The newest batch of Hogwarts students have entered this historic school and no one knows how their future will turn out - will you be a quidditch pro or maybe a prefect? The year is now 2021, and now it's time for the next generation to make their mark. The newest batch of Hogwarts students have entered this historic school and no one knows how their future will turn out - and that is where the fun begins.
The plot will be determined by the characters of the site as of now - future plots will change as these forces weigh in on the Wizarding World, and we see where these characters take us. So join in and let your character make their mark!
Minimum word count is 200.
Post by Mod Jiggysnacks on Mar 29, 2018 1:05:25 GMT
plot
Hello, fellow writers!
For a while now, we have considered the idea of a weekly writing challenge to inspire muse and offer a different medium for sharing our characters and their development with one another. The concept is simple and laid out below.
Once a week, a new challenge thread will be posted. The prompt could be a word, a question, a picture, or a situation. Anything, really! You can post one drabble or "one-off" with each of your characters to the thread to share. Typically, these are short vignettes between 100 and 1000 words, but feel free to write to your heart's content however large or small. Use your creativity. Show us an angle about your character we've never seen, or a side of them you want to explore. Tell us a funny story about something that happened to them, or reveal a deep dark secret. Go back to the past or fly into the future! The possibilities are endless.
Nothing about this is mandatory, and it is purely for fun. Feel free to participate in any week's challenge or just be an observer. If you like someone's post, give them a like or a shout in the c-box!
Please adhere to Hell Hath No Fury writing policies when posting. If your drabbles include characters that belong to other members, run your thoughts by them. These writing challenges are a way to expand our little universe, so be open to the ideas of others, but also be respectful of other's character choices and wishes.
For this week's challenge, we'll start simple. The prompt is a single word: BOXES. Happy drabbling!
Post by Rochelle Rosmerta on Mar 29, 2018 1:31:27 GMT
"Maaaaaa," Rochelle groaned, squeezing her eyes shut as she let her head roll backwards to face the ceiling. She'd been sitting at the bar for what felt like hours, just waiting. According to the clock, only about twenty minutes had gone by, but for a rowdy sixteen year old juiced up on about three butterbeers and a hankering to return to her friends before the close of the Hogsmeade weekend, twenty minutes was a near death sentence.
It was around eight in the evening, that awkward time just after typical dinner hours and just before the onslaught of the Saturday evening crowds, so the bar itself was experiencing a relative calm, a quick respite in its busy day. Madame Rosmerta did not take such precious time for granted. Seeing an opportunity to run to her office for a few moments away from her public, she called upon her wily daughter to 'keep an eye out' while she went about her business in the back, rustling through Merlin knows. Rochelle, who had been happy to be at a table with her friends, saw no issue with the matter. That was, until a group of seventh year Slytherin boys offered to walk with them back to the castle.
If she had to wait for her friend or lock arms with a hot seventh year, she would have ditched even faster than they did.
"They're up the block by now!" Rochelle pressed her palms onto the bar, lifting herself off her stool to stretch her neck and try to peer through the curtain hanging in the doorway behind the bar, wriggling her shoulders back and forth in anticipation. "Ma!" Madame Rosmerta fell command to no shouting, but she appeared precisely at the moment of her daughter's fulmination. Her hair was in its usual corkscrewed curls, flying every which way, giving her the distinct impression of being constantly flustered (although she rarely was).
"You yell at me one more time, Rochelle Rosmerta," she said with harsh gusto, raising a firm eyebrow as she bustled her way behind the bar, heaving a large box over the gate with her. Rochelle needed nothing more than her mother's entrance to signal pulling on her gloves. By the time her mother had set the box, with its familiar clang of glass bottles and the slight swish of shaken liquid, she'd already jumped out of her seat. "Right, right, I'm sorry, I love you, please forgive me, bye!"
"Hold it!" Already a few skips towards the exit, thoughts of the seventh year Slytherin beater dancing across her mind, her mother's command brought her round again, an expression of pained response plastered on her features. "Don't drop it on the way up," her mother said, waving her hand in gesture to the abandoned cardboard box on the top of the bar as she turned on her heel to clear some empty glasses off the other side. "And get one of those tall young men to carry it for you. It's just butterbeer. Half strength. Don't get any ideas."
It was worth the extra thirty seconds of lost flirtation with the beater to give her mother a kiss on the cheek.
Post by Paisley B. Corner on Mar 30, 2018 12:29:09 GMT
There had been a moment - a few months earlier when they were unpacking all of their stuff - when Paisley had briefly considered throwing the cardboard boxes away. A brief moment of optimism that eclipsed her overly pragmatic outlook. She didn't often let her emotions dictate her in such a way, but that flicker had been one that had hurt her to ignore - because she knew, deep down, that she would need those boxes in the not so distant future.
And here she stood, despondently packing her belongings into that same box - again - while her mother played music loudly from the next room doing exactly the same thing. Except Jackie Martin never did anything despondently - life and excitement seemed to flood out of her in every direction. So while her daughter sulked, she was humming happily under her breath, thrumming with the thrill of impending new beginnings.
"You'll just adore Steve, Pais," Jackie called over the din, carelessly piling up mugs. They were chipped and imperfect, but so were they - they had character, and Jackie would have never thrown them away. "I couldn't believe it when I got his email, but he was such a gem and when he said he had spare rooms for us I just knew this is what we were looking for."
Paisley was silent, methodically folding up her jumpers, over and over again.
"I know what you're thinking," Jackie continued, unperturbed by the lack of response. "You think he'll be like Joe - I promise you, he's definitely not. I always knew what Joe was like, but Steve was always a sweetheart. Did I tell you he used to own a record shop? He was such a dreamboat back in the day."
Jackie had grown board with the kitchen, and had found herself wandering into her daughter's room. Suddenly on a whim that overtook her, she snuck up behind Paisley and tucked her arms around her, pulling her into a tight squeeze. Paisley broke her stride for only a moment, before continuing to fold, and fold again, box after box. It was all the same, and she knew she would need these boxes again soon.