Mind if I do the same challenge, nmb? Haven't read yours, but I seriously doubt we'll have similar ideas.

This thread is fun. Wish I'd find it sooner.

EDIT: God damn it, nmb, that was some depressing shit. Still good, if a tad melodramatic (as mine is shaping up to be) but fucking depressing.

 

Go ahead. I seriously doubt it too, unless you're also totally mental.

 

Zennith, if Tom Riddle wasn't destroyed in the chamber, then he would effectively function as Voldemort's horcrux. So it would've been impossible for Voldemort to have been defeated in your fic.

 

I have a few more lines for other challenges if no one takes this one. Anyone can take them.

#2
"The only limits of magic are the ones that we believe in."

#3
"Not even death can save you from me."

#4
"What does not kill you, only makes you stronger."

Spoiler

I will give a thumbs up and a cookie to whoever turns #4 into a vampire fic."

#5
"Wise men speak because they have something to say. Fools speak because they have to say something."

If you want to limit yourself timewise, 30 minutes each for 2, 3 and 5, one hour for number 4.

 

This damn one-shot took me over three hours to write. So I hope you like it, and I'm looking at you, neren. Yes, this was your fault!

Don't ask me how that line turned into this. I just don't know.

Line: "Can't you open your eyes for just one moment and see what is right in front of you? This is the future of wizards, of England, of humankind. This is the moment we've all been born for, careening towards it without conscious thought."





It began with an idea.

On a random day at an odd time, in company of unimportant colleagues, an idea was born. The man cradled it and fed it for days. It grew. Very quickly his responsibilities suffered, for the idea consumed the vast majority of his time, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed it had taken a life of its own.

Years later a man was born. And once again, an idea grew and spread, and with him to guide it, wizards and witches were soon drawn towards it. Some said sanity had taken a leave. To rule them all and live in peace, life as it should be, the man would announce grandly in his meetings.

Then a third man came along. He was easily the youngest and most inexperienced of the three. But he had an idea too, and ideas don't care about age and gender, about blood and power. This idea grew as well, and with enough time people flocked under his banner, until the populace was split in three.

Each side claimed a side of the triangle, each side placed a hand on the line, each side pulled as hard as it could from the cold, round stone of Death. But the pull was equal and the struggle seemed to last forever. Not one of them managed to get a hold of the three Hallows, and eventually each idea and the man that wielded it kept one.

With power divided the war dragged on. What had once been a glorious endeavor, a task to be carried out with pride – an honor, gentlemen, the highest honor there is – it slowly became extenuating and daunting, a never-ending blood-bath in which the mighty fell, the weak fled and the brave cowered.

Thousands died, their souls lost to the whims of The Three men with different ideas. The cobbled streets were painted with the blood of England's wizards, hundreds rose from the dead to smother the living, and by the beat of the Resurrection stone they danced, chaos in their wake. The soldiers tired, the people begged for an end, begged for peace, and wizarding kind seemed to have hit a wall in its quest for progress...

...but there were three that never gave up, three that wielded Death's creations, three whose ideas were stronger than mere life.

And so years later, as the burning light of an idea dimmed, the room was plunged into darkness, and somewhere to the side the velvet curtain rose and vanished. The blinding white slowly left the eye.

The huge Hall was clear of debris, unlike the rest of the castle, and the floor was split three ways. Matching thrones of maroon leather sat in silence, each facing the other two, and the torches suspended by the walls barely pierced the darkness with their green flames.

A clinking noise rang clearly through the mostly empty room. A handsome man in his seventies raised a glass of scotch and twirled it in his pale, long hands. He took a delicate sip and sighed in satisfaction.

"The very best, old friend," he said with an easy smile. "I must applaud the work of your people. It seems they have a nasty habit of beating mine when it comes to finding these jewels."

A wry chuckle was heard from the throne by the translucent window panes. Moonlight crawled through and spilled onto the floor, and a mane of straight white hair and beard became visible as the man leaned forward.

"Time and time again I have tried to tell you, Tom," the old man said. "My men rarely beat yours in these little quests for treasure. As per usual, you fail to see how you can create what you don't have, rather than trying to steal it in the first place."

