By the Fates! You’re here! Hello weary traveler and welcome!

What is this place:

Primarily prompts inspired by the HP fandom and HL fandom in different formats.

Also reblogs of writing tips and possible musings of the writing process.

I do not claim to be a professional writer. I’m a better reader than I am a writer— so please take these musings with a grain of salt 😂.

Disclaimer:

You’re free to use any of the prompts and whatnot, respond to them via comments to keep it going, reblog, or use them in your fics. They can be long, short, two sentences, or a creative use of ellipses. The written world is yours.

You don’t have to credit me— but I do enjoy reading the different ways people can craft something through a prompt.

I do ask:

Hopefully we can all write and have fun together!

Some differences among former classmates never seemed to be resolved. Ominis Gaunt and Andrew Larson never found themselves on friendly terms with Duncan Hobhouse. Duncan Hobhouse never seemed to find anything to recommend the new fifth year. And Leander Prewett and Poppy Sweeting could never tolerate each other’s company for more than a few minutes. It was on the first weekend of the new school year however, and the first fall of changing leaves that such a peculiar pairing were spotted sitting beneath a large tree cooing over a little bowtruckle.

In a stroke of luck or mad brilliance, Garreth Weasley manages to slip polyjuice potion (with an added ingredient of his hair) into every goblet at breakfast. Chaos ensues.

Rare pair prompt: Leander Prewett/ Poppy Sweeting

“A Most Peculiar Pairing”

Neighbors to lovers?

It occurred (quite quickly in fact) to Leander Prewett that while he had misgivings about letting any sort of property from a former Slytherin, it would have been a fortuitous opportunity than purchasing from Lucan Bratttleby.

As it was, (exactly three months and three days) since his acquisition of one half of the old water mill on Hogsmeade, Leander Prewett found himself lamenting again that the other half of the mill was let to none other than Poppy Sweeting. Peculiar was hardly the appropriate word now.

Pesky might be better. Might.

While the former proprietress of the magical menagerie kept her beasts and creatures within the confines of her shop, Poppy Sweeting seemed more content allowing them to run across the fields and swoop through the skies of Hogsmeade. Or at least his portion of property.

Nevermind the numerous venomous tentacula he lost to her bloody hippogriffs, nor the screams of his mandrakes at the grubby paws of her kneazles. No— Poppy Sweeting remained exactly that to the villagers. Sweet and lovely.

Sickening.

It so happened however, on a cold, rainy day in October, that Leander had quite enough when it was not cabbages he found in his cabbage patch but a herd of puffskeins.

“Sweeting!” He cried, falling to his knees to clutch and mourn his precious darlings.

Fairy tale/ Rumplestiltskin AU:

In which our maiden or lad makes a deal with our “antagonist” to escape the clutches of the king. And where the villain gets the girl.

OR

The pride of a man is often overshadowed by the greed of another, especially when such greed lay entwined upon a king’s soul. It was, with some regret that the miller’s daughter— so beautiful, clever, and the pride of her father— became the object of such greed when her father (in his attempts to ingratiate himself toward his king) proclaimed:

“My daughter may spin straw into gold.”

“Oh?” Asked the king, and noting the nod from the miller demanded his daughter be brought to his royal court.

“You,” he sneered at the young maiden before the wooden doors to the tower closed, “Will turn this straw into riches.”

Though she protested and cried that her father had said such things in jest, the king simply turned and walked away.

“You will have till morning.”

Waves of despair wracked the young maiden, so sure that death awaited her for her family’s part in making a fool of the king.

Unbeknownst to the maiden lay a shadowy figure in the king’s castle.

“Why such tears, fair lady?”

Sniffling, she stared at the low voice, lounging atop the high window of the tower, adorned in dark silks and the fire casting shadows along his freckled face. “I do not know how to spin straw into gold.”

He smiled an eerie smile, the cock of his head showing a glimmer of his teeth, “And what will you give me if I shall do it for you?”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

Prompt:

Power Fantasy AU/ Dungeon Crawl

In which Sebastian Sallow (or the MC) is the weakest wizard in history until a mission with fellow Ministry members (Miriam Fig, George Osric, Aesop Sharpe, etc.) results in tragedy and his mysterious escape from death.

Or

Even before the chatter began, it occurred to Sebastian Sallow that if not for the decline of Anne’s health, the state of his missing uncle, and the death of their parents, he would have handed his resignation long before the first mission began.

But as the pay of a field Auror exceeded that of a common desk cleric, or any other titles in their world, he remained tailing behind his seniors and juniors.

(Yes… I’ve been watching Solo Leveling way too much)

Crossover prompt: in which Garreth Weasley finds and meets Willy Wonka (and learns under his care and expertise)

OR

Garreth Weasley was not one to be easily deterred. When Professor Aesop Sharpe declined Garreth’s request to come under his tutelage, Garreth had all but visited the castle on many occasions (under the guise of seeing his aunt) bearing all his bottles and chocolates to curry favor with the man.

But upon running beside a prone and vomiting Professor Sharpe toward the Hospital Wing, receiving a thorough scolding from his aunt, and summons to his former Headmaster’s office, Garreth could only find himself in thought.

If not Professor Sharpe, then whom? J Pippin’s retired and Garreth found most potions peddlers running tail from him.

