#length short
THE HOGWARTS UNDERGROUND CHESS SOCIETY
Hogwarts castle morphed along with its inhabitants’ secrets. Whims and wars lay groundwork for hidden rooms and protection spells that trickled silently through the generations, forgotten until some intrepid student dared to push a little further into the shadows.
Twenty years passed before the underground chambers were uncovered again. Their purpose fulfilled, the chambers protected little but rubble and rusted keys… and an impressively large chessboard that filled the fourth room, complete with life-sized pieces that sprang to life with a touch.
But they would obey no commands until a player took the place of one of the pieces.
Playing the board became a rite of passage for daring Wizard’s Chess enthusiasts. The best—and some say, the most merciless—of such students formed the Underground Chess Society, the school’s first secret society since the war. Ascension was bloody, for rising in their ranks required playing head-to-head games to completion, and a win no longer necessarily required felling a king; having a knight draw its sword on a classmate forced to stand in for the bishop would do just as well. And the more one played, the less one hesitated to make the move…
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Every November, Slytherins sponsored an all-school lake party, being “the hottest house in the coolest of seasons.” The shore lined with warming lamps, beach chairs, and students in confusing swimsuit patterns. Gladrags sold out of their mood-changing argyle-print swim trunks, though no one could fathom a reason why they were fashionable that season. (“Magical subversive marketing! They’re literally charming your brain!”)
The main event was the Swim-Off—a four-way capture the flag game played in the water. The rules became more elaborate every year, per usual of magical society’s sports, with addendums for everything from giant squid intervention to rubber duck usage. No one knew the full scoring and penalty system, and as a result, the winning house changed depending on who you asked. Everyone cheated, anyway.
[ficlets by hpedit-the next gen capersverse]
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Rita Skeeter gets up close and personal with the Hufflepuffs who knew Harry Potter best.
(The Slytherin Class of 1999 - Where are they Now? /Gryffindor’s Golden Graduates: How Gryffindor’s Class of 1999 are Shaping the World /Wit Beyond Measure: Ravenclaws in Profile)
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At school, Peter was Remus’ closest friend. Peter was his study partner most years, as neither Sirius nor James could behave for an hour straight in the library. They’d squander their afternoons together too, when they couldn’t find their friends soon enough to make the time before dinner useful.
Sirius and James—they were exuberant. They would conquer the ground they walked on, mouths wide and cackling, as if they could swallow the world. Remus was ever grateful for their friendship—their acceptance had saved him and he would never speak a bad word about it—but he couldn’t say that Sirius and James truly understood like Peter did. Walking in their friends’ shadow together, taunted by the ease a few feet ahead. The envy of it. Sirius and James could swallow the world, but Remus could never swallow the moon and keep it dark forever. He could never wield that brightness with how it stirred his blood and how he craved for the nights when the moon was skinny.
Peter knew the hopelessness of it, griping along instead of offering false encouragement, and they’d revel in their cynicism until the dinner bell tolled. Remus was just as grateful for that.
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NATURE VS NURTURE: a Malfoy cannot change its spots
In his eyes, and in the eyes of his father, Herbology was an unsuitable subject for a man to excel in - but his skill with plants was a happy partner to his Potions ability and, really, in all those years in living in that manor with its palatial garden, had the Malfoys not learned to love the things that grew there?
When the manor (with its rose garden, orchard, several ponds, follies and vegetable plot) was sold to the Ministry to cover trial costs, Draco moved to their shambledown house in the southern countryside (once a third holiday home, now the most valuable piece in the Malfoy property portfolio) and kept a Potioneer’s garden, plus a succulent or two indoors for company.-julia’s #1 crack headcanon: Draco takes to gardening after the war as a form of therapy
[more ficlets by hpedit]
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- What if Voldemort making Harry a horcrux meant that part of him insinuated himself into Harry’s head as an emotion but badly disguised, like his emotion is wearing a fake nose (He introduces himself: “I’m… uh… darkness. Your old friend.”). Harry’s real emotions tolerate him, but they always feel something’s a bit off, like when Harry grows up and gets the puberty console with a giant Dark Mark-labeled button and Voldy!Emotion keeps going *PUSH* *TRAUMATIC VISIONS*
- We make fun of Harry for how he named Albus Severus but maybe Disgust was taking a nap when Sadness put the idea in and the others couldn’t get it out, and you know Fear would’ve tried because Ginny won’t be hopped up on medicine for long.
- Draco’s feelings wake up to sneer/swoon at Potter Island after dreaming of Potter and wait impatiently for the Train of Thought to bring in the day’s insults for Potter.
- Hagrid’s head is like his hut, cozy and constantly full of creatures. Doesn’t faze his Fear or Disgust at all; they’re all as happy as Joy to have them there. Norberta lives amongst his long-term memories and the best part about being a dragon: he can fly to HQ from time to time :’)
- ♩♬ BERTIE BOTT’S BEANS, IT’LL MAKE YOU SCREAM– ♪ ♫
Summary: “Imagine having a nightmare and Dean holding you until you fall back asleep.”
