Icons, WIP Amnesty
1. Over the past few weeks, I've wasted a bit of time making icons from CoS screen captures I've made. And then I wasted a bit more time uploading them and coding a site for them here. Have not decided if they are decent enough to pimp to icon communities.
2. It seems today is WIP Amnesty Day, so I thought I'd post what exists of the third chapter of A Portrait of the Magizoologist as a Young Man, my abandoned Newt Scamander fic. I'd probably have written more if I could figure out just what my characters are doing at a Quidditch match. I think I knew at one point, but when I went back to the story last summer, I couldn't remember. I'm also posting a letter from Henry Kettleburn (that would be the Care of Magical Creatures professor in his pre-teaching days) to Newt, which was meant to appear later in the fic.
* * *
The remainder of the weekend drew to a close, and another soporific week slipped by. Over the course of those five days, Newt completed four more reports for the Office of House-Elf Relocation, Porpentina came ever closer to editing the final page of Jigger’s text, Jocunda sold practice Bludgers to the Appleby Arrows, and Henry set a new personal record in completing the Daily Prophet crossword.
Saturday morning dawned blustery and cold, as Newt and Henry were acutely aware, perched high in the rickety stands of Keddle Pitch. As one of the larger Quidditch pitches, it required a great deal of Muggle-repelling wards and Concealment Charms, and no one--at least, no current Ministry official--was quite sure where it was located. Scotland, probably, but the Portkeys were all charmed to send spectators to “Keddle Pitch, The Absolute Middle of Nowhere (We Suppose),” and that seemed to be sufficient.
“So, what does Winkle predict?” Newt asked as they waited for the match to begin. Bert Winkle had always claimed to consult his Inner Eye when writing his news columns.
“A Tornados victory, naturally,” Henry replied confidently without glancing up from the broadsheet. Although Newt had always been somewhat skeptical, Henry had developed an unceasing faith in the journalist's alleged clairvoyance. But that was Hufflepuff for you, Newt had always privately thought. “The big story, though,” Henry added after a moment, “is Clutterbuck’s newly-wedded bliss.”
Newt leaned over Henry’s shoulder to have a peek at the Prophet. “Really! Whom did she marry?”
“Abernethy,” Henry said. “The enemy.”
Newt made a spluttering sound and reached up for his hat, as if the shock of this revelation might blow it clear off his head. “Abernethy! The Magpies Keeper? ‘Tornados Chaser Clutterbuck Weds Magpies Keeper Abernethy in Secret Saturday Ceremony!’” he exclaimed, reading the headline aloud. “That’s--”
“Appalling, really.” Henry scowled down at the article’s accompanying photograph, in which the likenesses of Charlotte Clutterbuck and Thomas Abernethy were quite passionately ignorant of their audience.
Nearby there was the distinct sound a throat being cleared, and Newt looked up.
Valerius Travers looked back down, eyebrows aloft. “Good morning, Scamander, Kettlebum.”
Henry grumbled a correction that went unnoticed.
“Hello, Travers,” Newt said as politely as possible, standing and finding that he was quite a few inches shorter than the Magical Law Enforcement officer. “You’re a fellow Tornados supporter?”
Travers smirked. “Oh, no. Falcons. Of course, I have always thought the Harpies also have their … merits.”
Newt and Henry stared speechlessly at Travers, who smiled faintly. He might have waggled his eyebrows rakishly with that remark, but it wouldn’t have made his thoughts about the only all-female Quidditch team any more apparent.
“Well,” Travers continued, “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to chat. I’m expected up in the boxes.”
He left for the superior seats with a brief nod of his head, and the announcer’s voice suddenly rang out over the stands to introduce the teams.
Newt returned to his seat, looking down at the rose pinned to his cloak with a belated self-consciousness. Henry wore one, too, and very crookedly at that. The roses were transfigured--Newt's from a button, Henry’s from a Knut--and charmed a pale Tornados blue as a show of support.
“Abernethy! Erskine! Macrae! Murray!…” Calvin Scrimgeour, the announcer, began to call out the Montrose Magpies’ names. When the captain, Eunice Murray, appeared, a cheer rose up among the spectators displaying black-and-white-petaled carnations on their breasts.
“I suppose Porpentina’s not here, then,” Henry said, looking at Newt as the Magpies flew circles around the pitch.
