Writer's Block 39.2 - Voting!
banner by renrenren3
Challenge: Out of Bounds
Points: 2pts for voting. 1st/2nd/3rd/Participation Only: 50/40/30/10 points & 20/15/10/5 knuts, respectively, for winners.
Deadline: Voting until Thursday, October 26 @ 7pm EST/11pm UTC.
Details: Vote for your top 3 favourite drabbles. Do not vote for yourself or have other people vote for you.
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A.
Title: Say Your Right Words
“Today, we practice the so-called Unforgivables.”
Bellatrix stiffened, as if I’d said we’d be drowning kittens.
I smiled. “Why do you flinch?”
Fear and eagerness swarmed behind her eyes. “They’re...out of bounds. You’re never allowed to--”
I held a finger to her lips and leaned in, my voice soft as secrets. “Nothing is out of bounds for us.”
She chewed on that for a moment, torn between her schooling and her desire.
“Besides,” I continued, “did you really think these curses are out of bounds for everyone? Do you think Aurors don’t know them? Do you think the Unspeakables don’t bend them and twist them into new, exciting shapes?”
“They do?”
My lips quirked up briefly. “Well, the Unspeakables should. When I’m in charge, I’ll make sure that research branch is fully operational.” I paused, my jaw tightening. “The Aurors, however, I’m quite sure of. Trust me when I saw they know all about the Unforgivables.”
She tilted her head to the side. “But the Aurors are…they’re...”
I took her hands in mine. “The ‘good’ ones? Well, someone over there is practical. And if these little curses are good enough for Aurors, why should you fear to utter them? It doesn’t make you bad, Bella. It doesn’t make you evil.” I squeezed her fingers lightly, feeling how cold they were. “It makes you smart. It makes you win when you need to.” My lips quirked up again. “Besides, haven’t you ever wanted to say those words? Which curse have you found most forbidden?”
She swallowed.
I laughed softly, rubbing my thumbs across the tops of her hands. “The Killing Curse. Of course. A-va-da Ke-da-vra.”
She froze.
“Sweet Bella, the words do nothing if you don’t mean them. Just harmless little syllables. Say them with me, won’t you? Avada Kedavra.”
She mouthed them silently.
“Again. This time so I can hear them.”
“A-a-av-vada. Ke-d-d-davra.”
“Again.”
“Avada Ke-d-davra.”
“Stop stuttering. Say the words. You know them now. Own them.”
“Avada Kedavra!” She clapped her hands to her mouth in sudden horror.
I pushed her hands gently down and stepped so close that our breaths mingled. “The words do nothing without the intent behind them. But when you have the intent, the pronunciation must be perfect. It must be automatic, without conscious thought. The syllables must roll off your tongue,” I moved my mouth to hover just above hers, “with the familiarity of a lover’s kiss.” I felt her mouth trembling below mine as I stepped back. “For that, you must practice them. Can you do that?”
Hunger rode in her eyes, bright and shining. “Yes.”
I kissed her on the forehead, fully aware of how much she wanted my mouth on hers. “Marvelous.”
B.
Title:
Percy Weasley held a cup of tea in his hands, sighing as the warmth restored color to his frozen fingers. The temperature-control spells in this office had been off kilter since the wacky days of Bertha Buttersworth. After Ms. Buttersworth was ushered into retirement, subsequent Heads of the Department of Transportation had been powerless to unravel her slipshod web of climate spells.
A neglected memo moved to flapped impatiently in Percy's face, carrying with it a fluttering breeze of arctic air.
"Damn you," Percy muttered, setting down his tea and snatching the memo. His half-thawed hands shook as he unfolded the paper.
Mr. Weasley, your signature is needed on the sealed document in your inbox. I placed it there this morning. Your loyal subordinate, Thorne.
Growling, Percy tugged his coat closed and stood, rifling through his box for the paper in question. When rare seal of the Department of Mysteries greeted him, Percy tore off the seal and pulled open the rolled parchment. He stared.
***
Of course, one could not simply walk in to the Department of Mysteries. It was egregious how the department was off-limits even to other department heads. The doors spun in the circular room, and Percy briefly shut his eyes lest he become ill.
"This is the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation," Percy bellowed. "I demand to speak to your department head at once!"
There was silence for five minutes. Then, one of the black doors opened, and a blonde woman leaned against the doorway. A bronze and sapphire necklace hung from her neck.
"Yes?" she drawled.
Percy sighed through his nose like a frustrated bull. "Ms. Fawcett. What is the meaning of this?" He shook the document at her.
"It is what it looks like," Fawcett answered. "It's a proposal for a new traveling method that needs your approval."
"I thought you lot had stopped all those time experiments?"
Fawcett shrugged. "We had, but we reinstated them after new findings emerged from our research."
"It's simply too dangerous, even regulated! Traveling through space and time at once? How can you expect me to approve such a thing?"
"Wouldn't you like your office to return to acceptable temperatures, Mr. Weasley?"
Percy raised his arms. "Do you propose I travel to Bora Bora in the year 1900?"
