Hogwarts_Elite Fic Entries
Sep. 20th, 2007 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sophieisgodTitle: The Lonely Pyrophile
Word Count: 795
Rating: PG
Beta: The fantabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rayslady
Prompt: Write about a witch or wizard who lived before the intorduction of the Statute Of Secrecy in 1692
It’s rather difficult to Disapparate underwater. Disapparating in a duckpond is even harder, because the algae gets up your nose, your hair smells for days afterward, and the ducks get over-excited. Disapparating in a duckpond with your hands tied behind your back and your skirts billowing up around your head, whilst your fingertips grasp wildly for the wand hidden up your sleeve, is no mean feat.
There was a loud pop, and Wendelin appeared in the middle of the leafy clearing, soaking wet and spluttering.
“Duckpond,” she spat, shaking her head vigorously and dislodging a small fish from her ear. It hadn’t looked like a duckpond village. On the contrary, there had been an immense stash of firewood in the square which had looked extremely promising. Cursing Muggle stupidity, she severed her bindings impatiently and pointed her wand in the air.
“Accio Cuthbert!”
That done, she plonked herself down in the grass, which squelched in a rather dispiriting way, and waited. She had things to consider.
Temptress or hag? She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all. These Muggles were extraordinarily closed-minded; they only recognised a witch if she was stealing their husbands or scaring their children. Temptress was fast becoming tedious; she was sure she’d strained something, the amount of eyelash-batting she’d been doing recently. And for those imbeciles! Subtlety was in no way their strong point. Mind you, some of them were rather handsome. It must be all that lifting they had to do, bales of hay and so forth. She had to admit, Alfred had never had such definition. His talents lay elsewhere; she still blushed when she remembered the things he used to do with Growth Charms.
Hag was hardly dignified either, come to think of it. Wendelin was not an unattractive witch, not by anyone’s reckoning, and it still caught her by surprise, occasionally, when a man looked at her as if he might catch something nasty by standing too close to her. And she wasn’t entirely sure that she enjoyed reducing small girls to tears with a twitch of her freshly be-warted nose. The stench didn’t help either, of course, but Wendelin was nothing if not committed. Personal hygiene was simply a sacrifice that had to be made.
Snapping suddenly out of her reverie, she could hear a faint yowling in the distance. It grew louder and louder, and she grinned as a fat, black cat zoomed into sight, skidding to a dazed halt in front of her.
“Poor Cuthbert,” she soothed, and with a wave of her wand, the cat became a rather traumatised toad. Cuthbert quivered silently for a while, in a manner that Wendelin felt to be overly accusatory. She knew it wasn’t easy for him, being Transfigured, but once those Muggles got hold of an idea there was no telling them. A witch needed a cat, preferably black, preferably evil-looking. Admittedly, Cuthbert lacked devilish charisma, but he was much fonder of water than most cats. This was odd, which was better than nothing.
“I do know how you feel,” she told Cuthbert, a hint of sorrow in her voice. And she did. She wasn’t stupid, or deaf, and she knew what her friends were saying. ‘Weird,’ they called her. None of them understood why she chose to live like this, roaming from village to village, from stake to stake (and the occasional duckpond). Wendelin didn’t know how to describe the lick of frozen flame against her skin, couldn’t articulate how the cool, delicious tingling made her blood bubble and her knees go weak. She’d tried to show Alfred, once, but he wouldn’t let her; he’d been afraid she’d singe the sheets.
Sighing, she removed the moke-skin purse from around her neck, thankful that her Impervius was holding up, and spread its contents carefully on the grass in front of her.
“Hag,” she decided with a rueful smile, plucking a strand of duckweed from her hair. She unscrewed the lid of a small wooden vial and sprinkled Bulbadox powder over her hands and face, wincing slightly. She passed swiftly over the Bubotuber pus, but grabbed a handful of dead flies to sprinkle in her hair. She tapped her nose with her wand, once, twice; she felt it balloon and sprout something hairy.
The look of revulsion deep in Cuthbert’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. Satisfied, Wendelin gathered up her kit and prepared for departure. She Summoned Cuthbert, who was making one of his periodic breaks for freedom, and quickly Transfigured him again, adding a Full-Body Bind for good measure. She’d learnt the hard way that Cuthbert got scratchy when he travelled.
Right. New village, hopefully one without a duckpond. Cat Cuthbert tucked safely under one arm, Wendelin focused, and twisted…
Pop.
Title: Ernie Macmillan: Lust For Glory
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Prompt: Hubris
He could see it now. “Ernie: Lord of Potions”, on a nice big shiny plaque.
A slightly manic giggle escaped his lips. The fumes rising from his cauldron and filling the common room seemed to be making him giddy, which was a good sign, surely? True, he hadn’t slept for forty-two hours, but Potions glory was within his grasp!
“Aha! Peppermint!”
He tossed the green sprig into the cauldron with merry abandon, and something exploded.
He opened his eyes. His face was sticky. Hannah’s blonde head, concerned and upside-down, came into view.
“Ernie?”
“Jolly good,” said Ernie, and passed out.
