was making good use of the year's first Hogsmeade weekend.

    Sarah had added a few drops of the potion to Arthur's goblet in the morning - he only needed a small push after all - and they had set out for Hogsmeade together, the girls eagerly awaiting the results of their hard work.

    When they entered the pub, Arthur did his usual nervous twitching and neck-craning to see wether Rosmerta was behind the bar.

    "You go find us a table," he told Molly and Sarah when he spotted Rosmerta. "I'll order our drinks."

    "Do you think it's working?" asked Sarah once they were out of earshot.

    Molly shrugged. “Dunno.”

    “You do remember it was your idea, right?”

    Molly silently pushed through a small crowd and dropped down on a chair at an empty table.

    Arthur returned shortly after, a lopsided smile on his face. “She’s bringing the drinks in a minute.”

    “Isn’t that just so nice of her,” Molly mumbled without looking at either of them.

    Just as Sarah opened her mouth to say something, Rosmerta arrived at their table and set down three glasses. She turned to leave again, throwing Arthur a smile. His ears grew a deep shade of scarlet.

    In the blink of an eye, Molly had jumped up from her chair and emptied her Butterbear bottle over Rosmerta’s head.

    “Hah!” Molly exclaimed. “You’re not that pretty now, are you?”

    “What?” Rosmerta shrieked.

    “Don’t pretend!” Molly grabbed another glass from a table. “With your smiles and the hips and the legs, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing!”

    Too stunned to stop either of them, Sarah and Arthur could only look on as Rosmerta grabbed a fistful of Molly’s hair, just as Molly started pulling on Rosmerta’s ears.

    “What’s going on?” Arthur asked, completely baffled.

    Sarah shrank back. “Oh Merlin,” she muttered. “I must have got the goblets mixed up...”


    Title: Your Fault
    Reason for brawl: Tonks and Charlie get thrown out of the Three Broomsticks, but whose fault is it really?
    Word Count: 495
    Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th for a dash of profanity
    A/N: Tonks was born in 1973 and Charlie in 1972, according to the wiki

    “This is all your fault, you know.”

    Charlie turned to look at the girl in astonishment.

    My fault? We would never have been thrown out if you weren’t drunk!”

    He shivered at the fierce glare she gave him, although, if asked, he would blame it on the snow melting down his neck.

    “For the last time! I. Am. Not. Drunk!” She punctuated each word with a finger jabbed in Charlie’s face. “I’m just clumsy. If you hadn’t tried to flirt with Rosmerta’s new barmaid and asked for firewhisky, when any idiot can see you’re underage, we’d both still be in there.”

    “Madam Rosmerta hardly throws out every underage student who asks for firewhisky. She’d have no-one left in her pub! You’re the one who fell off your stool. What kind of sober person goes around falling off barstools? It’s obviously your fault.”

    “A clumsy one. Now, I am not going to stand here in the freezing snow arguing about who got us thrown out, when, firstly, it was obviously you with your I’m-so-charming-so-give-us-a-drink-love act, and secondly, I could be inside somewhere, where it is warm.”

    The girl turned on her heel and made to stride off angrily. Apparently, she had been telling the truth concerning her clumsiness, though, because she hadn’t gone more than two steps before slipping and landing in the snow.

    There was nothing Charlie could do to keep his face straight. Even the glare he was given couldn’t prevent a laugh escaping.

    “Oh, you think this is funny, do you? How hilarious, I’m wet and cold and clumsy,” snarled the girl as she pushed herself back to her feet. “Have a laugh at this then, you a***!”

    A face-full of snow was certainly effective at cutting off Charlie’s laughter. Spluttering, he wiped the snow off, only to be hit by a second missile.

    After only a moment’s hesitation, in which a third snowball hit his shoulder, Charlie bent and rolled a ball of his own. He probably shouldn’t have laughed at her, but then she had thrown three snowballs. That was a declaration of war!

    Somehow – Charlie wasn’t certain exactly how it happened – the fight went from snowballs to an all-out snow brawl. For someone who was supposedly clumsy, Charlie thought, she was damn good at shoving snow inside his jumper.

    Both were taken by surprise by the hands that yanked them apart, breaking up the fight.

    “Mr Weasley! Miss Tonks! What is the meaning of this appalling behaviour?”

    Charlie groaned as he recognised the voice of McGonagall. He would end up with detention for sure.

