Lol, no, legless men at the races refers to writing critics who don't write themselves. It was an open challenge, you just jumped into the firing line.

You don't have to write humour. Instead of writing a new challenge when there's shitloads littering the thread, grab one of those. 600 word challenge responses are just a bit of fun;

Can't remember if that'n was taken but I was looking at it before the dildo one.

 

7ate9 picks up the gauntlet left by Grinning_Lizard. "Looks shiny, but I may be able to do something with it."

Will edit it back.

And here it is. Not quite funny, I decided to go with a more serious route. Also took an hour and ended up being 1700 words.

In memories they were a loving family, with warm hugs and ample smiles shared round boisterous dinners. Red crowning every head, freckles upon every face. There was fighting, but it always came back to family. A home even through the darkest of times. Through Voldemort and through the loss of a family member their love for one another saw them through time and time again. And after the demise of the world’s darkest lord, they had each other.

Harry Potter hated every fucking second of it. Their gushing tears and their wide smiles. What right did they have to be happy, while he himself had been forced to sacrifice every person that had ever been close to him? His family dead at the hands of Voldemort. Sirius dead while trying to save him, his whole life ruined by a single man. Remus was dead while fighting and the man who was like a father had also sacrificed for him, Albus Dumbledore. All had fallen in the war so he could be happy, but it was difficult to find happiness when someone was bereft of family.

Could these red-haired people be his family? Their lovely daughter was besotted with him, but they would be a pale replacement for something he had never had.

He looked into the mirror, seeing green eyes and black hair. Upon the counter top was a flask of polyjuice potion. With a single sip those features would be replaced with a mop of red-hair and blue eyes. He would need to put on the dragonscale boots and earrings to make the image perfect.

Luckily, those were easily ready for him by the bed behind him. He sat upon the comfortable bed, the second weight upon it. The first weight was a man of youth, tall with red hair and blue eyes. He was currently drugged, easily slipped into his drink; this was not the first time this had happened.

Harry cast Bill a single glance before smirking. The greatest perk of orchestrating this was the fact he got to bang a hot French woman, but those times were now over. Tonight would be the final fight, the final crack that would tear their oh-so-happy relationship apart. A quick memory charm would convince the eldest Weasley of his uncontrollable anger.

And of course, if the distraught woman came running into the sympathetic Harry’s arms, well, he wouldn’t turn her away. He paused before dawning the dragonscale boots. He would need to turn Ginny into Draco’s arms before that. Nothing says rebellious daughter than suddenly believing in the purity of magical blood. It would also get her off his dick.
Ensemble completed, Harry stood, took the flask from the dresser and downed the potion.

The effects were immediate and he examined himself in the mirror, noting the hair in particular. If he had his way, he would shave the revolting color off. Who even found this bright, annoying color appealing anyway? He pocketed another flask, just in case the encounter took longer than necessary.

He strode from the room, waving his wand to activate a few privacy wards. Bill was staying in the Burrow at the moment, Fleur had tossed his ass out after their last fight. Being called sub-human had a tendency to piss off Veela, as well as mentioning she had an atrocious accent.

Down the stairs he walked, letting the smile fade from his face as he entered the living room. Mismatched furniture filled the room with piles of odds and ends tucked in corners and strewn across the ground. A hearth lay cold and dead, ashes from a few weeks ago. Another testament of Harry’s wonderful plan. The center of any family was the mother and the father. They were the glue that helped bind and keep the family unit going. Break them, and the rest of the family would find pieces.

This family’s glue had dried and withered months ago. Adultery was a strong motivator for that, and who could blame Arthur, new to a powerful position, not falling for a young woman besotted with him.
Harry’s eyes shifted to a short and squat woman sitting upon a rocking chair, two needles flashing in her hands.

“Who are those for, Mum?”

Mrs. Weasley looked up. “For my grandchildren.” She looked down upon them, then her smile faded. “Are you going to meet Fleur tonight?”

“Yeah. I’m going to try one last time.”

“Do you promise to watch your anger this time?”

Harry sighed. “Mum, I don’t want to talk about this.” He turned to go.

“Wait!” She stood and gripped her hands. Harry turned. “Just…just try to understand her, okay? She’s under a lot of strain from the Ministry; so are you. You’re just letting that get to you. If you stay calm and talk this through, you two have a chance.” Her voice broke, the desperation within it was obvious.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “You want us to work it out like you and dad? Did he just let the pressure get to him?” Harry made his voice intentionally cold.

