ReflectionsThe aspiring Auror trainees stood waiting outside a closed door, not knowing what to expect.Reflections by OtterAndTerrier
Everyone said that, if they were accepted, they would be by far the largest batch of Aurors the Ministry had ever had: Kingsley Shacklebolt's decree that allowed everyone who had fought at the battle of Hogwarts to apply for the training program, regardless of N.E.W.T.s, had been successful. The Ministry was in sore need of Aurors and Hit-Wizards in the aftermath of the war; they were not likely to care about academics.
What they had not been spared of was the character and aptitude tests.
Ron looked around. Next to him, Harry raised his eyebrows, indicating that he didn't have a clue about what to expect, either. Around them, he spotted several familiar faces: Katie Bell, who had graduated a year before them; Dean Thomas; a guy called Kevin that he knew was a Ravenclaw; that sod, Zacharias Smith; and another Hufflepuff that had been in their year called Megan, plus others that Ron didn't know
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Hi all! I'm a 23-year-old student of Social Communication who has this secret life where I write fanfiction and fangirl a lot. My aims here are to share my writing, photography, artwork and such for other people to see, to inspire me and to appreciate and show my support to other artists and writers. People at dA are incredibly talented; it's amazing what a camera, your hands, or a program can do!
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It's a Little Too Hard Harry walked down the road, trying hard not to think about everything. Everything was so difficult. The war was getting worse. He had to take a break from Hermione to think. All his fault. He couldn't take it anymore. As tears ran down his face, he ran, screaming, yelling, wanting nothing more than to diappear. Who else would be hurt? He finally collapsed on a park bench, gasping.
"Are... you ok?"
Harry looked up. There a girl stood with tears on her own cheeks; had he interrupted her own breakdown? He looked closer and noticed an oxygen tank at her side. Her short hair, skinny body made him think she was a lot younger than she looked.
"Hey? I'm sorry." The girl sat next to him. "I don't know. I saw you running up the street."
"Yeah. Yeah, so
Luna's Morning Luna peeped an eye open, hardly able to contain her excitement. Had they come? It was St. Patrick’s Day and although Luna was now 8, she still got excited about the mischievous, mysterious green men who would creep in and leave gold for hiding. Throwing her covers off, Luna jumped out of bed, noticing her pink nightgown had turned green overnight. In fact, her entire room had been redecorated in jade: her collection of pebbles were shades of emerald; her bed frame and sheets were a soft celadon; even Gurgle, her puffskein’s fur had morphed (which it didn’t look too pleased about).
Looking about her, she touched everything, inspecting every last piece of furniture,cloth, and room. Finally she ran to her bathroom, where she was delighted to see that the water from the faucets was even green. After getting herself made up for the morning as
Must Be, Probably, Most Likely I held the tears in for as long as time allowed. That was only the school day. When I got home, I broke down, sobbing, wanting to know what I had done, what hadn't I done, what should I have done. Today was awful. I was shaking for most of it, trying hard not to cry, yelling at people, walking around with a scowl on my face. I had to put on fake smiles when I saw my boyfriend, tell him nothing was wrong, just something stupid. Poor kid.
What's wrong with me, you ask? Oh not much. I'm in high school so it must just be some stupid drama. I'm only a sophomore so it's probably nothing important or actually life changing. I'm only fifteen so it's most likely not really a big deal. Must be; probably; most likely. That's what runs through my senior friends' minds when they see me in a bad mood today. What's up with her? Who ticked her off now? Nothing much.
Usually they'd be right. It doesn't take much to set off my fuse. I'm very short tempered; my sister and I proved th
He's Always There
All of him will always be mine.
The fingers that wiped away my tears and found bandages for any boo-boos.
The arms that held me in hugs that made me feel happy no matter how grumpy I was with him
The chest that served as a pillow after it got dark and I was too tired to wait for my parents to leave
The back that gave me rides when I was bored and wanted some fun
The legs that ran towards me when ever he saw me
The smile that was forever present
The eyes that were forever watching
The heart that was forever giving
I screamed of course and hit him with my trick or treating bucket.
"Stop! You're so mean." We both had grins on our faces though and his arm was flung around my shoulder. "Aw come on I was jus' kidding."
His lisp wasn't what made me smile. If memory serves correct, he was about 8 and I was 4. I liked having a friend with the same name as my new brother and his mom with the same name as me.
I've known him since then and he's been my best friend, brother, lover, enemy, an
Neville's FantasyNeville's Fantasy
Neville Longbotton was an odd little wizard. He was not only extremely forgetful, and a skilled herbologist, but also had a liking for muggle video games. Something other wizards thought was particularly strange since there were so many things to do in their world.
His favorite was Final Fantasy. The old ones, since the new ones were getting into real world problems. Neville played to escape reality, not to live it through someone else's eyes. For the boy that took the most peer abuse in his year, reality was all too painful as it was. Plus, as the bumbling son of two heroes, he could identify with many of the heroes of the early series, and hoped one day he'd get to prove himself somehow.
Most days he spent learning what his classes had to teach him about the wizarding world, from flying lessons he never got particularly good at to Defense against the Dark Arts, which he was downright terrible at. He almost always felt
Lost MailIt's addressed to me. That's for sure. My name, handwritten on the front. Although I have no idea who the person on the return address is. The weird part is that return address. It's my house.
The cold chill down my spine makes me glance around to make sure no one is watching as I go about my business.
I take my letter opener, (I'm a sucker for anachronism) and slowly cut the envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper, folded in three. I notice that it's plain lined notebook paper. I unfold the paper, the letter.
A breathe of air on my neck causes me to look again, but I still see no one. Turning back to the letter, I read the words, written by hand, in pencil.
Some fear creeps over me before the words on the paper register. And as they do register, the fear isn't abated.
Three simple words.
I haven't been comfortable since.
"I see you."
Harry meets DeathHarry Potter meets the Sandman's sister, Death.
In the moments after the Battle of Hogwarts, a fair skinned, raven haired young lady wearing an ankh walks slowly across the battlefield. Her downcast eyes show the depth of her sadness, and the dead seem to all be fallen into her path.
Harry watches her, slowly sliding the Elder Wand into his robes. The surviving students mill about, each in some level of shock at the scope of the tragedy around them. No one seems to notice her. No one comes close to her.
Her path leads her past lost friends and foes alike. Tonks' hair, it's natural brown for the first time Harry remembers, lays limply for a moment in the woman's hand. Fred's face loses color slowly, her slow path following the path of his settling blood. Bellatrix LeStrange's wand rolls away from her foot.
Finally, she stops next to Voldemort. As Harry watches, the spirits of the dead rise and slowly surround her. T
Hot Apple CiderA cider special.
For fifty years, my grandfather rose at the crack of dawn to go to work. When he started working, there weren't many child labor rules. Most anyone who could walk, talk and perform basic functions could, and often did, work. For all those years, he was perfecting a concoction that has become a staple of winters in my family. It had to be hardy enough to help him fight through the icy days of the coldest part of winter, tasty enough to drink, and warm enough to make a simple cup your best friend. He worked with my grandmother for 20 years to make the recipe even better.
It sustained my mother through every cold winter day of her life. She drank this delicious concoction without questioning for twenty-one winters before I came along. I was born in summer, but that December, I was given a bottle with this wonder-drink in it. By this time, of course, the recipe was as it is