Newt didn’t reply, for the cheering had died down as Scrimgeour cried out, “And now, the Tutshill Tornados!” He paused dramatically. “Batt! Biddle! Clutterbuck--or should I say Abernethy? Diggory! Flux! Grimstone! Aaand… Plumpton!”
Jumping out of his seat, Henry applauded the Seeker, Roderick Plumpton, but was drowned out by a loud whistle coming from a few rows back.
“It’s the Grim!” a man’s voice shouted from the same vicinity, followed by a falsetto scream of mock horror.
Anywhere else, the outburst likely would have created a panic, and in fact, there were a few concerned wizards--none of them Tornados supporters--who claimed that particular cheer would one day lead to tragedy in the stands. No such thing happened at this time, though, and instead a small, blonde Chaser smiled and waved as she sped past.
“There’s Grimstone,” Newt observed.
Although Roderick Plumpton would be the Tornado to go down in the Quidditch history books, it was clear that Hazel Grimstone certainly was beginning to attract a following of her own. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the contrast of her ominous nickname with the delicacy of her appearance. Of course, there was also, Henry thought, the fact that her father had developed the Oakshaft 79, and she really was quite handy with a Quaffle, too.
Henry turned around to spot Miss Grimstone's supporter. “Oy! Hello, there!” he called, waving. It was Hazel’s brother, Edgar, a Gryffindor alumnus who probably wouldn’t have known Henry Kettleburn from any other Hufflepuff two years younger than himself. Henry knew this perfectly well, though, for he was waving not at Edgar, but at his companion, Jocunda Sykes.
* * *
________, 1917
Newt,
Hello, my dear old friend. I’m situated here at Merrywhither now. Rather a grand old place, though there’s a ghost here who died in my bed eons ago and still likes to have a lie-in now and then. There’s nothing quite like rolling over into the icy form--well, the icy whatever-it-is--of a spirit to wake oneself up in the morning.
I only met Mr. Marsh on the day I arrived, and since then he’s been off on a Tebo hunting excursion in Africa. However, you warned me that the lady of the house is something of a student of Cassandra Vablatsky--would you believe the Seeress herself is in residence here? She says the Muggle war is far too disruptive to her Gift (the word is most certainly capitalised, as she says it), and so she’s taken refuge here in merry old England. Mmes. Vablatsky and Marsh for the most part refuse to exist in the same room together, for fear of crossing their Inner Eyes. Madam V. does dine with us, to her credit, though she insists on sitting alone at the far end of the table, and the house-elves have put all the leaves in to accommodate her.
However, young Master Cecil quite enjoys taking advantage of this opportunity to yell indoors (“Peas, Madam?” and the like). Of course, he also capitalises on his ability to mock her before her face, but at a great enough distance that she may not hear him. As appalling as this behaviour is, I admit it is with a heavy heart that I discipline the kid. If you were to meet Madam Vablatsky, Newt, I am sure that you would understand.
My charge is proving himself to be quite a bright kid, I must say. He hasn’t got the patience for Latin, though, and I find I’m spending most of these days trailing after him across the garden. He’s quite drawn to his great-aunt’s greenhouse, much to my chagrin (and to that of his parents, too, I’m sure; no doubt they’d like him to become a politician or a Dark Arts specialist, rather than a gardener). Unfortunately, the Venomous Tentacula seems just as interested in Cecil as Cecil is in the Tentacula. I doubt you were this troublesome as a child, Newt, but does your whole family really have to be this dashed inquisitive?
I suppose tip-toeing through the greenhouse can’t seem as ghastly as I make it out to be, but Cecil also seems to have a fondness for testing his abilities. He’s fallen out of three trees in the past week and, but for the grace of magic, would be drowned twice over by now. The boy’s also developed a fondness for seeing how narrowly Ms. Vablatsky can escape catastrophe. I’m beginning to suspect she really may be at least as good a Seer as old Bert Winkle, as she’s avoided two buckets of bubotuber pus rigged up over doorways, among other things.
After the Centaur office, it’s quite incredible how busy this tutoring job has kept me. You might have warned me that your family is nutty, really, although I suppose that is the sort of thing one prefers not to speak about, and Mrs. Marsh is only your relation by marriage. Anyway, it’s horribly late and I ought to toddle off to bed now, as I’m up at the crack of dawn tomorrow chasing after the kid again. And did I mention my ghostly bedfellow is--or, rather, was--a witch? Don’t tell my mother, if you speak to her. Or Jocunda, for that matter. I hope you're well, and that the Ministry work is tolerable. Say hello to your parents for me, but I'd rather you don't let your mother know how I feel about her family.
