1 fic - challenge #01, "first line"
Title: Alcohol Makes the Dumbest Wizards Dumber
Rating/Warnings: PG
Characters: Harry, Hermione, and Ron
Summary: Harry and Ron wake up on Boxing Day feeling terrible, and can't remember why.
Word Count: 993
Author's Notes: I believe this maxes me out for the week! This first line is from Chapter #24 of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, "Rita Skeeter's Scoop".
Registered purchases?: Both!
Everyone got up late on Boxing Day.
It was nearing eleven o'clock when Harry finally rolled over, cracking one eye open groggily to squint at the wristwatch on his bedside table. There were no lessons that day, thankfully. Even if there were, Harry doubted he could make it to any. Harry felt as if he'd been hit by a very large train, and as he slowly sat up, all of the muscles in his body screamed in protest.
"Ron?" he said, putting a hand to his pounding head. He was used to his scar aching, but this was different. His entire body ached, and he seemed to have one incredibly sore spot right near the base of his spine.
What had happened last night?
"Ron?" Harry repeated. The curtains around Ron's bed were closed, but he could hear movement behind them.
"Wazzat?" Ron mumbled groggily.
"Are you awake?"
Very slowly, one side of the velvet curtains surrounding Ron's bed slid aside, and Ron gazed at him from his position amongst his pillows. "I am now, you prat," Ron groused. "What do you want?"
Ron looked just as miserable as Harry felt. Whatever Harry had been up to the night before, Ron had clearly been with him. "Do you remember anything about last night?" Harry asked. He fumbled for his glasses and, after almost knocking them to the floor, located them and put them on. Ron looked worse now that he wasn't all blurry.
"Last night was the Christmas Feast, yeah?" Ron said, sitting up gingerly. "Blimey, my head hurts."
"No, after that," Harry pressed.
Ron paused for a minute, presumably wracking his brain and trying to pull up any hazy details from the night before. Finally, he shrugged. "No. Nothing. Think that pitcher by the window still has any water left?" he asked hopefully.
Harry ignored him. "I can't remember anything," he said, confused. "Why can't I remember anything?"
"You two look a little worse for wear," an amused voice said from the doorway, and Harry turned to find Hermione standing there, Crookshanks in her arms and a dressing gown over her pajamas.
"Hermione!" Ron said, startled, practically tripping over himself on his way towards the water pitcher. "What are you doing in here? We're - these are my pajamas!"
"Yes, they're stunning," she said drily. She set Crookshanks down on the floor and the cat immediately crossed the room towards Ron. He hopped up on the window ledge, planted himself directly in the way of the water pitcher, and purred happily.
"Stupid cat," Ron mumbled, trying to shove Crookshanks out of the way. Hermione gave a little squawk, hurrying over to them.
"Don't, Ron, you'll hurt him!"
"He weighs as much as I do, Hermione, he'll be fine."
"Were you with us after the Feast, Hermione?" Harry asked impatiently. Every bone in his body ached, and he didn't want to sit around and listen to another one of his friends' infamous arguments while he waited for answers.
"I'm not sure you two were fully with me," she said with a laugh.
Ron weakly sat down on Seamus' empty bed, clutching a tin cup of water in one hand. "What do you mean?"
"You don't remember?" Hermione asked, looking from one to the other. Her eyebrows rose in amusement. "Really? Nothing? Not even Fred and George nicking that Firewhisky from the Three Broomsticks after dinner?"
"Dad always says never to drink Firewhisky after a big meal," Ron said.
Hermione stared at him pointedly. "And now you know why."
"All this - every single part of me hurting - is because Ron and I drank too much Firewhisky?" Harry asked in disbelief. If this was what happened after a few nips of Firewhisky, Harry reckoned he'd be sticking with Butterbeer.
"Well, that and the nasty fall you took down the Boys' Staircase."
Harry reached behind himself again, gingerly prodding the sore place on his lower back. "Bugger."
Ron laughed from his spot over on the bed, and Hermione shot him a withering look.
"You weren't much better, Ronald."
"What?" he asked, sitting up a little straighter. "What did I do?"
"Women don't generally like to be told that they're alright for a laugh but not as fun when the laughter stops." Her voice was cool.
Ron groaned. "Oh, bugger. Did I say that to Lavender? She'll be right pissed at me, I'd expect."
"Yes," Hermione said. Harry thought her lips looked thinner and more pinched than usual. "Lavender."
"I'm never drinking again," Ron vowed, tilting his head back and downing his cup of water in one go. "Never."
"I reckon that's what they all say," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "until the next bottle of Firewhisky makes its rounds. Somehow people always forget that they'll do stupid things at the time and feel awful they'll the next morning."
Ron looked up at her. "Stupid things?"
"Well, unless you count Harry's new tattoo as being one of the more intelligent things he's done this year."
"Harry's what?!" Ron exclaimed, now looking far better than he had just a second ago.
Harry felt his stomach sink, and his hand returned once again to the sore spot on his back. "No," he said quietly.
Ron was up off the bed in a second, tugging at the back of Harry's shirt. He burst out laughing almost at once. "Harry, get up! You have to see this."
It was with some dread that he allowed Hermione to help him up, lead him over to the mirror, and gently lift up the hem of his shirt. There, in all its glory, was a fairly sizeable tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail.
"Someone really should stop Fred and George from inventing more things like this," Hermione said, shaking her head as Ron guffawed delightedly behind them. Harry craned his neck, staring at the picture he'd gotten permanently etched into his skin.
And all because of some stupid Firewhisky.
end.
993/30 = 33 points for fic
+ 10 for bonuses
= 43 points for Hufflepuff!
