Went nowhere near where I expected it to go, but excellent nonetheless.

Nice one.

Feel bad about not getting to my challenge yet, now. Hopefully I'll have a few hours on Wednesday night.

 

I'll take a challenge. I've been in need of a little outside-motivated creativity for a few days now.

 

Length: whatever
Time: whenever

Prompt: "Harry flicked his wand to the right and saw the golem's right arm shift. He continued to move his wand erratically, eyes glued to the construct of broken wood and stone as it moved in time.

A smile that was all teeth spread across Harry's face as his gaze turned to the numerous Death Eaters that were warily approaching him; a target rich environment indeed."

Have fun!

 

Hm. I'll see what I can make of that, thanks.

 

After four days of tinkering around with the idea, here is a completely new tangent that I came up with today to meet the challenge.

Prometheus' Fire.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Clink.

A scalpel slid across the metallic table and came to a rest on the far side of it across the room, quivering on the edge of slipping to the floor below.

Boom. Clink. Boom. Boom.
​

As the whole room rattled once more, the scalpel surrendered to gravity's hold and sank point-down into the dark stone, its owner releasing a slow sigh from where he had thrown it.

"How much longer will this last?" He hypothesized to himself - for the moment.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Grinding his back teeth together, Harry Potter reached down to his belt and drew his wand from the thin and compact holster hanging there beneath his lab-coat.

He had already done his level-best to silence the outside world from his little corner of property, but time and time again it - society - had found a way to knock once more upon his door.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

And this time, it sounded like they had brought a pack of trolls with them.

He scowled at the shudder wracking his home and turned his eyes upon the large, muddy thing slowly dripping upon the floor before him.

A small jab of the holly and phoenix feather construct, a controlled burst of fire across the haphazard runes strewn across the surface, and he felt a measured sense of satisfaction pierce the irritation on his mind.

They glowed with the dull red of newborn embers.

Boom. Boom. Fweeee. Boom.

Ignoring the sudden, shrill whistle from the silver teapot over the fireplace, the first of many ward-indicators to signify imminent failure, Harry held his wand above the head of his project, siphoning out a steady trail of flame.

With all the patience in the world he slowly spun his wand around it in an ever-descending arc. The flames licked at the mud and occasional hint of wood that supported its frame, and the mildly wet substance began to grow warm within the channel of air caught up in the wake.

Boom. Fweeee. Boom. Fweee-fweeee.

As the second-such whistle picked up alongside the first, Harry resisted the urge to take his eyes away from his work to banish them across the room as he had his scalpel before. It would detract precious time and more-so concentration, but the noise screaming in his ears was little better.

His wrist rose and dipped as he lengthened the fire-whip out further still, so that it engulfed his hardening construct from the tip of its blob-like head to the bulky elbows hanging at the waist.

The glow of the runes lightened to pale orange as they siphoned off the heat and energy and ferried them into a tight bundle in the middle of the gut, gradually building up its core even as the outer shell dry-roasted.

Boom. Fweee-fweeee. Boom. Fweee-fweeee-fweeee.

Gritting his teeth against the symphony of hades cutting straight into his brain through his ear-canals, Harry spun his wand faster and faster still, pushing the energy forward in preparation for the final rush at the end.

The runes glittered like morning stars as the core approached its statute of saturation, and sweat began to drip down his arm from the physical exertion alone.

Boom-fweee-fweeee-fweee. Boom-fweee-fweeee-fweee. Boom-fweee-ksh.

Blessed silence fell upon his aching mind as the wards were felled at last.

That meant that he had little enough time left, true, but it was done- the final note had failed to overshadow the rustle of burning life that had flooded throughout the empty pathways and surged into twin emerald motes within the hollow, slanted holes set upon its brow.

It was no terracotta soldier, but the living figure handcrafted before him now brought his lips together into a wide grin irregardless at the sort of ugly-beauty it endowed.

Black flesh unblemished by no more than a handful of cracks solely in the wooden supports at each shoulder, misshapen and no taller than himself, it held itself in a different sort of stillness now than it had even just moments ago.

The double-doors a full fifteen meters at his back began to rattle in their hinges.

Time to verify, he thought giddily, still grinning.

Harry flicked his wand to the right and saw the golem's right arm shift in response. He threaded it upward and around and savored the sort of ethereal-understanding and connection that spread through the two of them, maker and made.