Word Count: 795
Rating: PG
Beta: The fantabulous
raysladyPrompt: Write about a witch or wizard who lived before the intorduction of the Statute Of Secrecy in 1692
It’s rather difficult to Disapparate underwater. Disapparating in a duckpond is even harder, because the algae gets up your nose, your hair smells for days afterward, and the ducks get over-excited. Disapparating in a duckpond with your hands tied behind your back and your skirts billowing up around your head, whilst your fingertips grasp wildly for the wand hidden up your sleeve, is no mean feat.
There was a loud pop, and Wendelin appeared in the middle of the leafy clearing, soaking wet and spluttering.
“Duckpond,” she spat, shaking her head vigorously and dislodging a small fish from her ear. It hadn’t looked like a duckpond village. On the contrary, there had been an immense stash of firewood in the square which had looked extremely promising. Cursing Muggle stupidity, she severed her bindings impatiently and pointed her wand in the air.
“Accio Cuthbert!”
That done, she plonked herself down in the grass, which squelched in a rather dispiriting way, and waited. She had things to consider.
Temptress or hag? She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all. These Muggles were extraordinarily closed-minded; they only recognised a witch if she was stealing their husbands or scaring their children. Temptress was fast becoming tedious; she was sure she’d strained something, the amount of eyelash-batting she’d been doing recently. And for those imbeciles! Subtlety was in no way their strong point. Mind you, some of them were rather handsome. It must be all that lifting they had to do, bales of hay and so forth. She had to admit, Alfred had never had such definition. His talents lay elsewhere; she still blushed when she remembered the things he used to do with Growth Charms.
Hag was hardly dignified either, come to think of it. Wendelin was not an unattractive witch, not by anyone’s reckoning, and it still caught her by surprise, occasionally, when a man looked at her as if he might catch something nasty by standing too close to her. And she wasn’t entirely sure that she enjoyed reducing small girls to tears with a twitch of her freshly be-warted nose. The stench didn’t help either, of course, but Wendelin was nothing if not committed. Personal hygiene was simply a sacrifice that had to be made.
Snapping suddenly out of her reverie, she could hear a faint yowling in the distance. It grew louder and louder, and she grinned as a fat, black cat zoomed into sight, skidding to a dazed halt in front of her.
“Poor Cuthbert,” she soothed, and with a wave of her wand, the cat became a rather traumatised toad. Cuthbert quivered silently for a while, in a manner that Wendelin felt to be overly accusatory. She knew it wasn’t easy for him, being Transfigured, but once those Muggles got hold of an idea there was no telling them. A witch needed a cat, preferably black, preferably evil-looking. Admittedly, Cuthbert lacked devilish charisma, but he was much fonder of water than most cats. This was odd, which was better than nothing.
“I do know how you feel,” she told Cuthbert, a hint of sorrow in her voice. And she did. She wasn’t stupid, or deaf, and she knew what her friends were saying. ‘Weird,’ they called her. None of them understood why she chose to live like this, roaming from village to village, from stake to stake (and the occasional duckpond). Wendelin didn’t know how to describe the lick of frozen flame against her skin, couldn’t articulate how the cool, delicious tingling made her blood bubble and her knees go weak. She’d tried to show Alfred, once, but he wouldn’t let her; he’d been afraid she’d singe the sheets.
Sighing, she removed the moke-skin purse from around her neck, thankful that her Impervius was holding up, and spread its contents carefully on the grass in front of her.
“Hag,” she decided with a rueful smile, plucking a strand of duckweed from her hair. She unscrewed the lid of a small wooden vial and sprinkled Bulbadox powder over her hands and face, wincing slightly. She passed swiftly over the Bubotuber pus, but grabbed a handful of dead flies to sprinkle in her hair. She tapped her nose with her wand, once, twice; she felt it balloon and sprout something hairy.
The look of revulsion deep in Cuthbert’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. Satisfied, Wendelin gathered up her kit and prepared for departure. She Summoned Cuthbert, who was making one of his periodic breaks for freedom, and quickly Transfigured him again, adding a Full-Body Bind for good measure. She’d learnt the hard way that Cuthbert got scratchy when he travelled.
Right. New village, hopefully one without a duckpond. Cat Cuthbert tucked safely under one arm, Wendelin focused, and twisted…
Pop.
Title: Ernie Macmillan: Lust For Glory
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Prompt: Hubris
He could see it now. “Ernie: Lord of Potions”, on a nice big shiny plaque.
A slightly manic giggle escaped his lips. The fumes rising from his cauldron and filling the common room seemed to be making him giddy, which was a good sign, surely? True, he hadn’t slept for forty-two hours, but Potions glory was within his grasp!
“Aha! Peppermint!”
He tossed the green sprig into the cauldron with merry abandon, and something exploded.
He opened his eyes. His face was sticky. Hannah’s blonde head, concerned and upside-down, came into view.
“Ernie?”
“Jolly good,” said Ernie, and passed out.
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Date: 2007-09-22 12:32 am (UTC)Lovely additions to your fanfic index xXx