    Walking behind McGonagall as she led them back to the castle, lecturing every step of the way, Charlie leaned towards the girl.

    “So, Miss Tonks, it was lovely to meet you, but starting snowball fights? I don’t see how you can blame this one on me,” he whispered.

    “It’s just Tonks.” She glared again. “And shut up. You laughed at me. This is all your fault.”

    ************************************************** **

    Title: War Changes Everyone
    Reason for brawl: Snape is anti-social when he first comes back to Hogwarts to teach. McGonagall is determined to make him join in staff events.
    Word Count: 497
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd, none
    A/N: I worked with the noisy argument definition of brawl and not the physical fight version. I don't think McGonagall and Snape could ever come to an actual physical brawl. They're both too controlled. I also had a really difficult time coming up with a title.

    Severus Snape had been teaching at Hogwarts for almost a month and had barely said a word to any of the staff. He ate his meals silently, and refused to socialize. Minerva McGonagall tried to unobtrusively observe him and figure him out. He had never been a shy student, though with the notable exception of Lily Evans, had only Slytherin friends. Being the Head of Gryffindor House, she hadn’t known Severus well as a student, but she hoped to rectify that as colleagues.

    He was the youngest teacher by a decade, perhaps he was uncomfortable associating with his former professors as peers. It had been somewhat difficult for her to transition from being a student to teaching, just two years after graduation. Plus, everyone was dealing with the effects of the war. While her previous attempts to engage him in conversation had ended in failure, she was certain she would succeed eventually.

    She dropped by his office, after classes. “Do you have any plans for the weekend, Severus?”

    He looked up at her, almost puzzled that she was engaging him in conversation, then turned back to the essay he was grading.

    “Many members of the staff were planning on going to The Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta has just purchased the place from Old John, so we were going to congratulate her. You should join us.”

    “No,” he responded curtly. “Thank you,” he added a moment later. He scrawled a grade at the bottom of the parchment.

    His harsh refusal stunned her into momentary silence. “Would it hurt to socialize with your colleagues once in awhile?” Minerva snapped.

    He glared at her. “Yes.” The depth of his anger shocked her.

    “How?” she challenged him.

    He stood up, grabbing his wand. Severus approached her, wand in hand, and Minerva braced herself for a confrontation. Instead, he whispered a spell and a Dark Mark appeared, hovering in the air between them. She recoiled instinctively from the glowing green skull.

    “That is why,” he snarled, banishing the spell with a wave of his wand. “I was a Death Eater. I tortured people, and I killed them. I hunted down Muggle-borns. The only reason I’m not rotting in Azkaban with the Lestranges is that Dumbledore testified for me. No one trusts me, no one wants to ‘socialize’ with me.”

    He took another step forward. “Or do you deny it, Minerva? You should stop this pity project while you’re ahead.”

    She took a breath and stood her ground. “You were a spy for the Order, against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You should be-”

    “Proud?” Severus snapped, cutting her off. “Happy?”

    “Yes! You helped turn the tide against You-Know-Who. Your information was critical in ending the war,” she retorted, exasperated.

    His face twisted. “All I did was get her killed! Get out!”

    Minerva’s temper flared. “We all lost people, Severus! You’re not alone in mourning!”

    “Get out!” he roared. “You know nothing about me!”

    Clenching her fists in rage, she nodded curtly, then spun around and left.

    Madam Carmerta was not harmed in any of these brawls

    Banner by the fabulous Julia - theoplaeye

  6. #16
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    Eleanor Lupin (H) - Nymphadora <1,5>
    Karaley Dargen (G) - Mix Up <2,3>
    The Owl (H)- The Effects of Firewhisky <0,3>
    AidaLuthien – War Changes Everyone <1,3>
    Weasley Mom – Besting Audrey <3,1>
    Free_Elf – Your Fault <5,1>
    Theo paleye – All That Glitters <4,0>

    So, the winners this week are the lovely Bec (Free Elf) and the equally lovely (although occasionally ssssssscary) Julia (the Opaleye) who share the points

    Sadly leaving us this week is Nora (Eleanor Lupin) who shall be huggled and squished as she takes five well-deserved points back to Hufflepuff.

    WEEK 5

    Use this picture as your prompt.

    The girl has to have been a pupil at Hogwarts when the Trio were there, but doesn’t have to be the same year. You may alter the colouring. (So although she’s clearly a caucasion brunette here, you are allowed to make it Ginny or Angelina). It is the mood you are supposed to be inspired by.