Note: [You know that thing artists do, where they re-make a piece of art? I decided to do something like that but with rewriting one of my old one shots. From seven years ago. Yikes.]
Fandom:Supernatural
Pairing:Dean Winchester/Reader
Word Count: 250
I bolt upright in bed, adrenaline pumping through me. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it, can feel its beat throughout my whole body.
Just a nightmare, I tell myself. Just a nightmare.
But though the dream was fake, the memory is real. And the fear, the fear is definitely real.
“Sweetheart?” I feel a hand brush across my lower back and jump. “Woah, sweetie. It’s okay.”
I turn and look at the man next to me and feel an immediate sense of relief wash over me even as tears brim in my eyes. Dean. He’s propped up on one elbow, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Another nightmare?”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice shaky.
“Hey. Come here,” he says, adjusting so there’s space for me to curl up next to him.
I bite my lip and lie back down, Dean’s arm wrapped around me now, my head resting on his chest. He brushes a lock of hair out of my face. “It’s okay,” he says. “Deep breaths. You’re safe now, I’ve got you.”
He breaths in and out, deliberately slow, and I match my breathing to the rise and fall of his chest. In… Out… In… Out… Slowly, my racing heart slows, becoming more evenly matched with the heartbeat I can feel beating in his chest. As the steady thump-thump-thump lulls me to sleep, I feel a light kiss pressed to my forehead.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Better,” I say back, my voice soft.
Summary:Dean forgot the words to the exorcism spell. Sam can’t speak. They work with what they’ve got.
Fandom:Supernatural
Characters: (Mute) Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Word Count: 600
AO3:Link
Note:Part of the mute!Sam series, same timeline as “Voiceless”
They had the demon right where they wanted it, stuck in the middle of a Devil’s trap in the middle of this half-rotten abandoned house. Its human host, a pudgy middle-aged man, was—they were pretty sure—still living, so all they had to do was exorcise it.
“You’re headed straight back to hell,” Dean said, walking in a slow circle around the demon. He took a deep breath. One simple spell, and this demon’s day would be ruined for good. “Exorcize… Exorcizas te…” What were the next words? Dean glanced sheepishly at Sam.
You forgot the words, Sam signed to him. No raised eyebrows indicating a question. Just a flat statement.
“Just give me a second,” Dean whispered to him. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the words of the spell. The first few came back to him when he concentrated. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Satanica… Omnis… Omnis spiritus satanica…? It sounded sort of right, but not quite.
Remember yet? Sam signed to him. He crossed his arms, throwing Dean an exasperated look.
“Look, this is our third demon exorcism!” he growled, trying to remain quiet enough so the demon couldn’t hear them. “Give me a break!”
“Everything going okay?” the demon asked, pacing around the edge of the trap. It watched Sam and Dean with a hint of amusement on its face.
Paper? Sam signed. The way this case had gone down, they were mostly out of resources. No cell coverage, the Impala parked two miles away, all of their books and notes back in the motel.
“You know it?” Dean asked.
Of course.
“Great. Well, can you…” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Fingerspell it or something?”
Sam let out a short, silent laugh. Try to keep up. Dean was a fluent reader of fingerspelling, so he didn’t think it would be a problem. E-X-O-R-C-I-Z-A-M-U-S-T-E-O-M-N-I-S-I-M-U-N-D-U-S-S-P-I-R-I-T-… He held up a hand to stop Sam. He had been wrong. The words were too long and too Latin to put together in his head.
“Hold on, hold on,” Dean said. He ruffled around in his jacket pockets and pulled out a napkin. He held it up and waved it victoriously. “Paper.”
Pen? Sam signed.
Dean patted his jean pockets. Cell phone, some spare change… There! A pencil. He took it out. It was a short, eraser-less pencil from a bar’s trivia night. “This work?”
Sam rolled his eyes but grabbed the pencil and napkin. He unfolded the napkin all the way and rested it on a nearby, half-collapsed table. He ignored the phone number of the hot girl Dean had been flirting with last night and started scribbling the spell onto it.
He passed it to Dean a couple of minutes later after he’d finished.
“Took you long enough,” Dean said.
Just read it, Sam signed, and Dean smirked.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”
The demon was gone less than a minute later.
“Enjoy hell, you son of a bitch,” Dean said, crumbling up the napkin and stuffing it in his pocket as he looked down at the now-unconscious ex-host.
Sam patted Dean’s arm to get his attention and Dean turned to look at him. I only keep you around for your voice, he signed. It’s all you’ve got going for you.
“Hey!” Dean said defensively, quickly trying and failing to come up with a retort.
Sam was already lifting up the unconscious guy left on the floor, and he shot Dean a pointed look.
Dean rolled his eyes and went to help.
There was no doubt about it though, when they got back to the motel, he was going to brush up on his exorcism incantations.