He continued to move his wand erratically, eyes glued to the construct of broken wood and stone as it moved in time.

With a quiet fizzle, the doors began to melt and shrivel where they stood.

He stepped to one side of his creation so that it would be in full, unchallenged view when they broke in, he could not contain his satisfaction and imminent feeling of pride.

Heavy footsteps approached the open doorway and slowed immediately at the sight that greeted them.

A smile that was all teeth spread across Harry's face as his gaze turned to the numerous Death Eaters that were warily approaching him; a target rich environment indeed.
​

===

Done at just shy of 850 words. I had a lot of fun with this one.
​

 

Anybody want a challenge?
time: I don't care.
Length: Don't care either.
Line: You can judge with the naked eye, observe the slights against you and act accordingly. Azkaban is cold, but your wrath is colder.Pretty lame prompt, but I'm dying for a kick-ass azkaban fic.

And GL, I can't wait for your response. Good luck.

I need a challenge, as well. I'm bored out of my skull. Hit me!

 

Challenger Tommy B!

Time: Up to 3 full hours.
Length: Anything between 100 and 3000 words.
Line: In the year 982 AD the eldest goblins mined too deeply beneath the depths of Gringotts, unearthing the things that had slumbered within the deep-murk since the fall of Atlantis millennium before, and what they awoke shadowed and bathed the world in a Dark Age once more. Will Hogwarts fair any better?

I see several routes in this that separate it from the atypical dwarves-released-a-Balrog prompt, but here's hoping you come up with something all your own.

I'll be snagging your most recent prompt as well to see what I can do with it.

 

You got it, mate. I'll start tomorrow and hopefully have it up by tomorrow night. Hope all is going well with the prompt.

 

Tommy B’s Challenge: You can judge with the naked eye, observe the slights against you and act accordingly. Azkaban is cold, but your wrath is colder.

The cold comes with a flick of your wand. The temperature falls gradually as it approaches, and just moments later, you have to tense yourself to keep from shivering.



The hallway isn’t long – this one was never designed to be. It holds one cell opposite a small square window that taunts the occupant with a view of the grey roiling waters outside. No sunlight, of course, enters: it was always night in Azkaban.



The torches flicker almost in tandem with your steps. The floor is slick with the spray, and the air is rapidly cooling. At the other end of the corridor, the shadows don’t part in the face of the light.



He is shivering against the back wall tonight.



You watch him for a moment, standing right in front of the window to blot out that merger chance of escape. Immediately he starts breathing faster, his exhalations a harsh sound in the sepulchral silence of the place.



You take a small step and he startles to the right, his filthy clothes getting bunched up with his movements. They are too large for him, and that makes you smile: the reduction of him into this painfully rangy, cadaverous man delights you. But that too vanishes.



The Dementor is affecting you more than you realized. You cast a charm, and a silvery wick blossoms beside your head, and it feels like balm against the sudden burn of your thoughts.



But he whispers, his voice stretched out and plaintive, “No, please.”



The silver disappears. The invisible bars holding him in place allow you entry. He shouldn’t have done that. That was not his place, to ask or to command.



With you standing there, so close now, he knows that you can judge with the naked eye, observe the slights against you and act accordingly. Azkaban is cold, but your wrath is colder.


The Dementor is rushing into your again, and the lights all fade, leaving a faint afterimage that seems worse than utterly forgetfulness. To remember is to hate.



He is the very soul of fear. Whatever strength he once had has been leeched out by this place, lost amongst the thousand scratches upon these walls. And now he cowers in front of you, his eyes wide and green and ringed with dirt.



His skin is cold but still incredibly soft to the touch, and he doesn’t dare to move away. His breath is icy now, and so fast that you can’t help but strange him, if only to feel his chest stilled beneath your fingers. He chokes, his arms rising but a flick of your wrist binds them above his head. You could kill him here, couldn’t you? The cold did it, nobody would ever know.



You flick your wrist again, and watch him collapse upon the floor, supported by his hands, his nails scraping against the stone. The silver appears again for a moment before disappearing, and your thoughts are yours again.
His shirt is largely torn, and his left shoulder bone rises through his skin towards you, and you bend down and capture it in your lips, just caressing it at first before biting down hard.



He collapses and you fall atop him, aroused and suddenly angry. Your breasts are pressed against his shoulders and you whisper soft into his ear, “Stop moving.”



He stops.