Ever your faithful friend,
Henry Kettleburn
2. It seems today is WIP Amnesty Day, so I thought I'd post what exists of the third chapter of A Portrait of the Magizoologist as a Young Man, my abandoned Newt Scamander fic. I'd probably have written more if I could figure out just what my characters are doing at a Quidditch match. I think I knew at one point, but when I went back to the story last summer, I couldn't remember. I'm also posting a letter from Henry Kettleburn (that would be the Care of Magical Creatures professor in his pre-teaching days) to Newt, which was meant to appear later in the fic.
* * *
The remainder of the weekend drew to a close, and another soporific week slipped by. Over the course of those five days, Newt completed four more reports for the Office of House-Elf Relocation, Porpentina came ever closer to editing the final page of Jigger’s text, Jocunda sold practice Bludgers to the Appleby Arrows, and Henry set a new personal record in completing the Daily Prophet crossword.
Saturday morning dawned blustery and cold, as Newt and Henry were acutely aware, perched high in the rickety stands of Keddle Pitch. As one of the larger Quidditch pitches, it required a great deal of Muggle-repelling wards and Concealment Charms, and no one--at least, no current Ministry official--was quite sure where it was located. Scotland, probably, but the Portkeys were all charmed to send spectators to “Keddle Pitch, The Absolute Middle of Nowhere (We Suppose),” and that seemed to be sufficient.
“So, what does Winkle predict?” Newt asked as they waited for the match to begin. Bert Winkle had always claimed to consult his Inner Eye when writing his news columns.
“A Tornados victory, naturally,” Henry replied confidently without glancing up from the broadsheet. Although Newt had always been somewhat skeptical, Henry had developed an unceasing faith in the journalist's alleged clairvoyance. But that was Hufflepuff for you, Newt had always privately thought. “The big story, though,” Henry added after a moment, “is Clutterbuck’s newly-wedded bliss.”
Newt leaned over Henry’s shoulder to have a peek at the Prophet. “Really! Whom did she marry?”
“Abernethy,” Henry said. “The enemy.”
Newt made a spluttering sound and reached up for his hat, as if the shock of this revelation might blow it clear off his head. “Abernethy! The Magpies Keeper? ‘Tornados Chaser Clutterbuck Weds Magpies Keeper Abernethy in Secret Saturday Ceremony!’” he exclaimed, reading the headline aloud. “That’s--”
“Appalling, really.” Henry scowled down at the article’s accompanying photograph, in which the likenesses of Charlotte Clutterbuck and Thomas Abernethy were quite passionately ignorant of their audience.
Nearby there was the distinct sound a throat being cleared, and Newt looked up.
Valerius Travers looked back down, eyebrows aloft. “Good morning, Scamander, Kettlebum.”
Henry grumbled a correction that went unnoticed.
“Hello, Travers,” Newt said as politely as possible, standing and finding that he was quite a few inches shorter than the Magical Law Enforcement officer. “You’re a fellow Tornados supporter?”
Travers smirked. “Oh, no. Falcons. Of course, I have always thought the Harpies also have their … merits.”
Newt and Henry stared speechlessly at Travers, who smiled faintly. He might have waggled his eyebrows rakishly with that remark, but it wouldn’t have made his thoughts about the only all-female Quidditch team any more apparent.
“Well,” Travers continued, “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to chat. I’m expected up in the boxes.”
He left for the superior seats with a brief nod of his head, and the announcer’s voice suddenly rang out over the stands to introduce the teams.
Newt returned to his seat, looking down at the rose pinned to his cloak with a belated self-consciousness. Henry wore one, too, and very crookedly at that. The roses were transfigured--Newt's from a button, Henry’s from a Knut--and charmed a pale Tornados blue as a show of support.
“Abernethy! Erskine! Macrae! Murray!…” Calvin Scrimgeour, the announcer, began to call out the Montrose Magpies’ names. When the captain, Eunice Murray, appeared, a cheer rose up among the spectators displaying black-and-white-petaled carnations on their breasts.
“I suppose Porpentina’s not here, then,” Henry said, looking at Newt as the Magpies flew circles around the pitch.
Newt didn’t reply, for the cheering had died down as Scrimgeour cried out, “And now, the Tutshill Tornados!” He paused dramatically. “Batt! Biddle! Clutterbuck--or should I say Abernethy? Diggory! Flux! Grimstone! Aaand… Plumpton!”
