4175: Loving Him - Rose Nadia BlackThorne and company
Title: Loving Him
Perpetrator: RubyE.A.Gem
Sue-O-Meter: Toxic
Cover/Banner Art:
Summary: “I remember everything. The beginning and I remember the end. I remember his eyes, the way they danced like flames, and how the gold flakes would catch the light. I could lose myself in those hazel orbs. I remember his laugh how it was contagious, and how he understood me better than I did. I remember how we went to the end of the world for each other, and we would do it all again.” The Suethor used the word orbs to describe eyes, but in the summary no less. That should give you guys a good idea regarding the prose.
Full Name: Rose Nadia BlackThorne, the entire Potter Family, her best friends who are supper annoying with their girly flakiness
Species: They sparkle! Kill them dead. (No, the Potter’s aren’t the Cullen family, but they’re described in a manner which makes me gag, as this is so far away from the canon version Rowling created. And no, the fact the writer is choosing to ignore the Curse Child does not excuse the fact she is also ignoring the rest of the canon material.”
Hair: Regarding either Lavender or Sage’s hair, “the ends are long, silky as they run through my hands….”
Eyes:
Markings: James is described this way. “He is laughing at something Fred Weasley said, head thrown back, hair falling into his eyes, teeth glittering in the sun light, white, like little pearls, He has a Gryffindor scarf rapped loosely around his neck, and I watch it slip slowly to the side, exposing his atoms apple, and I watch it move as he laughs, his neck moving backwards, the muscles flexing. His eyes reflect the sun and his skin, tanned from the summer, is golden kissed, and I watch his head move forward again, hair slipping out of his eyes as he runs a hand through it, and then those hazel eyes, with the gold rimmed around the outside and the pupil, meet mine.” The Sue is later described this way, “I look in the mirror, leaving my friends behind I left the crowded compartment and went to the bathroom to change, I look happier than I have looked in a long time. My blue-green eyes look like the sea, or so my friends have told me, I just see a dull grey. My face is angular, I lost weight over the summer, but not because I wanted to, Hogwarts will fix that though, they have an endless amount of food, at all times. My eyebrows are high on my brow, and my eyelashes are long, curving upwards. My skin is clear except for the flush of excitement, and light dusting of freckles. My hair is pulled into a high ponytail, out of my face, and its brown has never impressed me. I turn away, and step out of the bathroom and walk down that corridor that I have walked a thousand times before.””
Possessions: The Suethor spends an entire paragraph alone describing their wand. I suggest seeing the sample, but more specifically, “its core was a dragon’s lost loved heart, and pixie dust with 4 drops of unicorn blood.” Apparently the Suethor did not remember what Firenze said regarding unicorns - that slaying one is a crime, but also sacrilege. Seeing this kind of detail made me decide on the Toxic rating super quickly. She also has friends named Lavender and Sage. There was also a Terdoc Millfygan who for some reason was, “the person who handed out the daily prophet’s special limited addition, which cost a few extra Sickles here and there, but was worth every cent.” Then there is the way the Suethor describes the Potters! “They are all dressed expensively, all wearing long black coats that skim the floor, their robes dark velvet, the inside collars lined in dark burgundy, and the cuffs encrusted with jewels that catch the light. They wear shiny dark shoes, with laces of thin gold, disappearing beneath well-tailored pants, sculpted around their ankles. Their red and black hair, and well defined faces, all stand out; they are beautiful, dangerous, and perfect.”