"A most noble view, Dumbledore," drawled Tom. "But it is one we do not share. And while you bring the topic of views to the table, do you perhaps agree it is time to begin this meeting?"

"I had hoped for some little pleasantries first," Dumbledore replied amicably. "But alas, you are correct. Perhaps we should attend to business." He chuckled. "When was the last time we met, my friends? I'm afraid my old mind is playing tricks on me."

The third man, who until now remained silent, took a sip of his drink and cleared his throat. Whether because of the flickering green light of the torches or because of some other trick of the light, his eyes were a vivid green; no white, no black in them, but completely green.

"Seven years, as you well know, old man," he said without looking at either of them. He distractedly traced a finger around the edges of his glass and the contents slowly turned in circles, following his movements. "And I'm sure you also remember how well that meeting ended."

"Indeed, indeed," Tom said. His red eyes sparkled with smug triumph. "A glorious day for my people. The Resurrection stone finally found its way to the hands of its Master."

"And so did the Wand," Dumbledore said.

"As did the Cloak," the youngest added.

Silence fell on the room. Each of the three drew the memories of their last meeting to the forefront of their minds. In some ways they had all lost, and in some ways they had all won. Though they had come hoping to reunite them all, they had parted with only one in hand.

"Is that why you called us here today, Voldemort?" His green eyes turned to fully rest on the one named Tom. "To barter with the Deathly Hallows?"

"Oh, Harry, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I very much doubt the Tom Riddle I know would be willing to trade. In his mind, his is the most powerful of the three." He smiled at Tom. "Am I right, Tom?"

"That is correct, Dumbledore," Voldemort replied. There was a hint of a warning in his tone, as if the old man needed to be put in place. "You have always held your beliefs above anyone else's, yet my beliefs are the ones that brought this about. My beliefs have shaped our country, and the very best you could do was watch it happen."

"Now, now, gentlemen," the youngest said, and the other two could tell he was smiling. He once again looked at Tom Riddle. "If we're not here to trade, then what is it? Are you deliberately wasting our time while you attack somewhere else?"

This time it was Voldemort who chuckled. The sound was foreign to most people, but the few that had heard it before shied away from it, as if the very sound meant something terrible was about to happen. Not these two, however. Never these two.

"There is no trade, my friends," he whispered, his voice acquiring a hissing quality. "For the first time in seven years we meet for something new, for something better. And isn't it fitting? The last time we met was because of an idea we shared, one that indirectly made the world into what it is today. And now..." He leaned back in his throne and looked at the two of them. "Now I have a new idea, and this one will put an end to the conflict forever."

Dumbledore’s right hand went to settle on his long, white beard. His face blank, he twirled the white locks in silence while he pondered Lord Voldemort’s words. Harry leaned back and put away his glasses. The green of his eyes seemed brighter without the layer of glass. He absent-mindedly toyed with his willow wand while his thoughts centered on Voldemort’s words, too.

“A new idea, you say,” Dumbledore whispered, and Harry thought there was a hint of tremor in his voice, as if there was nothing more terrifying than an idea. Dumbledore’s hand left his beard and shakily gripped his drink. He stared at it for a moment, and in a weak voice repeated, “An idea…an end to the war.”

“Yes, yes,” Voldemort said. “An end to the war. How long has it been now? Nine years, gentlemen. Nine long years of fighting for equality…” He tipped his glass in the direction of Dumbledore. “…for freedom…” He tipped his glass in the direction of Harry. “…and for power.” He smiled coldly.

“I’m interested, Voldemort,” Harry said. “Speak your mind.”

They both looked at Dumbledore, who sighed resignedly, but in the end nodded.

Voldemort stood up and began to pace around the room, walking in circles. He walked behind both Dumbledore and Harry, and they tracked him attentively with their eyes.

“I propose a truce,” he started. “No, not a truce – simply an end of the conflict. It has become clear that none of us can win the war on his own. Our men are tired, children inexplicably die at birth, the dead walk the streets… Nothing is as we once thought it would be, as we thought it should be.”

A flick of his wand brought his drink hovering towards him. He took a long sip and sighed contentedly.