"No, you colonialist boar. I plan to fix your situation once you sign our proposal. Don't gawk, Mr. Weasley. This project has been in the works for decades. We knew we'd eventually need the signature of the Head of Magical Transportation."
Red-faced, Percy pulled out a quill from his coat. The quill dutifully scrawled his name across the bottom. "And this is the last 'favor' you can ever expect from me, Fawcett!"
She smiled. "And that's the only one I intend to need. Good day, Weasley."
C.
Title: Are you sure you live here?
They ask you for your address and you repeat the place that will never be your home.
You’ve watched lightings from behind windows and you guess that a roof shielding you from storms must be enough.
(It doesn’t feel that way, though.)
You are skinny but not starving.
(What about the birthday cakes you never had?)
Everything is what it is. What you get. What you deserve.
Where do you live? Where do you draw your dreams? Where do you nest your hopes? Where do they die?
Inside a house and locked out. The wind doesn’t hit you. Aren’t you grateful? Your aunt hates stains and you are nothing but watered blood spilling all over her precious house.
But that’s not true. Not entirely. There are bounds.
Food you can’t eat. Rooms you can’t ener. Walls that will never hold your face.
You are the absence in the family pictures, the hidden room downstairs. A spot of unwanted moss covered on the back of the portrait of a perfect family. So physically close some might think you are part of it. You know better
This is your home. This is your family. The only place in the world for you. The only family you have.
And yet, drowned in faded hand-me-downs, with your messy hair and your scar, you are out of bounds, wandering in someone else’s home because you truly don’t have one.
D.
Title: Rules of Engagement
“Right, so, I have a bit of a confession to make,” said Hermione, tamping down on her second snowball.
“Oh?” said Viktor, having already amassed a pyramid of uneven but fluffy looking snowballs. “Vell you must tell me, Herm-own-ninny, go on,” he dipped his chin down and dark eyes looked up at her through his eyelashes, “I vill be your confessor.”
“Viktor!” exclaimed Hermione, giggling. “Stop that, it’s nothing. A bit embarrassing, really.”
“Herm-own-ninny,” said Viktor seriously, “votever you have to say, I vill not judge you. You are very kind to me. I vant to be kind to you.”
“Oh, that is so sweet, but now I feel like a nincompoop.” She could see Viktor trying to mouth ‘ninca-’ but cut him off, “It’s just-I don’t know the rules to Quidditch. Or really it’s more like I’ve forgotten them. There. I’ve confessed.”
“I do not believe this!” cried Viktor, his hand clutching his heart. “You are de most intelligent girl I have met! Surely if anyone could master the rules of the greatest game ewer inwented, it is you!”
Hermione blushed and lightly tossed her now perfect snowball between her palms. “Well I could I suppose, it’s just...I know Harry loves it and all but…” Hermione scrunched up her nose. “It’s so bloody boring!” She punctuated this by lobbing her snowball straight at Viktor.
Viktor took the hit and fell over dramatically, prostrated on the snow-laden lawn like a fallen bird of prey hamming up one of the deathy bits of Macbeth.
“You have wounded me to my core, Herm-own-ninny,” moaned Viktor, back of his hand covering his eyes, “my life, it is all lie. And now you have killed me.”
“I’m sorry!” Hermione giggled and bent down, hands on her knees as she regarded the performance. “I’m sure there must be something interesting in it, since interesting people seem to like it.”
“Ah.” Viktor removed his hand and looked up at her. “And Harry Potter, he is interesting?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry is my friend. You are…”
Viktor smiled slow and wide, “Interesting?”
“Don’t make me hit you, again.”
Viktor, still lying prostrate in the snow, made a considering face. “I vill help you remember rules of Quidditch. First rule-” Viktor reached up like a viper striking and pulled Hermione down onto the lawn. “Expect unexpected.”
On the ground next to Viktor Hermione blew a bit of hair out of her mouth. “I don’t think that’s an official rule.”
“Vat do you know of rules of Quidditch? It’s ‘bloody boring’, heh?”
“Well I still think manhandling your opponent is grounds for a red card,” she huffed, shifting on the surprisingly comfy cold ground.
Viktor turned to look at her fully, usually sallow complexion almost rosy. “And vat if I do this?” he whispered, gently touching two fingers under her chin and softly pressing his lips to hers, light and sweet.
“That, I believe, is quite out of bounds,” breathed Hermione. “But I’ll allow it.”
E.
Title: Decisions
Everybody knew magic wasn't real. Except it was, somehow, but you could never tell anyone about it because they would think you were crazy. You could never mention your weird cousin who studied somewhere in Scotland, and all the things he was able to do. Because proper and decent people would never do so, and Dudley Dursley was a proper and decent person. At least that was what his mother was telling him.
The truth was, Dudley secretly wished he could just go and ask Harry about being a wizard. Or about the magical world. And the things he could do. But no, Dudley couldn't, wouldn't. It would be stepping out of bounds, and he couldn't do it. Not if he wanted to have 61 birthday presents his next birthday (because mom and dad had promised so).