Connection to Canon: The story starts off with a super annoying description of Kings Cross, except I didn’t feel like it was Kings Cross being described. The writer claims they’re interested in the “detail of imagery”, and yet none of the physical descriptions of the station exist. Instead, they spent far more time regurgitating what we already know from the books regarding the station before giving a rather cliché description of London, which doesn’t make much sense to me due to the fact they’re in Kings Cross for starter, but give a description of London better used during Sherlock Holmes time. In other words, instead of using the word “smog”, they use the words “smoke and ash”. She apparates to a place at Cross Station where a Muggle could notice her before she heads to the train. She proceeds to have giggle fits with her friends over girly things before pretty much bragging about how “what makes us different is the magic, it courses through us like electricity and surrounds us.” Funny how none of the books ever talks about how magic feels,. She also brags about how the only vendor she goes to at 9 ¾ is the person who sells the Daily Profit as if to make the character seem book smart. Worse, her favorite vendor has an accent which makes him come across as uneducated, but reminds me of a street vendor from My Fair Lady. After getting her paper, she gets excited about seeing the Potters. Everyone is unrealistically in awe of the Potters. Now the Sue is going the typical “the royalty are spoiled brats because I can judge them instantly”, but she seems to ignore her OC friends for the canon female next generation characters. Oh, and did I mention she threw the bird at James just because she can? This is just the first chapter. Looking at later chapters, the best way to describe things is - do you know how Twilight has major plot issues involving a major lack of plot. This is the same. There is no plot, but we get random stuff like the Sue standing in front of a mirror just so the reader can find out what the Sue looks like.
Origin: The Suethor honestly thinks she’s a romantic because her prose is purple. Also, “Hey y’alll, this is set 20 years after the last Harry Potter Book! And the curse child is being ignored! Hope you enjoy!” The war ended in 1998, making the story take place in 2018. James Sirius Potter would be in his third year.
Special Abilities: The Sue is able to apparate without any legal repercussions, meaning she’s at least seventeen, but she also talks about not being used to the sensation meaning she’s older. I wonder if the Suethor realizes she’s pairing a seventeen to eighteen year old character with a fourteen to fifteen year old, or if she gave the Sue an ability she shouldn’t have. Even if she didn’t go by Rowling’s ages, James took issue with snogging in 2017 when Albus started school. She’s able to feel magic. Also, the Honeydukes Express now sells school supplies. Oh, wait. The Honeydukes Express is now defunct and they have venders at the platform for Hogwarts Express. (I am not regretting the toxic rating on this one at all.) The writer also proceeds to make the entire Harry Potter family out to be posh celebrities despite the fact Harry growing up hated the fame, so the question of why he’d want his children to stand out like sore thumbs among other wizards comes up. As the Sue says, “they are wizarding world royalty, they are gods among us, and they are unreachable.” (
Notes: I suspect the writer is young, as they say on their profile, “I am a dreamer, lost in my head 24/7 when the teacher calls my name and asks me a question I am blind to a response.” More specifically, they believe, “I am a hopleless romantic, though my own life is void of any trace of romance, my mind creates luscious scenes, which are reflected in my writing.” What does the writer think’s it means to be a romantic? An interest in romance of course. This explains the awful summary, as the writer is pretending to be something they are not.
Being a romantic though has nothing to do with the romance genre or romantic relationships. Said writer’s not a romantic due to not having the ability to discern, they think the imagination part of being a romantic is the “detail of imagery” when it is so much more, including the plot details and the way the characters interact with each other. Theirs is also the lack of authenticity to their work, starting with the summary focusing to much on the idea of a perfect romance, which a true romantic would know doesn’t exist.
What really bothers me about this one is the fact the writer claims they’re interested in the “detail of imagery”, yet they don’t think about the words they’re putting down on the paper, and it tells. Specifically, I also get the impression this writer thinks the more purple prose they use, and possibly even big words, the more amazing their work looks. They’re not, though, using words well, but I believe they brought more attention to the issue because they noted this is their focus. They think that “the detail of imagery sweeps me of my feet”, but in reality we’ve an issue of the writer not paying attention to the words they use.
Also, as I get farther through the first chapter, I’m curious to know how someone supposedly obsessed with the “detail of imagery” could miss so many of the “details of imagery” that Rowling herself created. That, or they’re not missing these details but replacing them with details of their own.