“But how, I ask?” Voldemort continued as he paced around the room. “I know we have all considered the possibility of an end, but how to carry it out? Whose views should we follow, to impart upon society, or what little it’s left of it?” He shook his head. “No, we all know that would not work in the long run. We are too strong, too sure of our convictions, too intelligent and independent to follow another wizard’s footsteps.”

He paused in the very center of the Great Hall and Hogwarts seemed to hold its breath.

“There is only one solution. Gentlemen, I propose we take a different world for each of us.”

First there was silence.

Then Dumbledore slowly said, “A different…world?”

“I am talking about death, Dumbledore.” The old man’s eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles. “The three Hallows, the Deathly Hallows. Do you not see it? It is death they control. With all three objects in our possession we can beat death. Every other legend about them has been true – you need but look at the world to understand how true this is – so why would the last part not be true?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Harry said. “How is cheating death going to grant each of us a separate world?”

“Time,” Dumbledore whispered. “You speak of time, don’t you?” Voldemort nodded with a sick smile on his face. “Time is what slowly kills us, time is what could end the life of the strongest man… Yet with the Hallows in hand, death is never possible, there is no time.” Dumbledore looked straight at Voldemort and they both seemed to share something mere words could not express. “You wish to not only cheat Death, but Time as well. You speak of breaking the only unbreakable rule there is – you wish to change the past.”

“And why not, Albus?” Voldemort said, his red eyes dancing with madness, with possibilities. “We have broken every single rule there is. Together we have pushed the boundaries of magic, of what is right and wrong – we have pushed them further than thought possible. Nightmares walk the land while our dreams wither and die. You see it too, my friends, I am sure you do. The only way forward is back, and there is only one rule we have yet to break.”

While Dumbledore frowned and stayed in his seat, Harry stood up. He calmly walked around his throne and made his way through Hogwarts’ Great Hall, which had been all but destroyed in a long-forgotten battle. He stopped where the Professors’ table used to be and faced the hall with a wide smile on his face.

“To cheat Death, to unfold Time…” He laughed out loud. The sound echoed around the large, empty room. “Time for a change. Time. I’ll do it.”

“But Harry –”

“No buts, Dumbledore,” Voldemort hissed. "Can you not open your eyes for just one moment and see what is right in front of you? This is the future of wizards, of England, of humankind. This is the moment we've all been born for, careening towards it without conscious thought."

The traces of anger vanished from his face as quickly as they had come, and with a flourish of his wand the window pane behind Dumbledore shattered to pieces. Through the opening a small object soared in, a whistling sound trailing behind it. Voldemort caught it with his left hand and held it up, so that the moonlight illuminated it.

“I put forth the Resurrection Stone,” he said. “Because of it walk the dead, and because of it Time failed its purpose.”

From the other side of the hall Harry stepped down from where he was standing and drew his wand. With a flourish there came a bang and a hole in the ceiling exploded outwards. Shards of glass spiraled to the sky and a large shadow descended through the opening, hovering obediently to its Masters will, until it came to stop in Harry’s outstretched hand.

“I put forth the Invisibility Cloak,” he said. “Because of it I am untraceable, because of it Death has never found me, and because of it Time will fail its purpose.”

The two of them looked expectantly at Dumbledore, who looked very much the old man he really was. His wrinkles seemed deeper under the moonlight that shone in through the hole in the glasswork. Very slowly he stood up, his weight supported by a long, wooden cane, and from the folds of his robes he pulled out an elegant wand adorned with rubies and a bone-white handle.

“May magic forgive me,” he whispered, “but there is no choice. I helped kill the world. Now it is time for me to make it right.”

And he walked forward, pace slow and favoring his right leg. He stopped at the middle of the Great Hall, where a wide halo of light from above shone through the hole Harry had created. Voldemort stepped closer and Harry purposefully walked the remaining few steps. The three of them looked each other in the eye; blue to red, red to green, green to blue. Silence descended upon Hogwarts like a blanket and even the howling wind seemed to be waiting.

“I put forth the Elder Wand,” Dumbledore said. “Because of it I am unbeatable, because of it Death can never find me, and because of it Time has failed its purpose.”

