Excerpt meme - HP edition
"If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever a small excerpt from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s)."
This is more of a Dead Fanfic Office actually...
Which Broomstick
Catriona McCormack flew her broomstick into position, tossing off one Quaffle after another with lightning speed. She dodged and maneuvered, trying to approach the goal posts from different directions to see how her opponent adjusted. The young keeper had fielded each of the Quaffles easily. "Absolutely daft," she muttered, flying back around.
"How's that Mum?" Her daughter Meaghan called back after nimbly catching the last shot. With a strong throw, she returned the Quaffle sailing back in the other direction. "Is something wrong? Has Kirley decided to quit the Weird Sisters and go solo?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Catriona retrieved the Quaffle and circled the goal posts again, trying to find another angle. "Your brother is quite happy with his band. They're gearing up for a tour of Eastern Europe." She scowled at her daughter. "Why do you ask?"
Meaghan pointed out, "Because you just flew the same pattern twice. You never do that unless you're distracted by something." She asked. "So what has got your broomtail in a snit this time?"
"The Irish," Catriona replied cryptically, hovering in place.
That explained everything, Meaghan thought cattily. Then she recalled that the Prophet published their World Cup scouting reports in this morning's edition. "Are the Irish favored?" Meaghan asked.
"Far more than the Scots are," Catriona said, "at least to listen to that thrice damned poor excuse for a newspaper."
Meaghan sighed, knowing her mother too well. The Prophet never liked Scotland's chances, prompting her mother to sulk for days afterwards. Unfortunately, the Prophet's dire predictions were usually right, only making her reaction that much worse. The Irish, on the other hand, always received an excellent review by their heavily biased reporter. With a sigh, the young keeper asked. "Has McGarrity changed his lineup yet again?"
"Worse than that," Catriona flew around the goal posts in a figure eight pattern, "the old codger is risking an entire World Cup championship with untried equipment." Catriona stopped and hurled a Quaffle at Meaghan who barely snared it in time. Then Catriona quoted, mimicking the broad Northern Irish accent of a certain Quidditch columnist. "The Irish National Team acquired brand new Firebolt racing brooms in the off-season, which might provide a much needed edge against the top-rated Bulgarians."
"Firebolts?" Meaghan looked appropriately stunned, throwing the Quaffle back. "They're supposed to be blindly fast compared to even the Nimbus 2001 models."
"That isn't difficult," Catriona caught the Quaffle and circled again.
"Granted," Meaghan shot back. "But I didn't think Firebolts were available on the market yet."
"They're not," Catriona replied, coming back to hover beside her daughter. "McGarrity must have pulled some strings to try out the prototypes." Her eyebrows scrunched together in frustration. "I knew he'd try something like this. Now the whole Cup won't be about the teams, it will be about whose broom is faster."
"McGarrity just wants to win, Mum," Meaghan said. They'd had this argument before when the Pride were discussing upgrading their brooms to the Nimbus 2001, but none of the team had liked the way the brooms handled, especially at full speed. "You'd have done the same..."
"No, Meaghan, I wouldn't have," Catriona said. "And I had my chance." She said. "Did I ever tell you about the '67?"
Only every other day, Meaghan sighed, prepared for another family history lesson. The Scottish Muggles had their '45 and Culloden, but the McCormack clan had the 1967 Quidditch League Championships against the hated Montrose Magpies. Her mother had captained the Pride of Portree to two league titles to the dismay of her Montrose counterpart Hamish MacFarlan.
"We beat them on their own Pitch," Catriona looked rueful. "Actually we humiliated them earlier in the season." With a flicker of amusement, Catriona finished. "Indirectly I was responsible for creating the Nimbus."
Meaghan looked confused, looking down at her own Nimbus broom. "You mean the broom style I ride in every match..."
"Was initially created to defeat your dear old Mum?" Catriona finished grimly. "Remember, you always want to beat the best, Meaghan. To beat them, you sometimes change your tactics, but only at the last resort do you need a better broomstick..."
Founderfic
"But I cannot find him anywhere," Helga Hufflepuff said.
Rowena Ravenclaw asked. "So why are you asking me?"
"Because you know him the best," Helga said. "You know where he likes to go when..."
Rowena returned. "When he goes off to sulk?" Helga nodded. Rowena sighed, growing tired of the constant bickering between her friends. "How bad is it this time?"
"Pretty bad," Helga admitted, "although with Godric, you cannot tell." She sighed. "It was my fault this time." That admission brought a surprised glance from the learned Rowena for Salazar was usually the one who caused the friction between friends. "We were discussing ways to divide the students again."
"Not that old argument," Rowena sighed.
"We weren’t discussing which students to divide, but how," Helga continued with infinite patience. "Even we will not live forever. But if our school is to live on, there must be a better way to decide."