    PHP Code:
    [B]Name:[/B] (this will be removed before I post)
    B]House:[/B](this will be removed before I post)
    B]Word Count:[/B]
    All drabbles to me by Thursday 5th July 8PM BST.

    Thank youuuuuuu


    Banner by the fabulous Julia - theoplaeye

  7. #17
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    Here are the drabbles for week 5

    Here is the voting link.

    Bear in mind SPaG, characterisation as well as whether you liked the drabble when you vote.

    AAAAAND - Bear in mind the prompt which was a picture of a girl lying on the grass - probably asleep and ....

    The girl has to have been a pupil at Hogwarts when the Trio were there, but doesn’t have to be the same year. You may alter the colouring. (So although she’s clearly a caucasion brunette here, you are allowed to make it Ginny or Angelina). It is the mood you are supposed to be inspired by.

    Title: Two Sisters
    Word Count: 499
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd years - slash

    It is their place. Two sisters, one clearing, hand in hand and hearts in silence. Astoria cannot remember when they came here for the first time, although she does remember her seventh birthday, Daphne leading her through the woods at the back of the property, and laughing as Astoria’s hands sparked with uncontrollable magic.

    She supposes that’s what makes this place special. They can laugh here. They can just be here. Father isn’t breathing down their necks with his slow, cruel words, whispering unsweet nothings in their ears about blood. Mother is not plucking at their robes, or pinching their cheeks to make them rosy and beautiful.

    They barely speak. They don’t have to. The words are brief, quiet, as if they belong in the clearing along with the birds and the soft hiss of trees.

    “Sometimes, I wish I could walk away from this rotting place and never come back,” Daphne says, one day, but Astoria can feel the words inside of her mouth, too. She keeps them inside, though, too scared to set them free, rolling them over her tongue until she swallows them down, and waits for them to rise up again like bile.

    It’s nearly a year until they do.

    Three days later, Daphne leaves. Her note is vague but she mentions another girl, a girl without pure blood. Astoria watches her father from her bedroom window as he burns what’s left of his daughter’s life. She can feel tears behind her eyes but they’re not from fear. They are from anger and resentment. They are also from relief. None of those burnt items matter to her. As long as Father doesn’t know about the clearing, he can’t burn it. He can’t burn their most precious possession.

    In her dreams, Astoria lies in the grass, alone. Daphne never comes no matter how long she seems to wait. It’s like she’s on the run from more than just Death Eaters.

    When Harry Potter rises above them all in victory, the words rise up along with him. She thinks of the clearing, she thinks of her sister, and her sister’s dead lover. She whispers the words out loud for the first time.

    It takes her a few days between the Dark Lord’s death and finally returning to their place.The grass is long and thick. Nothing has changed. She lies down and stares up at the bleak, overcast sky, and feels older than she ever has since her father set fire to a pile of things outside her bedroom window.

    When she hears another pop of Apparition, she doesn’t need to turn her head to know who it is. The hand that slips into hers is as soft as she remembers. The birds twitter, the leaves hiss. Shared tears fall down the cheeks of two sisters, and their knuckles turn white as if they’re afraid the future will take back what they’ve lost, once more.

    They don’t speak.

    The words have already been set free.

    ************************************************** **************

    Title: Staying Still
    Word Count: 494
    Ratings/Warnings: 3rd-5th, implied dirty thoughts
    A/N: I got an interesting mixture of carefree, unintentionally sexual and innocent from this picture. Also trying to figure out lie/lay/laid/lain hurt.

    Rolf Scamander had never managed the trick of staying still. He was always full of nervous energy, and he could never stop moving. He was constantly tapping or shifting. His grandfather, Newt, had taken him abroad several times on research trips when he was young, and Rolf had gotten addicted to traveling and finding magical creatures.

    He had only graduated from Hogwarts at his parents’ insistence. In class, he drew maps, places he wanted to visit, or creatures from his grandfather’s book, instead of taking notes. By sixth year, when he wasn’t at Hogwarts, he wasn’t in Britain. Often he had no plans beyond a Portkey to go somewhere, another to come home and a list of creatures to try and find. Sometimes he would stay with friends or former colleagues of his grandfather, sometimes he would camp out, or stay in a hostel.