They held the objects under the moonlight. The Resurrection Stone pried itself from Voldemort’s grasp and hovered at eye-level, where it slowly rotated on the spot, gradually acquiring a silvery-blue shine around it. Harry’s cloak followed the stone and folded itself twice, so that it formed a perfect triangle. It ascended from under the stone and stopped when it was very close to it, almost touching. The outlines of the cloak seemed to blur, and soon it acquired a reddish hue.

Dumbledore let out a slow sigh and carefully raised the Elder Wand in his bony hands. It drifted up, away from his palms, past the cloak and stone, rose above their heads and stayed there, hovering parallel to the floor. As they waited with baited breath, it occurred to Dumbledore that somewhere along the way he had lost track of why he did things, and rather than helping make England a better place for wizards, he had plunged it right into Hell with only the help of his enemies, Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, who were as guilty as he was. It was always the three of them.

The silvery light of the moon slowly turned green, a green as bright as the killing curse, and the Elder Wand gradually descended upon the other two Hallows. It stopped right before touching them. The Three wizards still waited, their feet inside the halo of green light and their eyes fixed on the Hallows, just like on that night they first met to decide the fate of the wizarding world, the night their ideas spiraled out of control.

As the three Deathly Hallows connected, the cloak below, the stone in the middle and the wand on top, the earth shook and the heavens split. Red lightning forked through the sky, the wind picked up and rampaged against the walls of the Great Hall, the marble on the floor started to crack and a loud, harsh sound, like static on a radio, filled their ears.

The Three wizards stood unperturbed by the distractions. As the world seemed to end around them – the very air becoming thick and poisonous, miles and miles of earth exploding on all sides, coming closer to Hogwarts, the very epicenter of the destruction, and as the sky fell apart in hands of red thunder – as the world collapsed, they each stretched out one hand and gripped a corner of the triangular cloak.

The impeding storm roared, the earth exploded upwards, gravity stopped and the world turned upside down. Hogwarts quickly became a black hole; an impossibly dark hole where everything disappeared, towards where matter accelerated to, and there was nothing or no one that could stop it now.

As The Three rose from the ground, the Hallows pulling them along – in that very moment – they all knew what the others were thinking, because they were thinking the same thing; there would be no truce, there would be no peace, no giving up, no white flags and letting the others have their own world to rule. At that moment they knew the war would start anew in the past. Time could not kill them, men could not stop them and they could never triumph over each other, and yet they also knew they would never stop trying; be it past or future, right or wrong, Time and Death, the world would be plunged into darkness, over and over again, because The Three’s ideas would never die.

And in a flash of green light and the roar of the end of the world it began, the Tale of the Three Brothers.

 

Didn't want to do another one just yet, but this one wouldn't get out of my head. The length is something around 1k words. Enjoy.

--------------------​

"Avada Kedavra."

The mangled corpse of one Vincent Crabbe dropped to the ground like a sack of laundry. The vestiges of an extremely powerful killing curse clung to his body, covering it in an eerie glow. Blood slowly pooled from several deep lacerations covering his body. All of the wizard's limbs were bent and twisted in ways God had never intended them to. Around him, what had once been his family estate was now little more than a pile of crumbled stone. Footsteps broke the silence, and a shdadow fell over the dead wizard.

"Incendio," the ex-Death Eater's body erupted in flames. Calm eyes watched the body until it was an unrecognizable lump of foul-smelling goo. The cloaked figure turned around in a quick circle, surveying the surrounding area. There was motion underneath the cloak. A large dome surrounding the estate flickered into visibility for a moment, before fading away.

With a loud crack, Vincent Crabbe's murderer disappeared.

--------------------​

The next morning, Draco Malfoy had just settled into his den, sipping a cup of tea and reading an issue of the Daily Prophet with disinterest. He lazily turned the page, taking another gulp of tea. A second later he spewed it all over his - very expensive - carpet. He stared at the article's title glaring up at him in dread.

FORMER DEATH EATER MURDERED​

Last night, Vincent Crabbe, a known follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was found dead in the middle of his destroyed estate. His corpse was heavily mutilated and shows traces of the killing curse. The wards that had previously surrounded his estate have been destroyed. His immediate family has yet to be found, and we fear they have shared a similar fate as Mr. Crabbe.