Sample:
I turned through the air, flying by the world, being above, beneath, within. The swirling of my robes slapping against my legs as I felt my stomach drop to the floor, except no floor was there beneath me. I was not flying, but I was also not yet accustom to the feeling of apparating, as if you were on a roller coaster that had climbed so high and teetered, tipped, and then fell, racing to the floor.
My feet hit the sidewalk jolting me to an abrupt stop, the pavement dusty and grimy beneath my feet, and the dust rose and clung to my clothing. My trunk was clutched in my hand, as my knuckles turned white, and I rest it down with a sigh, I never was able to travel light.
The sound of a whistle brought me out of my quite revere, loud and piercing, as the whole world turned into action, and I was lost in the crowd. Looking up, just above me was the station, 10, and there, to its immediate right was number 9. The numbers shined with a dinted gold gleam, which peeled at the edges as the paint detreated more every year, now barely covering the 1 in the10.
The train station was busy, bustling with noise and filled with the flurry of movement. The familiar sent of London, a mixture of smoke and ash, but with the undertone of freshly baked bread, that always made my stomach growl. And that warmth of the familiar sent made my lips slightly turn up at the sides, and a ghost of a smile that was lost over the long months of summer holiday began to make its first appearance, the muscles in my cheek unused and creaked and complained, but my heart it picked up its pace. And one thought only stuck in my mind, 'Almost home'. And therefore free to leave the nightmare behind and the cold of the world without magic as well.
The distant roar of trains approaching and disappearing and the rumble of their heavy metal wheels on the train tracks filled my ears and clouded my senses. That too was familiar, this was my way away, and it took me back, flashing through memory after memory, the first time I met the Potters, my friends laughter, the tears of joy, backtracking through good times, and times of grief, and my pulse remembered with me, beating its own melody.
It took me back to when I first arrived at this crowded station, smaller, and big eyed, filled with adrenaline to the brim, and longing an escape, but afraid of what lied ahead. I remember asking the tall officer, with his blue uniform and shiny buttons where platform 9 and ¾ was, I remember the way he laughed and said, "We get that question every year, on this date, funny ain't it?" I can still close my eyes and remember first feeling the red paint beneath my fingertips, and that emotion, something unknown, hope.
As well, thinking back, to standing in that crowd for hours, looking around, waiting for a train on a platform that didn't exist, getting more desperate by the minute, so I sat down on my little trunk, clutching a kitten to my chest, and murmuring to myself, and that is the first time I saw magic. They were older than me, taller, but they had the same ticket clutched in their hands, the same look of joy on their faces, and they had big trunks, like mine, and they ran at that wall, head first, laughing all the way, and they disappeared into that wall, as if they never existed. And vanished into smoke, I thought it was a trick of the lighting, and that the fog was too thick to see threw, but I was sure that my eyes were not playing tricks on me. I remember how my heart pounded, and how I jumped to my feet, eyes wider than before, heart beating faster than before. And I remember following them, timid in my step, not running, but walking and I remember it not working. And then I ran, feet hitting the pavement, wind in my hair, and I was magic.
A loud yell rings through the air, and the action in the crowd awakes me from my thoughts yet again, and I move within the sea of people, and we all move, together as one, rushing, quick in our step, and walking towards our futures, even if it is a tomorrow.
I turn right, into a familiar alley way, where no one sees me cling to the shadows, and I take out my wand, something more precious to me than myself. It is elegant, every centimetre of its long 13 inches, made out of evergreen wood which is a dark colour, so dark it could be mistaken as black, smoothed and curved into a straight line that stretched to a tip, and gleamed with a finish that made it look alive. Its shine was reflective as it had a rose growing from its base, its petals and thorns etched to perfection, and it seemed to grow and bloom when it caught the light. Its core was a dragon's lost loved heart, and pixie dust with 4 drops of unicorn blood. But what made it rare was the tear of a mother's first born child, which gave the wand its power and a love that was unknown, and pure. And just beneath the wands base, were my initials, carved into the wood, marking it as my own, R.N.T short for Rose Nadia BlackThorne.
