ajhalluk has proposed a round-robin based on the idea that after the end of the series, Neville and Draco are at loose ends in Walthamstow. In need of cash, Draco writes a spec script of Buffy.
I couldn't resist. Probably should have, but couldn't.
Neville's simmering frustration bubbled to the surface at last. He pounded his fist into the kitchen wall, remembering, a split second too late, exactly how much that had hurt the last time and, indeed, how the jerry-built plasterboard had responded. While next door responded with a fusillade of furious knocking in response, he picked up his wand in his undamaged hand and performed Reparo on the wall through gritted teeth. It did not look convincing; the wall was already more enchantment than structure, and the mould from the ceiling had opened up a second front behind the filthy Baby Belling.
"Fuck Walthamstow!" he snarled.
Draco looked up, from his perusal of the "Jobs" section of The Daily Quibbler which was spread over the formica table. In a voice which dripped with patrician contempt be said,
"However I may have sunk, I would never, under any circumstances, consider fucking Walthamstow." He paused, momentarily. "Chelsea, possibly. If the money was good enough
The only reference to Walthamstow in published fiction I can remember was in the work of a minor 80s crime writer named M R D Meek. He/she was not complimentary - I remember the phrase "Even in Walthamstow the birds were singing."
I'm free most evenings this week except for Wednesday. Rather than a specific web site to recommend, I'm going to send you some stuff - check your inbox.
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I've got the opening lines of this fic here:
Neville's simmering frustration bubbled to the surface at last. He pounded his fist into the kitchen wall, remembering, a split second too late, exactly how much that had hurt the last time and, indeed, how the jerry-built plasterboard had responded. While next door responded with a fusillade of furious knocking in response, he picked up his wand in his undamaged hand and performed Reparo on the wall through gritted teeth. It did not look convincing; the wall was already more enchantment than structure, and the mould from the ceiling had opened up a second front behind the filthy Baby Belling.
"Fuck Walthamstow!" he snarled.
Draco looked up, from his perusal of the "Jobs" section of The Daily Quibbler which was spread over the formica table. In a voice which dripped with patrician contempt be said,
"However I may have sunk, I would never, under any circumstances, consider fucking Walthamstow." He paused, momentarily. "Chelsea, possibly. If the money was good enough
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