Mrs. Weasley face broke and she turned away, sobs wracking her form. She resumed her seat, two shaking hands reaching out for the yarn and needles.

“Everything’s not all roses, Mum. There is no happily ever after. That’s life.” He turned, ignoring her sudden cry.

He skipped out the door. As he neared the gate that would let him apparate, a voice broke his stride.

“Hey.” It was soft, poised low.

Harry turned, surprised to find Ron sitting upon a broken stone bench littered in the middle of the lawn. “Ron, what are you doing here?”

Ron’s pale blue eyes left the lawn. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Harry refrained from smiling; looks like the things weren’t going well between him and Hermione. Honestly, though she did deserve better than the crass, uncaring lout before him. Who gets jealous because their wife is smarter than them?

Ron shrugged. “Just wanted to come home for a bit.”

“Oh. Things aren’t going too well, are they?”

Ron looked uncomfortable for a moment. “No, they’re not.”
Harry grunted. “Not much of a home here to come back to. Mum’s a wreck.”

“I know. I talked to her last night. She wanted me to come back for a little bit. Hermione thought it would be a good idea…you know? For the two of us to take some time off.”

“You shouldn’t listen to Mum too much. She’s just trying to live through us.” Harry made to go forward, hoping to end the conversation.

“Is that why you’re trying to patch things up with Fleur?”
Harry withheld sigh. “No, I’m trying to patch things up for me, not because. Mum wants me to get married and be happy.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “I found George last night at a bar.”

“I’m not surprised. He hasn’t been himself since Fred died, I really don’t think it’s something we could understand.”

“He was getting better, but he keeps saying Fred is haunting him. Accusing him of betraying him…I think he might have tried to kill himself a few times.”

Harry drew a breath, becoming annoyed. He was supposed to meet with Fleur soon. “I talked him down last time. I think Harry talked him down the last.”

“Harry.” Ron chuckled. “It seems to always come back to Harry, doesn’t it?”

Harry suddenly went tense. “Yeah, he’s been a good friend of the family. He kept telling me to go back to her…”

“Yeah, he’s been talking to Hermione, too. Telling her that she could do better than some lout whose jealous of her successes.”

Harry gulped, he had banked on Hermione not exactly mentioning the things he had counseled her on. “Some friend then. Have you talked to him about it?” Harry’s hand was itching, a sign Harry had learned not to ignore.

Ron stood and walked forward, revealing a wand within his grasp. “I think I am talking to him about it. How are you doing, pal?”

Harry spread his hands into the air. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ron. What’s this? It’s me, Bill.”

“Then let’s go check your room, brother. We won’t find any bodies up there unconscious will we?” Ron smiled. “You’ve been sneaky, real sneaky. But I found the love potion Dad’s secretary used, plus I had a few Aurors check her head for modified memory. But you know, that wasn’t what got me thinking. I found the potions you used in your study to become George’s ghost, which, by the way, you need to work on your wards. Bill taught me pretty well.”

“Ron, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it’s me, Bill. I’m your bloody brother! Just because you can’t get it up for Hermione any more doesn’t mean there’s some conspiracy pulling you two apart.”

Ron’s eyes sparked. “Don’t lie! I’ve seen the evidence!” He drew a breath. “What’s a hexaplex ward do?”

Harry searched his memories, not quite remembering it. Maybe he could bullshit his way through the question? “It’s an old Norse ward used to keep—“

“I just made it up, Harry.” Ron raised his wand.

“So what are you going to do? Kill me? Attack me? The Boy-who-lived?” Harry gave a sudden laugh. “Let me guess. You didn’t even bother to save the evidence, did you? That’s why Hermione deserves better.”

Ron’s eyes sparked while words flew from his mouth. “Stupefy!”

Harry was already moving to the left and snapping his fingers. His wand flew from his pocket and into his hand. He brandished it. “Expelliarmus.” The red light launched from the tip and struck Ron in the chest, sending his wand flying. Harry stood straight and let the wand land in his hands. He walked over to his friend and gave him a sharp push.

Ron backpeddled and landed on his back. He went to rise, but quick spell had black ropes tied about his limbs. He struggled, until a white glowing tip illuminated his frightened features. Harry leaned in and smiled. “There’s a reason you were always envious of me, Ron. It’s because I’m better than you. Now, I can’t let you go around unraveling my fun, so sit still while I work. Don’t worry, you won’t remember a thing.”