    Rolf had circumnavigated the globe before he was eighteen, and he never stopped traveling. For his birthday, he moved to South America to work on a Peruvian Vipertooth reserve. The next year, he traveled the South Pacific, looking for new species of insects. Then he was off to the steppes of Central Asia. He only stopped in London to drop by his parents’ flat and have tea before he was off again.

    Rolf had traveled with Luna Lovegood before. She was a prominent naturalist, and he didn’t dislike company, he just hated being sedentary. Most people didn’t understand that but Luna did. Plus, Rolf had enjoyed discussing various creatures with her in Thailand, particularly the likelihood of discovering a new breed of Hippocampus in the South China Sea. When she owled that she would be coming to South Africa, where he had been studying Fwoopers, he had eagerly met up with her.

    Today was the third day of their expedition. After waking at dawn, hiking, and debating various aspects of Erumpent mating behavior for several hours, they had decided to rest while the sun was high.

    Luna had kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the grass without a care in the world. For a moment, she had just lain there, barefoot, knees up, fabric of her shorts slowly drifting up. Rolf had been unable to stop staring as little by little more skin was exposed. Then she had unbuttoned the top of her shirt, revealing even more pale skin. She had stretched out like a Kneazle, long dirty blonde hair twisting over her shoulder and behind her.

    She had fallen asleep like that, shirt falling open, shorts riding up, legs askew, hair fanned out. Rolf had never seen anyone with manage to look so simultaneously innocent and so … he swallowed, unable to finish the thought. He had seen women that were more gorgeous, that were more enticing, but he fell in love and out of love quickly, and he kept moving. Now, Rolf was absolutely transfixed where he stood: he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.


    Title: Better Than Trees
    Word Count: 500
    Ratings/Warnings: 3rd-5th
    A/N: set at Hogwarts, year of the Carrows

    Ginny lies on her bed with the curtains drawn. It’s been a very bad day.

    There are days that are good because they’re uneventful, days in which she doesn’t see or hear of a student being abused by the Carrows or their Slytherin thugs. There are times when she and her friends are able to protect someone or give hope to a student or two.

    None of those things happened today.

    She reaches behind her head and pulls the pillows out from under her, wanting to lie flat, to be on an even plane with her whole body against the bed, one pressed purposefully into the other. Her mind clears and there is only one thing: Harry.

    He was on her mind before she opened her eyes this morning, and nothing has got him out of it since. Having Harry at the center of her thoughts makes a regular day at Hogwarts extremely difficult for Ginny to navigate. How can she maintain a strong appearance for her friends, keep up morale? How can she be alert for danger?

    The answer is, she can’t.

    Had she dreamt about him last night? That might explain it, but she still worried. Though not generally prone to superstitious inclinations, Ginny can't help wondering if there’s a reason—that it means he’s in danger, or perhaps, that something has already happened to him.

    Thoughts like these keep her on edge.

    She studies the folds in the rich crimson fabric, how they fall in lines and waves like a seascape all around her. She closes her eyes and imagines the outline of her body on the bed: turned slightly, relaxed. She’s tired--not the kind of tired you feel in your body, but the kind you feel in your heart, in your very skin. Right now, she wants to cry. Or quit. Or cry.

    But she won't.

    Instead, she escapes. She imagines her body sinking through the blankets, leaving a hole shaped like herself, through the mattress until she’s under the bed, looking up at the wood slats and the springs. Still, she sinks and sinks, through the floor, floating until she lands softly in a grassy area by what sounds like water. She opens her eyes and they are everywhere overhead: trees and trees, stretching their arms out to one another—waving and embracing like baskets woven loosely together. The sun breaks through the leaves, shimmering green, hurting her eyes in the best way possible.

    But better even than trees, he is there with her, all green eyes and whispers and hands and kisses.

    ************************************************** *************

    Title: Sleepy Summers
    Word Count: 440
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd/implied character death

    Summer was the time for bare feet, for dancing and laughing, for talking and kissing before sleeping the long afternoons away under the warm sun. They could go the entire day, outside in the fields beyond her house, and never see a single other person. The world belonged to them, and they thought it would never end.

    Summer is the time for bare feet, for long peaceful walks, for reminiscing and grieving before sleeping away the sorrow, wrapped in sunlight that can never be as warm as another’s arms. The fields that once seemed deliciously private are now lonely in their emptiness. She has learnt that all things come to an end, happiness and sadness alike.