"Accio!"
Perpetrator: RubyE.A.Gem
Sue-O-Meter: Toxic
Cover/Banner Art:
Summary: “I remember everything. The beginning and I remember the end. I remember his eyes, the way they danced like flames, and how the gold flakes would catch the light. I could lose myself in those hazel orbs. I remember his laugh how it was contagious, and how he understood me better than I did. I remember how we went to the end of the world for each other, and we would do it all again.” The Suethor used the word orbs to describe eyes, but in the summary no less. That should give you guys a good idea regarding the prose.
Full Name: Rose Nadia BlackThorne, the entire Potter Family, her best friends who are supper annoying with their girly flakiness
Species: They sparkle! Kill them dead. (No, the Potter’s aren’t the Cullen family, but they’re described in a manner which makes me gag, as this is so far away from the canon version Rowling created. And no, the fact the writer is choosing to ignore the Curse Child does not excuse the fact she is also ignoring the rest of the canon material.”
Hair: Regarding either Lavender or Sage’s hair, “the ends are long, silky as they run through my hands….”
Eyes:
Markings: James is described this way. “He is laughing at something Fred Weasley said, head thrown back, hair falling into his eyes, teeth glittering in the sun light, white, like little pearls, He has a Gryffindor scarf rapped loosely around his neck, and I watch it slip slowly to the side, exposing his atoms apple, and I watch it move as he laughs, his neck moving backwards, the muscles flexing. His eyes reflect the sun and his skin, tanned from the summer, is golden kissed, and I watch his head move forward again, hair slipping out of his eyes as he runs a hand through it, and then those hazel eyes, with the gold rimmed around the outside and the pupil, meet mine.” The Sue is later described this way, “I look in the mirror, leaving my friends behind I left the crowded compartment and went to the bathroom to change, I look happier than I have looked in a long time. My blue-green eyes look like the sea, or so my friends have told me, I just see a dull grey. My face is angular, I lost weight over the summer, but not because I wanted to, Hogwarts will fix that though, they have an endless amount of food, at all times. My eyebrows are high on my brow, and my eyelashes are long, curving upwards. My skin is clear except for the flush of excitement, and light dusting of freckles. My hair is pulled into a high ponytail, out of my face, and its brown has never impressed me. I turn away, and step out of the bathroom and walk down that corridor that I have walked a thousand times before.””
Possessions: The Suethor spends an entire paragraph alone describing their wand. I suggest seeing the sample, but more specifically, “its core was a dragon’s lost loved heart, and pixie dust with 4 drops of unicorn blood.” Apparently the Suethor did not remember what Firenze said regarding unicorns - that slaying one is a crime, but also sacrilege. Seeing this kind of detail made me decide on the Toxic rating super quickly. She also has friends named Lavender and Sage. There was also a Terdoc Millfygan who for some reason was, “the person who handed out the daily prophet’s special limited addition, which cost a few extra Sickles here and there, but was worth every cent.” Then there is the way the Suethor describes the Potters! “They are all dressed expensively, all wearing long black coats that skim the floor, their robes dark velvet, the inside collars lined in dark burgundy, and the cuffs encrusted with jewels that catch the light. They wear shiny dark shoes, with laces of thin gold, disappearing beneath well-tailored pants, sculpted around their ankles. Their red and black hair, and well defined faces, all stand out; they are beautiful, dangerous, and perfect.”