“Wait! Why, Harry, why? We loved you!”

Harry paused and pondered. “Have you ever had the urge to destroy something beautiful? I have. Quite often, to tell you the truth. But nothing was as beautiful as your family. It was everything I never had.”

Ron went to scream, but the white light entered his eyes and everything went dark.

 

Ice coursing through his veins, he stepped through the black fire.

There – standing in front of a mirror – was a turbaned figure. “Professor Quirrel!” exclaimed Harry. Quirrel’s head turned to look at him, quick as a whip. “Potter,” he said impassively, “I had wondered if I would be seeing you here. The protections on the Stone are truly pathetic.”

Harry stood there, gaping, frozen in shock. “But – but I thought Snape –” he stuttered.

“Snape?” Quirrel smirked. “Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So… intimidating. Rather bothersome to have him pestering me all the time, but inconsequential in the end…” he trailed off.

“V-Voldemort! Where is he?” Harry shouted, nearing panic as all his plans were torn to shreds. Not that he had many in the first place, but having all of your expectations defied was nearly as bad for one’s concentration.

“The Dark Lord?” Quirrel sounded amused. “Why, he is here with us. But that is beside the point – be still while I examine this very interesting… mirror.” With that, he flicked his wand – how had it gotten into his hand that fast? – and turned back to the mirror, muttering to himself.

Harry dropped to the floor, completely petrified, and let out a grunt. As he lay against the uncomfortable stone, his mind reeled from the shock – hadn’t Snape tried to kill him? Hadn’t it been Snape, after all, mangled by Fluffy? And Quirrel had said that Voldemort was with them! Was he somewhere in the room, watching them? He was prevented from voicing these thoughts by the magical binding on him, however.

With a start, Harry realized that Quirrel was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised. He thought it must have been Dumbledore’s protection – it had been Dumbledore, after all, who had found him in front of the mirror, and told him of its purpose. With another start, he hoped that wizards couldn’t read minds, though he had his suspicions about Snape – it seemed that Quirrel had not yet deciphered the inscription, and he didn’t want to give the man any clues as to how the mirror worked.

Suddenly, Quirrel straightened up. He seemed to still, as if considering something of vast importance. Appearing to come to a decision, he tilted his head slightly sideways, and asked quietly, “Have you ever had the urge to destroy something beautiful? I have. Quite often, to tell you the truth. Oh, you can’t talk. How silly of me –” he flicked his wand again, and Harry could suddenly move his mouth again.

But before he could formulate a reply, a hissing, high-pitched voice seemed to emanate from Quirrel’s general direction, “What are you doing, fool? Get the Stone! Use the boy – he may know how the mirror works!”

At this, Quirrel’s eyes narrowed, and as if steeling himself for something painful, he turned back to the mirror. His hand, with his wand still in it, slowly raised itself to point at the mirror. “Quirrel, cease this foolishness! If you cannot do what needs to be done, cede control to me!” the voice hissed urgently.

Harry’s mind boggled – was that Voldemort? “Is that… him?” he said, whispering despite himself.

Quirrel, not glancing back, his wand still pointed at the mirror, replied slowly, quietly, “Indeed. He is here –” and he tapped the back of his turban, “ –and, when I first met him, I had thought to join him, to learn what destruction was. Yet, as I quickly learned, what the Dark Lord sought was not the destruction of beauty, but the destruction of everything. And I see now that his vision and mine are not the same, will never be the same – ” “What are you babbling about, you idiot?” Voldemort, for it was truly him, seemed to be getting incensed.

“Only this –” Qurriel said, still pointing his wand at the mirror, and he spoke an incantation, “ – Ignefas!” Out of his wand erupted a great shape of fire, and Harry could feel the heat from all the way across the room. The shape descended on the mirror, and with a noise like the very air was being rent apart, the great mirror shattered.

Quirrel dispelled the fire, and turned fully to face Harry. Voldemort was screaming his fury, but neither Harry nor Quirrel paid him any heed – both were beyond it now, though for very different reasons. Quirrel’s lips quirked up in what appeared to be a genuine smile, and he said without a trace of levity in his voice, “I hope to see you well in the future, Mr. Potter.”

Finally, he turned his wand on himself, and intoned a great voice that belied any hesitation, “Anima Rima!”