We at the Daily Prophet aren't sure whether or not this death and the others previous are connected, but rest assured we're on the-

Draco threw the newspaper to the floor in disgust. What a croc of shit. They bloody well knew it was the same killer. Hell, he'd bet they even knew who it was! He certainly did, and he didn't even have to look beyond the face value of things to figure it out. Unlike those bullshit reporters...

He sat back with a sigh, fighting what he knew would be another morning migraine. He didn't know where he was on that git's priority list, but he knew he'd get to him eventually. It had started to affect his entire lifestyle; the constant nagging sensation at the back of his mind. Anticipating the day when the vicious killer decided to pay his humble abode a visit.

He'd entertained the idea of going into hiding. Many times in fact. But ultimately, he'd decided, it would be a useless endeavor. Plenty of his former comrades had done so, and all of them had been found. Their bodies had been in worse shape than the rest.

Deciding to temporarily stop thinking about it, he vowed to tighten his wards even more. Perhaps set up a few extra portkeys, just in case. He suddenly realized his throat was horribly dry, and brought his teacup to his lips to wet his throat.
His hands were shaking.

--------------------​

Two weeks later, a storm hit the area where Malfoy Manor was located. Constant thunder shook the grounds, and a steady stream of rain made the ground damp and muddy. Draco was in his study, reading a large book on warding. The rain was steadily tap, tap, tapping on his home, and as such, he missed the loud crack that signalled his doom.

He was just getting into another chapter when he felt an anti-apparation field envelope his estate. His eyes widened in panic, and he dove for the nearest portkey. He was a moment too late, as an anti-porteky ward was erected just before he could shout the activation command.

Draco looked around frantically, feeling his wards fail one-by-one. A sudden idea struck him, and he sprinted out of his study towards his den. When he finally arrived in the large room, he felt the last of his wards being brought down, until there was nothing left to protect him sans the walls surrounding him.

He quickly grabbed the small bowl on the mantle above his floo, and reached his hand in. He cursed when he grabbed nothing but air. All out! How could he be all out!? He scanned the room for something, anything. He jumped when he heard something explode on the other end of his estate. Most likely a wall.

The blonde soon found himself in the living room, looking around frantically for floo powder. Finally, he remembered that he had an extra supply of it in case he ever ran out. He weaved in and out of the numerous rooms of his home, for once cursing its enormous size.

Draco finally skidded into the kitchen, and ripped open one of the cupboards. Relief washed over him when he saw the full bowl of green powder. He grabbed a handful, and turned towards the exit.

The far wall exploded, sending him to the ground in a heap. He scrambled back against the wall, clutching his wand tightly. He stared up in fear at the cloaked figure standing in the gaping hole. His face was mostly hidden by his hood, but Draco could still make out those piercing eyes.

"Stay back! I'm warning you!" Draco shouted, scooting towards the exit, all the while keeping his wand trained on the man who'd killed so many before him. He didn't reply, instead pointing his wand at the exit Draco had been making his way towards.

A large boulder materialized in the middle of the exit, effectively blocking his escape. Draco's eyes widened, and he cast a Finite at the boulder. To no avail, as the rock stayed firmly put. Finally, he just blew a hole in the wall with a reducto. He didn't sense the curse aimed at him until it was too late.

Draco collapsed, crying out in pain and clutching his ankle. The cutting curse had cut deep, and Draco doubted he'd be able to walk on it for a long time to come. If he ever survived, that is. Through watery eyes, he glared up at his attacker, standing calmly a now mere feet from him.

Another spell hit Draco, this time a bone breaking curse, and he clutched his now mangled left arm in agony. His mind became hazy from the pain, and one thought managed to occupy his whole mind. Make it stop.

He blearily registered the wand digging into his temple as his. He snarled up at the cloaked man, hate shining in his eyes. Green energy lit the tip of his wand. The figure didn't react, seemingly content to let him kill himself.