    They were children and adults, all at once. The games they played – running, chasing, climbing – and the way they shared a delight for the simple pleasures of a smile or a bunch of wildflowers. The plans they made for the future: serious ideas of moving out of home, finding jobs, becoming independent, but together – always together.

    Everything was done to the fullest extent as they threw themselves whole-heartedly into living. Even the exhaustion found at the end of each day was welcomed, a reminder of just how full the hours had been and a promise of new joy to be found in the new morning.

    She has left childhood well behind her now. But he will never age, frozen in her memory, still teetering on the edge of adulthood. Delight is harder to find, diluted into bittersweet. The plans had to change, or be reluctantly abandoned altogether.

    Everything she does can never be as full. Oh, she hasn’t stopped living, but how can she throw her heart into it when a part of it has died?

    “Come on, Susan!” His cry would reach the whole curve of the blue, blue sky, and she would laugh and follow in whatever new game he had devised. And then, when they tumbled to the grass, he would hold her and whisper, “Don’t ever change, Susan. You’re perfect – I love you.”

    “Come on, Susan.” The words now come only from her memory, and occasionally, as a quiet order from her own mouth. Instead of games, they prompt a new attempt to push aside the memories, to move on. But it is hard; as though she is leaving him further and further behind with every second that passes. No one can stay the same forever, except for those who stay unchanging in memory.

    They lay side by side in the grass, relaxed and warm, and slept.

    She lies in the grass, despite the aching emptiness beside her, and sleeps.

    ************************************************** ********************

    Title: From the Bottom of His Trunk
    Word Count: 495
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd years, character death
    A/N: I didn't know how to explain who the girl in the photo was, so I haven't!

    Dennis and I are flicking through his photo albums, the ones that were buried at the bottom of his trunk. There five of them, one for each year he was at Hogwarts. He sent many of his photos home to Dennis, but Dennis never saw these ones, not even in that last year at home. They spent a lot of time together that year, discussed a lot of things, but even then Dennis didn’t see these pictures.

    All of these photos are Muggle images. Dennis always received moving ones, right from the start. The magic was what made those photos special to Dennis, but these albums are special without it. Most of the photos are of people. Between us, we can recognise most of them, as they were students at the same time as us. We realise that several of these people died in the war, but we carry on looking anyway. We need to see, to remember.

    It’s actually the few people that we don’t recognise who stand out. They are enigmas, patches of fog in our minds. There is a young blonde boy in a Slytherin robe—no, not Malfoy; we would recognise him—and an adult we assume to be a teacher. There is one who stands out even more, though. Her black-and-white photo is in the album that we think comes from his last year, his fifth. She looks older than he would have been at the time, and we don’t think she was aware that he took the photo. It looks like she was asleep.

    The oddest thing about the photo is the clothes its subject it wearing. They are definitely Muggle, but there doesn’t seem to be very much of them even by Muggle standards. Dennis knows more about that sort of thing than me, and he agrees. Who is this girl, and why is she asleep on the grass, barely clothed? How is it that we don’t recognise her from Hogwarts? Was the photo even taken in Hogwarts? Why did he take it, even?

    There are just so many questions it prompts. What did she mean to him? Was she a stranger who just happened to catch his eye, or something more? It’s just one of the mysteries he left behind. Or rather, he didn’t leave it; he had to leave, and he couldn’t take it with him. Dennis thought he knew his brother. As two Muggle-borns, two outsiders in a mass of people who had always known, they couldn’t grow apart.

    It is only now, as we are going through the baggage a life leaves behind, that we can see how little of him Dennis really knew. Is it possible to ever know someone completely? I doubt it more and more. There will always be something left in the dark, whether it is a pretty, sleeping girl not mentioned, or some deep, dark secret. Thankfully, Colin wasn’t the dark type, but even he had secrets.

    ************************************************** *****

    Title: Engaged
    Word Count: 499
    Ratings/Warnings: 1st/2nd, Pottermore Spoilers
    A/N: Worst chopping ever...

    A beautiful Scottish summer is coming to an end. Soon, it will be time for the harvest. Minerva has already plucked some wheat from the neighbour’s field.

    Her heart stopped for a moment when Dougal went down on one knee in the middle of the field. Of course she said yes. She couldn’t imagine a better man for herself. They could laugh, or sit in silence, or talk about anything. Dougal sometimes had to explain Muggle policies to her, thinking, that she had attended a sheltered lady’s school until recently. But even at Hogwarts, the Great War hadn’t passed unnoticed, and Minerva knew enough to want to discuss the reshaping of Muggle Europe with Dougal. There was nothing she didn’t want to discuss with Dougal. She would never grow bored around him, and he would never cease to challenge her to a different way of thinking. This was true love.