Your fingers rip away his shirt and expose his bare back to the flicker of the torches and silvery light streaming through the window. The cold has settled deep within him, and he shivers violently beneath you as you take your place upon his haunches, your wand impatient in your hands.



And then, slowly, like a child practicing for proud parents, you write your name onto his back.



He shakes harder and whimpers, his buttocks shifting weakly beneath your own. But the Dementor’s in you now, and this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To have a mark upon the Boy-Who-Lived?



It’s just the kind of mark you want to leave that’s changed.



Bloods falls in little rivulets to his side to congeal with the filth beneath. His whimpers have turned to another sort of sound now, one that raises your own blood, which still remains within you today.



“Turn towards me,” you say, rising a bit to give him space. He clenches when the wound comes into contact with the cold floor beneath.



His looks wild now, pupils dilated, nostrils inflamed and red, his chest rising and falling rapidly as your fingers explore it. Without the shirt, his frail body looks healthier, rangy instead of emaciated, muscled instead of weak. You twist his nipple between your teeth, and watch his head move, with his eyes, you know closed tight.



He is hard beneath you, but you just want to hurt him some more, for sins imagined and real. You want his pain more than you want his lust, for the pain survives here, but the life you two lead is just a faint afterimage in the distance.



He twists towards you and you can see it in him too, hungry and wanting. So you kiss with the silver in your mouth to give the both of you a bit of respite before the light flickers out and his body becomes your canvas again.



*

· ​

You feel the kiss feather down you head towards your breast before your eyes open to see him above you.



“Up, love. We just rented the Dementor for a night.”

 

Wow! That was... brilliant! You love raping Harry Potter, don't you?

 

Uh, having a problem with responding to challenge, Zenzao. Got halfway, discovered it was a cliched piece of shite and chucked it. I'll try it again, but yeah.

@The fine Balance, if ever you need a challange, I'll give you one,

 

Don't worry about it. If you want a different challenge, by all means drop that one.

I'm stymied at the moment in regards to Azkaban as well, having tried a couple of different scenes before being sidetracked with my Anthology #2 entry. I still intend to get it out sometime, but most of my concentration is on the latter, sorry.

 

Alright, can you give me another, then? And as for Azkaban challenge, TFB has taken it, so here's another, if you want a change, that is.

Length: whatever.
Time: whatever.
Line: "Harry? What are you doing with a razorblade, a Weasley sweater and a candle?"

Have fun!

 

*cringes* Oh, boy. Alright, I'll try to get both up before much longer.

Length: Anything shy of 4k.
Time: From dawn to dusk.
Line: "Come now, Albus. Did you think you could out-Felix Felicis me?"

Better, I hope?

 

Oo, I've always wanted to do something like this. Will set aside an evening for this.

Thanks.

 

Okay, I couldn't get passed a certain point, so 893 words will have to do for now. Sorry, Zen.

Gellert blinked, then leapt behind his hastily conjured barricade, his eyes alight with battle lust and his wand trained on the advancing troops. Bang, bang, blood and bodies. There was a flash as a tank was overturned and loud swearing as the enemy advanced towards his position.

"Shit," he heard his sergeant curse beside him as the high-powered machinegun swivelled on it's turret to mow down the runners as they raced across the field.

Dumbledore's eyes filled with regret as he watched the battle progress from a cliff. He levelled his wand and the landslide began, rocks tumbling and rolling and crashing over the edge to crush the thousands of magicals and muggles that fought on the side of the Germans.

Gellert stood back up, brushing his front clear of dust and took stock of the enemy's tank as it sped toward him, bullets and artillery cleaving the air and halting against strong shields.

Then, suddenly, the tanks blew up, showering those on foot with shrapnel, cutting down the British as surely as a knife through butter. Heart racing with excitement, he didn't notice the landslide until it was too late.


Gellert sat in a bar, his insignia as a General prominent on his SS uniform.

"Beer, please," he rasped in guttural German. The drink hit the bartop and he downed it in one, only pausing to wipe his mouth with his sleeve.

He gulped the second, and so on. He glanced around at the chatting patrons, who were occasionally sneaking awe-filled glances in his direction.

Gellert left the bar the back way, choosing to take a walk on this late night of all late nights. Defeat was bitter and his woman, when he got home, would be sweet.

And she was. His healthy body pounded into her, taking her over and over and over and they sweated as they made love.

