Part of my writing process, when I can't get any writing done, is to write random prompts. Here are ten, which you should feel free to take. If you do take one, please post your result (or, if it's long, a link to it) in comments. (I'll update this post to reflect your offering.)
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Please find the prompts and links to the responses to them under the cut. )
The man needed a friend.
Hagrid then and there decided he would be it, the one that convinced the crank to see life as a glass half full, as a . . . a rooftop shingled with the hardiest proofs against any weather type.
On the cusp of his next bout to Diagon Alley, Hagrid casually bumped into Filch in the corridor leading to the dungeons.
"Aye, watch yourself you hairy clunk!"
Hagrid swallowed his retort. "I'm on my way to the Leaky Cauldron. Fancy joining me for a pint?"
"What are you on about?" Filch sounded incredulous, but he just looked . . . grumpy.
"You ought to get out a bit more. The sun'd do miracles for a pallor like yours."
"What's wrong with my pallor?"
"Ah . . . er-"
"I don't like blokes. And even if I did-" Filch harrumphed the rest of his sentence to an indecipherable mumble. He clutched his coat tighter at the collar and flared his nostrils at Hagrid. With one last, lingering death glare, he turned haughtily and walked the opposite way from which he came.
Hagrid stood stock still, staring at Filch's retreating back, his mouth hanging open. Unhatched dragon eggs. For future reference, he decided to stick to taming wild beasts he was familiar with.
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