--------------------------
Not my first attempt at writing, but my first time posting anything online. 783 Words - it took longer than 30 minutes, but I claim delicious cherries and my sister's TV show as distractions.

 

No Solace

Have you ever had...

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

I was kept in a cupboard and verbally abused until I was eleven. Kept small, kept hungry, kept humble, kept blank. I was perfect. I was clean. I was innocent.

When I arrived I wasn’t a child. I was a blank canvas.

And the colours they painted me with were their ideals and attitudes. They were their prejudices and biases. They were their preferences and aversions. They were their emotions and opinions.

Not mine. Never mine. Nothing ever truly was.

A canvas and paints are nothing until they converge, and when they do the end result is sometimes something beautiful, something meant-to-be, something completely polymesmeric, something that could inspire thousands to fight for their lives and the lives of their brothers and sisters and children and wives and husbands and fathers and mothers and leaders...

But you don’t always get what you want.

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

... the urge to destroy...

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

I was eleven, almost twelve and I was killing for the first time.

The Philosophers Stone was in my pocket and my hands were scorching hot on his blistering skin. My vision was going grey at the edges and he was screaming. I was collapsing and the parasite left the dying body at my feet and flew through me.

I was fading. Consciousness was slipping out of my grasp along with my innocence. But as I watched Quirrel burn screaming I felt something no child should ever feel.

I was eleven. I had taken the first step on a path that no one had ever expected me to travel.

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

... something beautiful?

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

I was fifteen, almost sixteen and I was torturing for the first time.

“Crucio!” I had yelled with the voice that still hadn't gotten the puberty memo.

Mad-Eye’s imposter had said it was difficult to cast a Unforgivible. That you had to mean it.

Well, I meant it and I had a lot of fuel for the fire. And the response I recieved in return for my righteous anger was glorious.

She was writhing so hard and so fast against the marble floor her bones were soon snapping like toothpicks. Her screams filled the Atrium, right up to the god-awful, tacky as shit starry ceiling.

I was The Chosen One. And nobone ever did find out about my moment of indulgence.

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

I have. Quite often, to tell you the truth.

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

I was eighteen, almost nineteen and I was raping a woman for the first time.

I was so angry. So full of despair and grief. I had failed to deliver on my promises.

Teddy was an orphan. The Creevey brothers were dead. Fred was dead. Moody was dead. So many people I had failed. But I could bring them all back.

I had kept that Resurrection Stone. I used that Stone to talk to Sirius, my parents, Fred, Remus, Tonks everyone I had loved who wasn’t with me anymore. It felt good for a while but then they started begging to go back to where they belong. It destroyed what was left of my naiveté.

Everyone else was afraid of me. Hermione, Ron, Neville, the people on the street. I could tell by the way they shied from my touch and flinched every time I raised my hand or wand.

They all said I had gone mad with grief.

They were right. They are what they made me after all. I was the product of all their heavy expectations, of the weight of their world on my shoulders, of their misplaced trust.

But I would show them, that I wasn’t finished. That there was still plenty of juice in the tank.

Over a year I had spent perfecting this ritual to bring my loved ones back. To bring them all back. And with them they would bring solace.

But it required me to do something horrible. “To sully a radiant beauty” was the exact euphemism the scroll had used.

And what beauty could possibly be more radiant than Fleur Delacour.

But I was wrong. I was a fool to think it could work. Or perhaps just crazy.

I was a failure of a Necromancer. For all I ever brought back were whole, healthy and working bodies with no souls, no memories, no love.

But worst of all, there was no solace.

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



There you go, GL. Up to snuff?

27 minutes and 714 words. I kinda like it too.

 

Awesome sauce. Make sure you ask for separate challenges next time, but yeah, awesome sauce.

Though I have to say, Sancrosanct, that you are one fucked up little Catholic girl.

I'll take a challenge from one of you three if you want to set one. God knows how it'll come out in the mood I'm in, but I'll give it a shot.