"Do you love me, Gellert?" Heidi whispered into the clean shell of his ear as he felt himself near his peak.

"Always and always, lievling," he agreed as he released his seed into her womb.

Nine months later, the baby appeared, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, the perfect Aryan. Heidi did not think of the potion that Gellert had glugged before he had made love to her between those fine, silk sheets.

And Albus heard the news and felt happiness for his friend. He felt that maybe, just maybe, this newest member of Gellert's family could redeem him in the eyes of the powers that be. Albus drank tea and looked forlornly at the wireless, into his past and between the slats of the wooden-grilled speaker.

"A toast to you, old friend," Albus said as he knocked back the potion.

Albus felt it grip him and he obeyed it, going outside unprotected and without back-up. He walked out of the fort he had been holding for years to obey the potions commands into his subconscious, circumnavigating all occlusive traps hidden within the well-guarded trap that his mind was. He strolled, his hypnotic blue eyes for once not alert, his hands by his side and his auburn hair billowing about his shoulders like a teenage girls.

Albus slipped through the defences of three guards, not paying any mind to the standing, smoking, gun-polishing troops as he continued his stroll. He began to whistle an old tune that had been carried to him on the wind of his past regrets and mistakes. It was a melody that possessed no words, merely a tune that conveyed courage and split the night air like the calling of a bugle.

Germany had never looked so calm and docile to Albus, despite the burnt out husks of some of the buildings. The donkey-braying of the drunkards that had taken over the bars not even registering with him.

Gellert kissed Heidi on the lips, ruffled Manfred’s hair and, too, began his stroll. He threw away the empty vial that had once contained the potion of luck, which had once held the very thing that had ruled this country for four years.

The game, liquid luck, two enemies, Albus and Gellert. They were high on their victories, drunk on the luck-mistress' nectar and not yet ready to stand up and leave her warm embrace. They were not yet ready to battle it out without her comforting hand in theirs.

Then Gellert heard the whistle and when the mistress of luck purred in his ear, he knew that Gellert was doing the right thing. He knew that he was obeying luck's every command and that he had not failed her as she had him and Albus many abattlefield ago. He could sense his enemy and once friend. He could sense his once brother, now foe. Once comrade, now deceiver. And yet, two mere servants on the short leash of the mistress of luck, their fights and wand jabs and waves and flicks were reduced to petty squabbling under her fearsome ire.

"We meet again," Albus shouted as Gellert came into sight, bobbing his head to the tune that Albus had been whistling a split-second earlier.

"Come now, Albus. Did you really think you could out-Felix Felicis me?" Gellet asked, no condiscention whatsoever in his tone despite his words.

"No," Albus said, "I hadn't yet dreamed of it." For indeed, the liquid in his dreams about Gellet was not liquid luck.

 

A return engagement for Tommy, who from what I hear, sure plays a mean pinball.

Challenger: Tommy

Challenge: Peter Pettigrew is having a pretty awful year so far, dodging angry dogs and entirely too intelligent, ass-ugly cats. But can his little rat heart withstand the terror of being hunted by Hedwig?

(I've said it before, but fuck that wacky prompt line bullshit. Have some pride, people. Use a little imagination.)

Time/word limit: One hour/~1000

 

Not as cool as you expected, Big-D, sorry. It’s probably fucking ridiculous, but fuck it.


Challenge: Peter Pettigrew is having a pretty awful year so far, dodging angry dogs and entirely too intelligent, ass-ugly cats. But can his little rat
heart withstand the terror of being hunted by Hedwig?

Time/word limit: One hour/~1000

-----

The pocket was snug around him as Peter slept, snug indeed. He dreamed rat dreams of no importance, just dreams. The smells of the pet menagerie were a distant echo to him, but the yowling sound that rushed toward him at high-speeds wasn't.

Peter blinked and opened his eyes. It wasn't a pocket anymore but a hand - Ron's hand. He was holding him over the counter and that sound was a cat leaping from a cage above him.

He bit at the fingers restraining him and leapt out of Ron's hand and streaked away, his tail flashing in and out of sight between shelves and the recesses behind cages.

"Catch that beast!" a voice shouted over the pandemonium and Peter felt the hot breath on his tail. Squeaking in fright, he crawled into a cage of snakes which he regretted immediately.

With a hiss, a snake, fangs gleaming with murderous intent, snapped together six inches away from his retreating face. He was pinned between a cat and a snake place.