    Minerva twirls the wheat between her fingers as she lies on the grass. The ground smells rough and fresh, and she absorbs it with every fibre. Surely, this is where she belongs.

    When Minerva was young, her parents never yelled or slammed doors or disrespected each other. Minerva had always been observant, though, and it never escaped her that her parents were deeply unhappy, that they never went to the village fair together, or that her father never asked her mother about her day. Her Transfiguration project wasn’t the only reason why she had stopped returning home for the Easter holidays during her final years at Hogwarts. It was the way her parents looked at her schoolwork, her mother with tears and longing in her eyes, her father with perpetual mistrust. Or that she was never allowed to practise Quidditch, not because of the neighbours, who were shielded by trees, but because neither of her parents could bear the sight.

    She takes the ring off her hand and looks at it, the light from the stars reflected beautifully in the smooth surface. It reminds her suddenly of one of the hoops on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, and the irony of it almost makes her smile.

    After she and Dougal had kissed each other goodnight for the first time as betrothed, she returned to her parents’ home for supper, and to bring them the good news. How would they react? She knew that her parents had eloped, so she was hoping for some good will. Really, they had to understand. Wasn’t this the exact situation her parents had found themselves in some twenty years previously? It is as she put her hand on the doorknob of their home that she realised what this similarity might mean. She had never told Dougal what she was. Neither had her mother before she got married.

    Minerva knows she can’t make him go to London, and she knows she can’t pass up a position at the Ministry. Most of all, she knows she could never bear to see him as heartbroken as her father.

    ************************************************** *******


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  8. #18
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
    Equinox Chick's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words

    Karaley Dargen - Engaged <1,6>
    The Owl - From The Bottom of His Trunk<1,2>
    AidaLuthien – Staying Still <3,1>
    Weasley Mom – Better than Trees <3,1>
    Free_Elf – Sleepy Summers<1,1>
    Theo paleye – Two Sisters <3,1>

    So it’s a three way tie at the top, and thus Aida, Lori and Julia will carry off two points each. That’s how tough it’s getting these days.

    Sadly, we say goodbye to the lovely Kara, the last Gryff standing, who takes away participation points and a stage win. She will be missed, even if everyone is jealous of her mane.

    Hmmm, plenty of badgers brawling, but that snake is still slithering around.

    Moving on ....

    Week 6

    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.


    Any characters, any era, any place. See, occasionally I am kind.

    Use this form for your entries:

    PHP Code:
    B]Word count:[/B]
    All drabbles should be PMd to me by Thursday 12th July 8pm BST.

    Madam Carmerta

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  9. #19
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
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    Jun 2008
    using rare and complicated words
    Here are this weeks drabbles. The prompt

    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.

    The voting link is

    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.

    ************************************************** ******************

    Title: Bedtime
    Word count: 496
    Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd/none

    “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?”

    ************************************************** ***************

    Title: Shh
    Word count: 488
    Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years; Mild profanity.
    A/N: -

    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.
    A/N: -

    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.

    There were.

    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.

    He’d followed.

    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.

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  10. #20
    Wizengamot Hufflepuff
    Kill the Spare
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    using rare and complicated words
    Million, million apologies for the delay. Your barmaid was out enjoying a spot of lunch.

    The Owl - When I was your age <0,10>
    AidaLuthien – The Birth of Peeves <3,4>
    Weasley Mom – The Almost <1,0>
    Free_Elf – Bedtime <6,1>
    Theo paleye – Shh <6,1>

    Soooo, the two winners, with two points each, are Bec (Free Elf) and Julia (the opaleye). They get bragging rights for the week (far more important than points.

    Sadly leaving us this week is the lovely Sophie (the owl), who has battled as bravely as Hedwig and a lot better than Errol. Let us hug and squish her.

    And then there were four ...

    Four House Ghosts. Four Marauders

    Your prompt is to take one ghost and one Marauder and write a drabble about them. They must interact, there must be a conversation. They must mention cheese ... I lied, they don’t have to mention cheese at all. As a heads up, the Marauders don’t have to be school age but this conversation has to take place at Hogwarts.

    Use this form, please

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    All drabbles to me by Thursday 19th July 8PM BST.


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