 

A NEW CHALLENGER HAS APPEARED: ???
Line: "So I heard you like them nifflers?"
Length: 600/900
Lime: 30Minutes

 

This came out very different to what I'd meant to write. Pretentious and vague, but hopefully still legible (dreaded posting this - Christ knows what it's come out like - but it works better read aloud):

~~~~~ Our Stranger ~~~~~

Our stranger watched. Thunder shook the foundry - not violently, but with a slow, ominous quaking that ground them to extremity; great snarls and groans lilting in chorus with the pitch of the walls.

Nay outdone, the patrons' voices rose as well. Never louder than a whisper, nor ever quieter than a yell, their machinations ebbed like waves against a creaking stern; and the vessel swayed, the storm raged and the light was seen to dim.

Our stranger stood. A shrouded hand he’d waft to sweep the smoke before his face; amongst the blinded mob he’d wade, a tidal sway afore the counter’s shore, expression stern and expedition firm in conquest, and he laid eyes upon the giant’s table.

Company is fickle; few remained at his approach. His prize’s gaze reproached the fleeting rears before he turned and spoke: ‘What bus’ness?’ he intoned.

Our stranger smiled: ‘My business is my own.’

Bristling, the giant reared, with narrowed eyes betraying just the slightest hint of fear… but our stranger spread his palms and said ‘a drink, my friend?’ with open arms; the giant paused for thought, his glare reposing into mirth, and without further cause he cast his dregs into the hearth and held his bucket out, and calling 'Abe!' he gestured to the vacant bench before his girth.

Afore descent, our stranger licked his lips; over the bench he leant and table’s corner he did grip, his shrouded knuckles white with tension no more eased by prior sips; a breath he drew with hunger as he grasped the giant’s tumbler and, when eyes met, in shallow tones, our stranger quietly confers, complicitly, ‘my friend, I heard you like them nifflers?’, and the giant swears explicitly.

Our stranger sat.

‘You’re selling?’ comes the urgent hiss; our stranger winces. The giant’s try at subterfuge quite thoroughly evinces for those nearest dropping from the eaves or feigning mere disinterest. ‘Better than a niffler,’ winks our stranger with tight reigns upon his grimace. ‘But first we’ll drink to absent friends and health; though good health’s absence this night will surely not go sorely missed.’

With great humour, the larger hefted the pail onto his bearded chin and drained. The smaller man – our stranger – made to sip, but it was feigned, until he saw the glimmer in the giant’s eye begin to wither, then to die, as he succumbed to Dion’s whim and whiskey dribbled down his chin.

Our stranger drank.

He feuded with the urge, the instinct as it burned, to simply cut his mindful prize from within the giant’s eyes and make way into the night with what he’d learned… but with tongues advancing just as far, the dice were rolled and, growing bold, our stranger did behold the giant’s hand, and from within his folds, a giant deck of cards were polled, and one by one their fellow seamen drowned until the evening blurred, the walls stilled and the storm died and with dawn out came the birds, and gossip slurred, and left alone the two were left unheard; a dragon’s egg was placed within the pot, the stakes grew once, twice and then a third, our stranger probing catechisms, most deterred, until when all was said and done the giant won…

But oh, our stranger heard.

​

 

Holy crap, poetry! Nice, by the way, but I'm not sure how relevant my line is in there. Nifflers aren't dragons =P

 

Realised that should have been clearer. Edited the line to 'Better than a niffler' rather than 'Better,'

Apologies for the prose. It just sort of... happened.

 

Actually, I thought it was pretty cool. Maybe a tad confusing while reading it, but it all fit by the end.

 

Bob's right. It was kind of like pieces of a puzzle that just came together at the end. Like that movie Momento.

Alright boys, I'd like a bit of lightening up so gimme humour!

A NEW CHALLENGER HAS APPEARED: Sacrosanct
Line:
"Calm! You're telling me to calm down?! It's the wrong fucking house!"
Length: 600-900
Time: 40 mins (cause I'd like a bit o' polish)

 

I don't think much of it, but I wanted to give it a shot. I had some fun working on it, so it wasn't all for naught.

“See anything?” Ron asked, from his position at the door.

“No. Are those Muggles still downstairs?”

They had been on the run from Voldemort for months now, hiding wherever they could. The variety of caves, cabins, peasant cottages, stables, and pig sties couldn’t hide them from Voldemort, and it appeared that this little Muggle girl’s bedroom was about to become the next casualty to Voldemort’s wrath.

“Yes, but I don’t know for how much longer. I think they’ve started to grow suspicious of a room disappearing from their home, and I’ve neglected to renew the charms in case we have to move.”