He streaked sideways and his whole body deflated in an explosive sigh of relief as the cat was swept up by Hermione.

"He's so cute!" she squealed and Peter knew this year was going to suck.

-----

Oh and it did suck.

He had planned it carefully, without a thought spared for the feelings of his handler. His sharp teeth sank into the stump where his toe had once been and blood trickled onto Ron's sheet. Satisfied, he scampered through the partially opened doorway and down the stairs. He waited for someone to either come in or go out before making his dash for freedom.

For days, he hid outside in Hagrid's pumpkin patch and ran again when he saw a grim bearing down on him with a homicidal gleam in its eye.

"Sirius," he choked, "p-please..."

He had made it, escaped from death again, his little rat's heart pounding so loudly that it sounded like a collapsing chain of dominos. He streaked under Hagrid's cabin and the dog gave up after an hour of hard effort to tear at the boards separating him from his once friend.

But it was on the way to retreating towards the greenhouse that the real problems started.

The bird flew out of nowhere, startling him badly. The beak descended like the blade of a guillotine, but instead of decapitating him in a spray of blood and bits of fur, the beak closed around his tail in a serrated vicegrip and he felt himself lift as wings beat frantically.

When he turned to look back, he saw snowy feathers flutter and ruffle before his eyes. When will it stop? He wondered. When will this running just... stop?

Hedwig landed Pettigrew first on a treebranch. Her eyes seemed to say, "We’re going to have words, you and I."

Pettigrew squeaked enquiringly and Hedwig's hoot sounded remarkably like a death threat. She took off from the branch and shook him vigorously for a moment before gliding back down to her branch. He turned to look at her again and her eyes looked like what he imagined a cowboy's owl's would look like. "I'm gonna put you down, Mister!" her eyes drawled, or so it seemed. "Me and my six-shooter beak."

Peter thought of transforming, but he daren't risk it; the branch was too thin.

Then he leapt, Hedwig's cold shriek of anger also falling with him as she tried to catch up. He transformed in mid air, reached up and grabbed the owl.

'I've got you now," he thought, actually feeling a thrill shoot through him as the tables were turned.

He landed, knees bent. The cat was there to meet his descending form with a healthy set of claws. Using the owl as a shield, Peter leapt behind the very tree he had fallen out of and waited. A pare of jaws fastened on the collar of his filthy robes and yanked him backward, laying him open. Peter rolled over, stood up and stared down at the dog. In his panic, he let the owl wing free.

With a bare-like growl, the dog leapt for his throat, but his throat wasn't there. He transformed and scampered between the dog's back paws.

With the owl nowhere in sight, Peter ran and ran and ran till he reached the safety of Hagrid's cabin once more, where for months, he hid in Hagrid's milk jug.

Then he was tipped out and his jug shattered on the wooden floor as Hermione dropped it with shock. He scampered away - or tried to. Ron snatched him off the ground this time and Peter bit and clawed desperately at the greasy appendages wrapped around him. Then came the tight, confining prison of Ron's pyjama pocket where Peter squirmed, claws outstretched.

Outside the cabin now, his heart rat-a-tatting, he finally managed to get free and flee some hundred meters into the safety of the Womping Willow, so to speak. His plans were cut to an abrupt halt when a growl, proceeded by a yowl, proceeded by an angry, gunslinger hoot echoed out like the orchestra of his death. Peter wondered why he had made so many enemies. All he wanted was someone to go down on his knees for, because standing hurt his calf muscles. Was that too much to ask?

Then the jaws opened above him, breath billowed down on his head and were about to snap shut. Claws were swiping through the air, vicious and deadly, but it was the eyes that got to him.

Hedwig’s amber eyes said, “this time I’m not even gonna buy a beer before I put hot led in you, Mister! And this time, I won’t miss!”

Then it came to an end with a snap-crunch-rip-hoot.

 

It went a different direction than I expected, which isn't entirely a bad thing, but I would have preferred to see a little more owl-and-mouse action, with Peter thinking he's safe and Hedwig outsmarting him a few times. Sirius, Crookshanks, and Hedwig all ganging up on him at the same time makes him a little sympathetic, which is actually a neat trick.

 

Thanks.

Challenge for you, Big-D
Time: Don't give a fuck.
Length: Whatever
Scenario: Harry goes Vampire hunting. His target, a bar solely for lesbians.

Give it your usual flair.