Jumping out of his seat, Henry applauded the Seeker, Roderick Plumpton, but was drowned out by a loud whistle coming from a few rows back.
“It’s the Grim!” a man’s voice shouted from the same vicinity, followed by a falsetto scream of mock horror.
Anywhere else, the outburst likely would have created a panic, and in fact, there were a few concerned wizards--none of them Tornados supporters--who claimed that particular cheer would one day lead to tragedy in the stands. No such thing happened at this time, though, and instead a small, blonde Chaser smiled and waved as she sped past.
“There’s Grimstone,” Newt observed.
Although Roderick Plumpton would be the Tornado to go down in the Quidditch history books, it was clear that Hazel Grimstone certainly was beginning to attract a following of her own. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the contrast of her ominous nickname with the delicacy of her appearance. Of course, there was also, Henry thought, the fact that her father had developed the Oakshaft 79, and she really was quite handy with a Quaffle, too.
Henry turned around to spot Miss Grimstone's supporter. “Oy! Hello, there!” he called, waving. It was Hazel’s brother, Edgar, a Gryffindor alumnus who probably wouldn’t have known Henry Kettleburn from any other Hufflepuff two years younger than himself. Henry knew this perfectly well, though, for he was waving not at Edgar, but at his companion, Jocunda Sykes.
* * *
________, 1917
Newt,
Hello, my dear old friend. I’m situated here at Merrywhither now. Rather a grand old place, though there’s a ghost here who died in my bed eons ago and still likes to have a lie-in now and then. There’s nothing quite like rolling over into the icy form--well, the icy whatever-it-is--of a spirit to wake oneself up in the morning.
I only met Mr. Marsh on the day I arrived, and since then he’s been off on a Tebo hunting excursion in Africa. However, you warned me that the lady of the house is something of a student of Cassandra Vablatsky--would you believe the Seeress herself is in residence here? She says the Muggle war is far too disruptive to her Gift (the word is most certainly capitalised, as she says it), and so she’s taken refuge here in merry old England. Mmes. Vablatsky and Marsh for the most part refuse to exist in the same room together, for fear of crossing their Inner Eyes. Madam V. does dine with us, to her credit, though she insists on sitting alone at the far end of the table, and the house-elves have put all the leaves in to accommodate her.
However, young Master Cecil quite enjoys taking advantage of this opportunity to yell indoors (“Peas, Madam?” and the like). Of course, he also capitalises on his ability to mock her before her face, but at a great enough distance that she may not hear him. As appalling as this behaviour is, I admit it is with a heavy heart that I discipline the kid. If you were to meet Madam Vablatsky, Newt, I am sure that you would understand.
My charge is proving himself to be quite a bright kid, I must say. He hasn’t got the patience for Latin, though, and I find I’m spending most of these days trailing after him across the garden. He’s quite drawn to his great-aunt’s greenhouse, much to my chagrin (and to that of his parents, too, I’m sure; no doubt they’d like him to become a politician or a Dark Arts specialist, rather than a gardener). Unfortunately, the Venomous Tentacula seems just as interested in Cecil as Cecil is in the Tentacula. I doubt you were this troublesome as a child, Newt, but does your whole family really have to be this dashed inquisitive?
I suppose tip-toeing through the greenhouse can’t seem as ghastly as I make it out to be, but Cecil also seems to have a fondness for testing his abilities. He’s fallen out of three trees in the past week and, but for the grace of magic, would be drowned twice over by now. The boy’s also developed a fondness for seeing how narrowly Ms. Vablatsky can escape catastrophe. I’m beginning to suspect she really may be at least as good a Seer as old Bert Winkle, as she’s avoided two buckets of bubotuber pus rigged up over doorways, among other things.
After the Centaur office, it’s quite incredible how busy this tutoring job has kept me. You might have warned me that your family is nutty, really, although I suppose that is the sort of thing one prefers not to speak about, and Mrs. Marsh is only your relation by marriage. Anyway, it’s horribly late and I ought to toddle off to bed now, as I’m up at the crack of dawn tomorrow chasing after the kid again. And did I mention my ghostly bedfellow is--or, rather, was--a witch? Don’t tell my mother, if you speak to her. Or Jocunda, for that matter. I hope you're well, and that the Ministry work is tolerable. Say hello to your parents for me, but I'd rather you don't let your mother know how I feel about her family.
Ever your faithful friend,
Henry Kettleburn