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Post by Goalie on Aug 20, 2007 20:58:09 GMT -5
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Post by brooks on Aug 20, 2007 21:01:44 GMT -5
And the story continues.....................
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Post by johnnysauntie on Aug 20, 2007 21:07:28 GMT -5
not for tonight it doesn't! I'm pooped! I'm going to bed! Bara? Bara! Brian? Helloooooo .... someone else's turn!
;D
This really is fun.
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Post by Bara on Aug 21, 2007 2:15:15 GMT -5
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brian
Groom
Way,way out West
Posts: 95
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Post by brian on Aug 21, 2007 2:39:19 GMT -5
Filtch shuffled painfully down the hall , Mrs Norris following behind , glaring malevolently at the figures in the portraits as they moved about.
" Kids running wild - breaking and misplacing things and generally running amok without a care in the world . And who gets to pick up the pieces and set things right ? Who never gets a word of thanks or credit ? These mythical creatures leave real enough droppings that have to be cleaned up .........."
There was a time , long , long ago when his heart was filled with promise and joy . No one would venture a guess it was true to look at him now .
He stopped , looked carefully to his left and right and then at the portrait on the wall . He gently laid his hand on it , as if he could touch her lovely skin again.
If only..............
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Post by Bara on Aug 21, 2007 11:58:26 GMT -5
The portrait smiled down at him. She stretched out a hand, hit cold canvas ... Almost, a smile broke on Filtch's sour old features. He stretched out a hand - hit cold canvas.
"Boy!?" he shouted to the empty corridor. Round the corner puffed 'the boy', a red-faced man, tubby, mid-forties, breathing hard. As stout as Filtch was thin, The portrait smiled. "Son.." she seemed to say.
"Hold up, Dad," cursed Heironymous Filtch. "Hold up!" Mrs Norris arched her back and yowled at the 'young man'.
Unnoticed by Filtch, Filtch Junior and the portrait, a couple glided across the top of the corridor. A Free Elf, leading a Muggle by the hand.
The old cat yowled again, clawing her master's knee.
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Post by brooks on Aug 22, 2007 16:14:38 GMT -5
Unnoticed by Filtch, Filtch Junior and the portrait, a couple glided across the top of the corridor. A Free Elf, leading a Muggle by the hand. The old cat yowled again, clawing her master's knee. Ok I got that Filtch and the portrait were connected and this was there son. and the free Elf is Dobby but whose the muggle or don't we know yet ? We need more, I'm having cravings for more  |
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Post by Bara on Aug 23, 2007 16:41:45 GMT -5
Hmmmm .. Well the Free Elf can't be the late, lamented Dobby, Brooks - unless he's a ghost .. (could be!) OR it could be someone who has adopted the sock as a Badge of Free Elfhood .. Maybe someone related to that great house-elf? Who knows who he (or she) might be ...  You HAVE already met the Muggle, but you were so busy transfiguring ... ;D |
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Post by Lynne on Aug 23, 2007 18:45:50 GMT -5
I'm so confused............ Yet dazzled by the writing. I just need a Potter Terminology Dictionary.....  |
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Post by Bara on Aug 23, 2007 19:38:26 GMT -5
Apply to Brooks ... |
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Post by johnnysauntie on Aug 24, 2007 8:58:51 GMT -5
Merope Gaunt smiled down from the portrait at Fitch, and her son. She didn't die at the orphanage that night, not really, something that only Fitch knew. Merope had suffered so much at the hands of her magical family ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_House_of_Gaunt ) that she was determined that her son would be raised by Muggles, as a Muggle. She gave birth to him and disappeared into the night, using her meager magical talents to create a dead proxy of her own self. She kept quiet vigil over her boy, watching him grow into a handsome youth, but aware of the fact that the conditions she left him in were far from ideal. Seeing Albus Dumbledore approach the orphanage one day, she was stunned. She knew that he was there to see her boy. Sure enough, Tom left for Hogwarts, and Merope followed. She got a job as a scullery maid in Hogsmeade, and befriended Fitch during one of her forays to the castle, to catch a glimpse of her son. Staring fondly up at the portrait, Fitch recalled that day, and his broken-hearted lover. She had seen what Tom became before he died. Those times he thought he was alone, she had been lurking, watching. After all, she was his mother. Fitch looked at his son, Heironymous, the last heir of Slytherin, who stood staring up at the portrait. |
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Post by Deb on Aug 24, 2007 10:16:32 GMT -5
My word, there is writing talent galore here!! Far from me to even begin to match it.
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Post by brooks on Aug 24, 2007 11:00:59 GMT -5
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Post by Bara on Aug 24, 2007 11:11:30 GMT -5
Merope's portrait gazed down at Heironymous in alarm. Almost, the chamber maid broke free from her frame as she watched her only surviving son gasping and wheezing with the effort of his run to catch up with Filtch.
"Heiro...?" She whispered.. hand stretching to the canvas.
Heironymous was gasping for breath, a big, fat, middle-aged man, bending from the waist, hands akimbo on his chunky thighs, his red face more choleric than ever. He was hissing to breathe and speak ....
"Dad ...Sssss ...?" he hissed ?
Filtch's hand snaked out and caught Heironymous across the cheek ...
Heiro gasped.
"Don't you ever, EVER , EVER .." snarled Filtch, "use that accursed parselmouth ..."
The heir of Slytherin sank to the cold stone flags; a crimson, panting heap.
Merope, in her picture frame shot a look of pure hatred towards Filtch.
"Heiro? Baby?" said the portrait. She stretched out a hand. Hit cold canvas.
The pitiful heap on the floor tried to smile.
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Post by Bara on Aug 24, 2007 11:25:01 GMT -5
In the Leaky Cauldron that night , a motley group hugged the dark corner in the Ingleside Nook by the big log fire. The other patrons couldn't resist glancing over at them occasionally over their tankards of Cider.
All the group were robed and hooded.
There was a small person whose hood could not contain the long pointy nose and the unfurled ears. He (or she) was trying to be discreet, but could not contain the occasional urge to beat their head against the fireplace.
There was someone who, though normal human size, spoke with a distinct Yorkshire accent.
There was a large person, whose robe and hood were not quite adequate to cover his ample form. His red face glowed in the firelight.
And there was Deb.
Deb alone amongst the group had slipped her hood back from her face and seemed happy to be seen. In fact, she had a huge smile on her face. It was Deb who was speaking. The locals tried to pretend not to be listening.
"So," said Deb, in her gentle Missouri drawl, "it's up to us - and the Tarts, then?"
The others HUSHED her ...
'Sssshhhhh!'
The small figure glanced anxiously at the large figure as the hiss emerged.
Heiro tutted.
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