Janna/Hufflepuff
Rating/Warnings: PG
Characters: Harry, Hermione, and Ron
Summary: Harry and Ron wake up on Boxing Day feeling terrible, and can't remember why.
Word Count: 993
Author's Notes: I believe this maxes me out for the week! This first line is from Chapter #24 of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, "Rita Skeeter's Scoop".
Registered purchases?: Both!
Everyone got up late on Boxing Day.
It was nearing eleven o'clock when Harry finally rolled over, cracking one eye open groggily to squint at the wristwatch on his bedside table. There were no lessons that day, thankfully. Even if there were, Harry doubted he could make it to any. Harry felt as if he'd been hit by a very large train, and as he slowly sat up, all of the muscles in his body screamed in protest.
"Ron?" he said, putting a hand to his pounding head. He was used to his scar aching, but this was different. His entire body ached, and he seemed to have one incredibly sore spot right near the base of his spine.
What had happened last night?
"Ron?" Harry repeated. The curtains around Ron's bed were closed, but he could hear movement behind them.
"Wazzat?" Ron mumbled groggily.
"Are you awake?"
Very slowly, one side of the velvet curtains surrounding Ron's bed slid aside, and Ron gazed at him from his position amongst his pillows. "I am now, you prat," Ron groused. "What do you want?"
Ron looked just as miserable as Harry felt. Whatever Harry had been up to the night before, Ron had clearly been with him. "Do you remember anything about last night?" Harry asked. He fumbled for his glasses and, after almost knocking them to the floor, located them and put them on. Ron looked worse now that he wasn't all blurry.
"Last night was the Christmas Feast, yeah?" Ron said, sitting up gingerly. "Blimey, my head hurts."
"No, after that," Harry pressed.
Ron paused for a minute, presumably wracking his brain and trying to pull up any hazy details from the night before. Finally, he shrugged. "No. Nothing. Think that pitcher by the window still has any water left?" he asked hopefully.
Harry ignored him. "I can't remember anything," he said, confused. "Why can't I remember anything?"
"You two look a little worse for wear," an amused voice said from the doorway, and Harry turned to find Hermione standing there, Crookshanks in her arms and a dressing gown over her pajamas.
"Hermione!" Ron said, startled, practically tripping over himself on his way towards the water pitcher. "What are you doing in here? We're - these are my pajamas!"
"Yes, they're stunning," she said drily. She set Crookshanks down on the floor and the cat immediately crossed the room towards Ron. He hopped up on the window ledge, planted himself directly in the way of the water pitcher, and purred happily.
"Stupid cat," Ron mumbled, trying to shove Crookshanks out of the way. Hermione gave a little squawk, hurrying over to them.
"Don't, Ron, you'll hurt him!"
"He weighs as much as I do, Hermione, he'll be fine."
"Were you with us after the Feast, Hermione?" Harry asked impatiently. Every bone in his body ached, and he didn't want to sit around and listen to another one of his friends' infamous arguments while he waited for answers.
"I'm not sure you two were fully with me," she said with a laugh.
Ron weakly sat down on Seamus' empty bed, clutching a tin cup of water in one hand. "What do you mean?"
"You don't remember?" Hermione asked, looking from one to the other. Her eyebrows rose in amusement. "Really? Nothing? Not even Fred and George nicking that Firewhisky from the Three Broomsticks after dinner?"
"Dad always says never to drink Firewhisky after a big meal," Ron said.
Hermione stared at him pointedly. "And now you know why."
"All this - every single part of me hurting - is because Ron and I drank too much Firewhisky?" Harry asked in disbelief. If this was what happened after a few nips of Firewhisky, Harry reckoned he'd be sticking with Butterbeer.
"Well, that and the nasty fall you took down the Boys' Staircase."
Harry reached behind himself again, gingerly prodding the sore place on his lower back. "Bugger."
Ron laughed from his spot over on the bed, and Hermione shot him a withering look.
"You weren't much better, Ronald."
"What?" he asked, sitting up a little straighter. "What did I do?"
"Women don't generally like to be told that they're alright for a laugh but not as fun when the laughter stops." Her voice was cool.
Ron groaned. "Oh, bugger. Did I say that to Lavender? She'll be right pissed at me, I'd expect."
"Yes," Hermione said. Harry thought her lips looked thinner and more pinched than usual. "Lavender."
"I'm never drinking again," Ron vowed, tilting his head back and downing his cup of water in one go. "Never."
"I reckon that's what they all say," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "until the next bottle of Firewhisky makes its rounds. Somehow people always forget that they'll do stupid things at the time and feel awful they'll the next morning."
Ron looked up at her. "Stupid things?"
"Well, unless you count Harry's new tattoo as being one of the more intelligent things he's done this year."
"Harry's what?!" Ron exclaimed, now looking far better than he had just a second ago.
Harry felt his stomach sink, and his hand returned once again to the sore spot on his back. "No," he said quietly.
Ron was up off the bed in a second, tugging at the back of Harry's shirt. He burst out laughing almost at once. "Harry, get up! You have to see this."
It was with some dread that he allowed Hermione to help him up, lead him over to the mirror, and gently lift up the hem of his shirt. There, in all its glory, was a fairly sizeable tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail.
"Someone really should stop Fred and George from inventing more things like this," Hermione said, shaking her head as Ron guffawed delightedly behind them. Harry craned his neck, staring at the picture he'd gotten permanently etched into his skin.
And all because of some stupid Firewhisky.
end.
993/30 = 33 points for fic
+ 10 for bonuses
= 43 points for Hufflepuff!
Janna/Hufflepuff