Connection to Canon: The story starts off with a super annoying description of Kings Cross, except I didn’t feel like it was Kings Cross being described. The writer claims they’re interested in the “detail of imagery”, and yet none of the physical descriptions of the station exist. Instead, they spent far more time regurgitating what we already know from the books regarding the station before giving a rather cliché description of London, which doesn’t make much sense to me due to the fact they’re in Kings Cross for starter, but give a description of London better used during Sherlock Holmes time. In other words, instead of using the word “smog”, they use the words “smoke and ash”. She apparates to a place at Cross Station where a Muggle could notice her before she heads to the train. She proceeds to have giggle fits with her friends over girly things before pretty much bragging about how “what makes us different is the magic, it courses through us like electricity and surrounds us.” Funny how none of the books ever talks about how magic feels,. She also brags about how the only vendor she goes to at 9 ¾ is the person who sells the Daily Profit as if to make the character seem book smart. Worse, her favorite vendor has an accent which makes him come across as uneducated, but reminds me of a street vendor from My Fair Lady. After getting her paper, she gets excited about seeing the Potters. Everyone is unrealistically in awe of the Potters. Now the Sue is going the typical “the royalty are spoiled brats because I can judge them instantly”, but she seems to ignore her OC friends for the canon female next generation characters. Oh, and did I mention she threw the bird at James just because she can? This is just the first chapter. Looking at later chapters, the best way to describe things is - do you know how Twilight has major plot issues involving a major lack of plot. This is the same. There is no plot, but we get random stuff like the Sue standing in front of a mirror just so the reader can find out what the Sue looks like.
Origin: The Suethor honestly thinks she’s a romantic because her prose is purple. Also, “Hey y’alll, this is set 20 years after the last Harry Potter Book! And the curse child is being ignored! Hope you enjoy!” The war ended in 1998, making the story take place in 2018. James Sirius Potter would be in his third year.
Special Abilities: The Sue is able to apparate without any legal repercussions, meaning she’s at least seventeen, but she also talks about not being used to the sensation meaning she’s older. I wonder if the Suethor realizes she’s pairing a seventeen to eighteen year old character with a fourteen to fifteen year old, or if she gave the Sue an ability she shouldn’t have. Even if she didn’t go by Rowling’s ages, James took issue with snogging in 2017 when Albus started school. She’s able to feel magic. Also, the Honeydukes Express now sells school supplies. Oh, wait. The Honeydukes Express is now defunct and they have venders at the platform for Hogwarts Express. (I am not regretting the toxic rating on this one at all.) The writer also proceeds to make the entire Harry Potter family out to be posh celebrities despite the fact Harry growing up hated the fame, so the question of why he’d want his children to stand out like sore thumbs among other wizards comes up. As the Sue says, “they are wizarding world royalty, they are gods among us, and they are unreachable.” (
Notes: I suspect the writer is young, as they say on their profile, “I am a dreamer, lost in my head 24/7 when the teacher calls my name and asks me a question I am blind to a response.” More specifically, they believe, “I am a hopleless romantic, though my own life is void of any trace of romance, my mind creates luscious scenes, which are reflected in my writing.” What does the writer think’s it means to be a romantic? An interest in romance of course. This explains the awful summary, as the writer is pretending to be something they are not.
Being a romantic though has nothing to do with the romance genre or romantic relationships. Said writer’s not a romantic due to not having the ability to discern, they think the imagination part of being a romantic is the “detail of imagery” when it is so much more, including the plot details and the way the characters interact with each other. Theirs is also the lack of authenticity to their work, starting with the summary focusing to much on the idea of a perfect romance, which a true romantic would know doesn’t exist.
What really bothers me about this one is the fact the writer claims they’re interested in the “detail of imagery”, yet they don’t think about the words they’re putting down on the paper, and it tells. Specifically, I also get the impression this writer thinks the more purple prose they use, and possibly even big words, the more amazing their work looks. They’re not, though, using words well, but I believe they brought more attention to the issue because they noted this is their focus. They think that “the detail of imagery sweeps me of my feet”, but in reality we’ve an issue of the writer not paying attention to the words they use.
Also, as I get farther through the first chapter, I’m curious to know how someone supposedly obsessed with the “detail of imagery” could miss so many of the “details of imagery” that Rowling herself created. That, or they’re not missing these details but replacing them with details of their own.