This is more of a Dead Fanfic Office actually...
Which Broomstick
Catriona McCormack flew her broomstick into position, tossing off one Quaffle after another with lightning speed. She dodged and maneuvered, trying to approach the goal posts from different directions to see how her opponent adjusted. The young keeper had fielded each of the Quaffles easily. "Absolutely daft," she muttered, flying back around.
"How's that Mum?" Her daughter Meaghan called back after nimbly catching the last shot. With a strong throw, she returned the Quaffle sailing back in the other direction. "Is something wrong? Has Kirley decided to quit the Weird Sisters and go solo?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Catriona retrieved the Quaffle and circled the goal posts again, trying to find another angle. "Your brother is quite happy with his band. They're gearing up for a tour of Eastern Europe." She scowled at her daughter. "Why do you ask?"
Meaghan pointed out, "Because you just flew the same pattern twice. You never do that unless you're distracted by something." She asked. "So what has got your broomtail in a snit this time?"
"The Irish," Catriona replied cryptically, hovering in place.
That explained everything, Meaghan thought cattily. Then she recalled that the Prophet published their World Cup scouting reports in this morning's edition. "Are the Irish favored?" Meaghan asked.
"Far more than the Scots are," Catriona said, "at least to listen to that thrice damned poor excuse for a newspaper."
Meaghan sighed, knowing her mother too well. The Prophet never liked Scotland's chances, prompting her mother to sulk for days afterwards. Unfortunately, the Prophet's dire predictions were usually right, only making her reaction that much worse. The Irish, on the other hand, always received an excellent review by their heavily biased reporter. With a sigh, the young keeper asked. "Has McGarrity changed his lineup yet again?"
"Worse than that," Catriona flew around the goal posts in a figure eight pattern, "the old codger is risking an entire World Cup championship with untried equipment." Catriona stopped and hurled a Quaffle at Meaghan who barely snared it in time. Then Catriona quoted, mimicking the broad Northern Irish accent of a certain Quidditch columnist. "The Irish National Team acquired brand new Firebolt racing brooms in the off-season, which might provide a much needed edge against the top-rated Bulgarians."
"Firebolts?" Meaghan looked appropriately stunned, throwing the Quaffle back. "They're supposed to be blindly fast compared to even the Nimbus 2001 models."
"That isn't difficult," Catriona caught the Quaffle and circled again.
"Granted," Meaghan shot back. "But I didn't think Firebolts were available on the market yet."
"They're not," Catriona replied, coming back to hover beside her daughter. "McGarrity must have pulled some strings to try out the prototypes." Her eyebrows scrunched together in frustration. "I knew he'd try something like this. Now the whole Cup won't be about the teams, it will be about whose broom is faster."
"McGarrity just wants to win, Mum," Meaghan said. They'd had this argument before when the Pride were discussing upgrading their brooms to the Nimbus 2001, but none of the team had liked the way the brooms handled, especially at full speed. "You'd have done the same..."
"No, Meaghan, I wouldn't have," Catriona said. "And I had my chance." She said. "Did I ever tell you about the '67?"
Only every other day, Meaghan sighed, prepared for another family history lesson. The Scottish Muggles had their '45 and Culloden, but the McCormack clan had the 1967 Quidditch League Championships against the hated Montrose Magpies. Her mother had captained the Pride of Portree to two league titles to the dismay of her Montrose counterpart Hamish MacFarlan.
"We beat them on their own Pitch," Catriona looked rueful. "Actually we humiliated them earlier in the season." With a flicker of amusement, Catriona finished. "Indirectly I was responsible for creating the Nimbus."
Meaghan looked confused, looking down at her own Nimbus broom. "You mean the broom style I ride in every match..."
"Was initially created to defeat your dear old Mum?" Catriona finished grimly. "Remember, you always want to beat the best, Meaghan. To beat them, you sometimes change your tactics, but only at the last resort do you need a better broomstick..."
Founderfic
"But I cannot find him anywhere," Helga Hufflepuff said.
Rowena Ravenclaw asked. "So why are you asking me?"
"Because you know him the best," Helga said. "You know where he likes to go when..."
Rowena returned. "When he goes off to sulk?" Helga nodded. Rowena sighed, growing tired of the constant bickering between her friends. "How bad is it this time?"
"Pretty bad," Helga admitted, "although with Godric, you cannot tell." She sighed. "It was my fault this time." That admission brought a surprised glance from the learned Rowena for Salazar was usually the one who caused the friction between friends. "We were discussing ways to divide the students again."
"Not that old argument," Rowena sighed.
"We weren’t discussing which students to divide, but how," Helga continued with infinite patience. "Even we will not live forever. But if our school is to live on, there must be a better way to decide."