Ten Prompts in Search of Their Authors (E.T.A.)
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.)
( Please find the prompts and links to the responses to them under the cut. )
( Please find the prompts and links to the responses to them under the cut. )
They were not good ideas. Even he had to admit that. They were, as it were, on par with the goat fiasco of '36. There was one difference in the whole affair. A fairly important one even in Aberforth's unraveling mind.
The singular important difference between then and now was Albus. Or rather, lack thereof.
Albus wasn't with him to point out what bad ideas they were. Aberforth didn't have a reason not test them out. He wasn't particularly good at moralizing. That's what Albus had always been for.
He shuffled the confused notes around, sorting them into an order that didn't really exist. It was a bit difficult with all of the comments scribbled on napkins and stained coasters. He would have to choose a place to start if he was going to try. . .it.
Yet. . . . Albus was not there to pull him out of the fire -- figuratively and literally -- when the test runs inevitably went wrong.
Aberforth set the charred remains of the portkey gently down on his desk, next to the drunk who never left his stool. His desk happened to be the bar in his pub. He stared contemplatively at it then turned to view the floo.
No, He thought. It was best to wait for the return of his brother.
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I felt a bit sad for Aberforth, at the end...
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