Sample:
I turned through the air, flying by the world, being above, beneath, within. The swirling of my robes slapping against my legs as I felt my stomach drop to the floor, except no floor was there beneath me. I was not flying, but I was also not yet accustom to the feeling of apparating, as if you were on a roller coaster that had climbed so high and teetered, tipped, and then fell, racing to the floor.
My feet hit the sidewalk jolting me to an abrupt stop, the pavement dusty and grimy beneath my feet, and the dust rose and clung to my clothing. My trunk was clutched in my hand, as my knuckles turned white, and I rest it down with a sigh, I never was able to travel light.
The sound of a whistle brought me out of my quite revere, loud and piercing, as the whole world turned into action, and I was lost in the crowd. Looking up, just above me was the station, 10, and there, to its immediate right was number 9. The numbers shined with a dinted gold gleam, which peeled at the edges as the paint detreated more every year, now barely covering the 1 in the10.
The train station was busy, bustling with noise and filled with the flurry of movement. The familiar sent of London, a mixture of smoke and ash, but with the undertone of freshly baked bread, that always made my stomach growl. And that warmth of the familiar sent made my lips slightly turn up at the sides, and a ghost of a smile that was lost over the long months of summer holiday began to make its first appearance, the muscles in my cheek unused and creaked and complained, but my heart it picked up its pace. And one thought only stuck in my mind, 'Almost home'. And therefore free to leave the nightmare behind and the cold of the world without magic as well.
The distant roar of trains approaching and disappearing and the rumble of their heavy metal wheels on the train tracks filled my ears and clouded my senses. That too was familiar, this was my way away, and it took me back, flashing through memory after memory, the first time I met the Potters, my friends laughter, the tears of joy, backtracking through good times, and times of grief, and my pulse remembered with me, beating its own melody.
It took me back to when I first arrived at this crowded station, smaller, and big eyed, filled with adrenaline to the brim, and longing an escape, but afraid of what lied ahead. I remember asking the tall officer, with his blue uniform and shiny buttons where platform 9 and ¾ was, I remember the way he laughed and said, "We get that question every year, on this date, funny ain't it?" I can still close my eyes and remember first feeling the red paint beneath my fingertips, and that emotion, something unknown, hope.
As well, thinking back, to standing in that crowd for hours, looking around, waiting for a train on a platform that didn't exist, getting more desperate by the minute, so I sat down on my little trunk, clutching a kitten to my chest, and murmuring to myself, and that is the first time I saw magic. They were older than me, taller, but they had the same ticket clutched in their hands, the same look of joy on their faces, and they had big trunks, like mine, and they ran at that wall, head first, laughing all the way, and they disappeared into that wall, as if they never existed. And vanished into smoke, I thought it was a trick of the lighting, and that the fog was too thick to see threw, but I was sure that my eyes were not playing tricks on me. I remember how my heart pounded, and how I jumped to my feet, eyes wider than before, heart beating faster than before. And I remember following them, timid in my step, not running, but walking and I remember it not working. And then I ran, feet hitting the pavement, wind in my hair, and I was magic.
A loud yell rings through the air, and the action in the crowd awakes me from my thoughts yet again, and I move within the sea of people, and we all move, together as one, rushing, quick in our step, and walking towards our futures, even if it is a tomorrow.
I turn right, into a familiar alley way, where no one sees me cling to the shadows, and I take out my wand, something more precious to me than myself. It is elegant, every centimetre of its long 13 inches, made out of evergreen wood which is a dark colour, so dark it could be mistaken as black, smoothed and curved into a straight line that stretched to a tip, and gleamed with a finish that made it look alive. Its shine was reflective as it had a rose growing from its base, its petals and thorns etched to perfection, and it seemed to grow and bloom when it caught the light. Its core was a dragon's lost loved heart, and pixie dust with 4 drops of unicorn blood. But what made it rare was the tear of a mother's first born child, which gave the wand its power and a love that was unknown, and pure. And just beneath the wands base, were my initials, carved into the wood, marking it as my own, R.N.T short for Rose Nadia BlackThorne.
"Accio!"