"You'll never do to me what you did to the others, Potter," he spat the word like a curse. There was a spiteful look on his face as he ground out the words that would end his life. "Avada Kedavra!" The green energy hit him point-blank, and his eyes dimmed. Dead.

--------------------​

After what seemed like an eternity, Draco's eyes cracked open. He immediately clenched them shut, a blinding light obscuring his vision. He slowly eased the open, seeing nothing but endless white. He sat up slowly, looking at his surroundings. Pure nothingness. Was this death? Draco studied his now healed limbs and nodded. Yep, he was dead alright. Seems he'd succeeded. He grinned, looks like that bastard hadn't managed to get him after all.

"What's so funny, Draco?" Draco froze. He slowly turned his head to the left, and his pureblood went cold. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible! And yet there he stood, standing out clearly not ten feet from Draco. He reached for his wand, but gripped nothing but air. He tried to move backwards, but found himself unable to do so.

"Wha-? How?" Draco's voice sounded impossibly small in the endless void of white. Potter smirked. He noticed his hood was down, freeing his young, chiseled features. There was a small smile playing on his lips.

"Silly Draco. Not even death can save you from me." The smile morphed into a smirk.

Draco screamed.

 

IdSayWhyNot:

Should be find. That bugged me when I was reading.

Aside from that distraction, though, that was fairly epic - could well be a prologue to a very, very interesting and awesome fic. If you get bored of A Clock on the Face of Hell, it may make a good side-project.

Frankly, I loved the idea of Voldemort holding the Resurrection Stone - not just for canon compliance, but because it defies his main goal, power, which is aligned to the Elder wand, and ties in so well with his army of inferi. It's giving me curious thoughts about how Voldemort came about his necromantic abilities, tied in with the Resurrection Stone. For that, I give you a thumbs up, and my compliments.

 

Thanks, that's been corrected. And thanks for the comments.

I thought of this as a one-shot, one that may or may not make its way to For Review or WBA. It really depends on what people think. If someone wants to pick it up and continue it -- or rather, to write its prequel -- then I wouldn't mind at all.

In fact, it's for adoption. Anyone interested let me know. I just don't have the time.

 

I like this play on words. Gave me a good chuckle.

 

That was amazing IdsayWhyNot. More like creation myth than a fic, but amazingly good all the same.
Your use of language in this fic is very poetic as well, and it adds a lot to the fic.

 

HAHAHAHAHA! That's full of fucking win!

Edit: I also forgot to mention, "Not even death can save you from me!" is from the demon Diablo in Diablo 2, Act4. You used that pretty well in your story.

 

Well, it may not technically be canon, but as I will address in the fic, Riddle becoming his own self effectively negated the horcrux. The horcrux itself (the book) was in fact destroyed, it no longer housed a latent piece of soul.

After all, the soul itself wasn't enough to survive outside the book, it needed Ginny's life force. The act of becoming a real person made it so that the elements of a horcrux were no longer at play. Tom Riddle is real, after a fashion, and is no longer a horcrux.

Again, it may not be canon, but I don't really give a shit.

 

Someone hit me with another challenge.

 

A NEW CHALLENGER HAS APPEARED: Stalin's Pipe Organs
Line: "I have to get past a dragon?"
Length: 500/2000
Lime: 60 Minutes

 

I'm guessing that's the premise and not an actual line I should use?

 

Challenger: Stalin's Pipe Organs

Line (dialogue): "As I was saying, not much has been documented on how Centaurs reproduce, and for their part, they refuse to so much as comment on the process. Is it coitus? Is it fertilization? Eggs? We simply do not know. So here's the treat, my students; if any of you manage to find out how Centaurs reproduce, I'll award you a pass on this subject, full marks. The investigation process is, of course, up to you."

Length: 1k - 2k

Time: Any.

 

Yes. I failed. Ignore me. It's been edited if you want it, but mostly to cover up my idiocy.

 

Someone send one at me.

 

Challenger: jadedmutt

Line (dialogue): "So what would happen if I pull this lever?"

Length: 400-800 words.

Time: 2 hours tops.


EDIT: Forgot to say this was inspired by nmb's challenge... Yeah, don't want the mobs to start yelling plagiarism.

 

I shall attempt it.