Harry pushed up his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That’s probably for the best.”

It had been over a week since they had taken up residence in the small room. After their latest hideout in France had been raided, they had both decided it would be best to come back to Britain. It was time to stop hiding and end the war, and the first step was finding another place to hide.

“There’s nothing going on out there,” said Harry, turning to Ron. “Do you think I could have the bed tonight? I can’t kill Voldemort with a stiff back.”

“I told you, Harry. I’m the oldest, I get the bed.”

“You want to duel over it?”

“You’re sleeping on the floor. Now shut up and watch for Voldemort. I’m going to make a sandwich.”

“A sandwich? How can you have a sandwich at a time like this?”

“Easy. Sandwiches are delicious and watching the neighborhood for Voldemort and his minions are not. Sandwich wins every time.”

Harry turned back to look out the open window. He took a deep breath. There was something in the air, something foul, and it wasn’t just the stench from the hairy neighbor lounging on his patio next door. It smelled a bit like…

“Corned beef? Why the fuck is there only corned beef? Don’t you remember I hate corned beef?”

“Your mother might not remember, but after having eight years of complaints about corned beef etched onto my brain, it’s the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about going to bed. Now, if you’re not going to eat, I am. Come over here and watch the window.”

They traded places, Harry eating his corned beef sandwich amidst Ron’s incessant mutterings about how he was trying to poison him.

“So,” Harry said, finishing his sandwich and wiping his hands and mouth. “Where do we go from here?”

“If Voldemort’s presence on this street is any indicator, I’d say it’s about time to get moving again,” Ron said, looking towards the end of the street. “Get the stuff ready to move, and make sure you leave that damned corned beef behind.”

“Enough about the fucking corned beef, Ron. Now move over, let me see what’s going on down there.”

Harry poked his head outside the window. At first glance, nothing appeared to be wrong. The neighbor across the street was playing catch with his son in the fading twilight. The woman next door was tending her garden in the nude. The man up the street was preparing for another midnight lawn mowing for the third time that week. In other words, a typical evening.

“I wish that fucker would stop mowing his lawn every night. It’s hard enough to sleep on the floor without that lawn mower roaring at all hours of the night.”

“Damn it, Harry. This is no time to talk about a loon mooer or whatever it is those Muggles use. Look towards the other end of the street.”

Harry turned his head, giving one last appreciative glance at the naked gardener, as he took in the visage of Voldemort casually strolling down the street, Peter Pettigrew at his side.

“Ah,” said Harry.

“Ah? That’s all you can say?”

“Yes. Listen.”

Ron moved to stand next to Harry as they both strained to listen to the angry voices drifting up the street.

*****​

“First we shall see if anyone is home, as that is the polite thing to do. Lord Voldemort may be a lot of things, but impolite is not one of them. Isn’t that right, Wormtail?”

Pettigrew shivered at the icy tone he was addressed in. “Of course, my Lord.”

“It appears that someone is home. But why would they not answer the door? That is impolite.”

“Perhaps we have the wrong house, my Lord?”

Voldemort turned and glared at Pettigrew, angrily backhanding him as he did so. “Are you suggesting that I am wrong, Peter? Are you aware the Lord Voldemort is never wrong?”

Pettigrew groveled, spitting blood out of his mouth. “Yes my Lord, of course. I was merely suggesting…”

“You were suggesting? Lord Voldemort only listens to suggestions he finds in his suggestion box, as that is the polite way of suggesting something to me. I presume you understand what I am suggesting you do?”

“Yes, my Lord. Perhaps you could calm down and we…”

“Calm! You're telling me to calm down?! It's the wrong fucking house! Gah. I’ve had enough of your insolence for one evening. I’ll come back with a more agreeable minion. Lucius would be good; he’s always polite to those that we so cruelly murder. Come, Wormtail. I’m in the mood for a sandwich. How does corned beef sound?”

 

ahahaha +1

 

This. D:

Worst reply ever.

 

Well, it IS Bobert.

 

A NEW CHALLENGER HAS APPEARED: ???
Line: "Harry, I think *my mum's home!"
Length: 700+
Time: One Hour

*EDIT: Had to change it. Sounded like incest.

 

Wow, you're witty.
@Ichor:
A NEW CHALLENGER HAS APPEARED: ???
Line: "That was stupid." "Well, it was (insert character name here)."
Length: 600/900
Time: 30 mins.

 

Yup. I'm also a Cancer and a fan of the film, "The Expendables."

 

First time I've ever thumbed up an Ichor post...

 

Likewise. That's what it took to do it. >_<