“…Wonka— Honestly Weasley! He’s just like him!”

“For Merlin’s sake! He’s not that mad!”

Wonka? Who was that?

Why Ominis Gaunt had thought it reasonable to enter into a quarrel with Sacharissa Tugwood was beyond him. Certainly it was very unreasonable but more so when said quarrel centered on the topic of beauty.

He could not see— she said and therefore he had no authority to see what was beautiful and what was not.

At that, Ominis’ hackles rose and despite the tug of Sebastian on his arm to pull him away, Ominis shouted and declared Sacharissa a cow— for what creature was sensible to think that bubotuber pus would make them glow and be the envy of their peers.

Words were exchanged and if Sebastian had not likely stepped between to take the blows of Sacharissa’s slaps, Ominis would have been mildly tempted to place a hex on her.

He did not, however, expect to receive an owl from the brat demanding to settle their argument in the form of a bet: a candidate issued by the other to turn into the most stunning creature the castle had ever seen by year’s end.

He should have burned the note and walked away.

But his mind roiled and his quill moved before reason could wake from the corners of his mind and sent a simple response: Fine. Duncan Hobhouse.

Ten minutes later, a letter dropped itself into his lap with a similar response: Fine. Cressida Blume.

Merlin help him… he was going to need Garreth Weasley for this.

Prompt: identity and language as an obstacle to finding one’s place in the world.

OR

He was just different his mother would say. But different and estranged were two matters entirely.

He knew he was not the first of his kind and he knew he would not be the last. To some he was called a bastard. To his mother he was a happy accident. But despite all the names he might acquire in this lifetime, he was more than aware that he was a mistake— happy or not.

It did not help that he was far different in stature than any counterparts— he was not tall like any witch or wizard nor was he of average and acceptable height as other goblins. It mattered little if he wore the most unassuming clothes he could find— he could never fully disappear into the background. While such methods benefitted his comfort, he could not deafen himself to the comments and whispers as he walked past.

Being of two worlds, he knew and understood the guttural inflections of his mother’s tongue and the cuts that lay beneath a witch and wizard’s words. Understanding however did not make him part of their world. He was, as both society’s deemed him, a traitor to any kind.

Further notes:

The use of language in any society, be it fiction or the real world, can emphasize the socio political relationships between countries or simply one’s identity.

In politics—

Knowing two (or more) languages requires parties to rely on the interpreter for translations. But such translations (especially if there is a measure of personal interest) cannot fully be trusted.

In personal situations (example)—

This can likely strain relationships between parental units and children or friends. In an attempt to fit in, perhaps the new generation seeks to hide connection of their family’s origins (perhaps masking an accent).

New Year’s prompt Hogwarts Legacy version aka the Sebastian Sallow show:

Sebastian’s Resolution: don’t use the dark arts

….

….

3 days later… aVaDa—

Darker version:

“I will cure Anne.”

Other characters (that I can currently think of)

Ominis Gaunt: make sure his best friend does not get himself in Azkaban or worse… expelled.

Imelda Reyes: reinstate Quidditch

Drop down what your resolutions, your favorite character’s, or what your MC’s/ OC’s resolutions will be for this upcoming year (and how well they stick to it)!

AU Prompt:

Duncan Hobhouse (or Leander Prewett and the chomping cabbages) starring in Little Shop of Horrors.

M/M Prompt: forbidden love with fleeting touches on a voyage across the world.

OR

They had resorted to fleeting touches as they passed by each other in the narrow corridor of the rumbling train before their gazes would lock for a scant few seconds.

The first had been mere accident but the second sparked more than just recognition.

He found himself drawn to each new day, dressing his best with a press of his tie and coat down while his fingers tousled through his hair. He should not feel this way and yet his heart pattered and his neck flushed with every moment he turned to walk to his compartment.

It was a fleeting feeling just as their touches, nothing more.

But when the third week passed and he saw him aboard a different train, he began to wonder if they were meant to find each other under every sky and moon.

“Hello,” he breathed, standing awkwardly at the compartment door.

“Hello,” he echoed, the flutter of his lashes inviting him to close the door behind him.

It clicked and the sound of the world around them dimmed to a whisper.

He should not have thought it nor should he have clung to the soft creases of this man’s blouse. But the kiss had been a warm and welcoming surprise. Full lips, a teasing tongue, and hands that moved and coaxed sounds he never thought possible from his throat.

“They will see,” he whispered.

“Let them,” the man replied, “Let the world see. Let them see us beneath the star studded skies of Marseilles. Let them see us in twilight across Red Sea. And let them see us walk hand in hand along the sandy dunes of Egypt.”

Let them. Let them, he chanted— each kiss on his bare skin shattering any doubt left in his heart.

In which Victor Rookwood is subjected to hearing the various failures of his surviving men and women at the hands of a child.

OR

If you want to do something right, you must do it yourself.

It had been a meaningless quote in his youth. But upon reaching his majority and assuming head of his family’s house and business (rightfully in his mind and most mysteriously in other’s), Victor Rookwood was apt to remind himself of such a fact at least fifteen times a day. At least. He sighed, biting back a shout as his hands curled into fists at his side.

Good men were hard to find and good workers? Well, they were even rarer. As was the case of the group cowering before him.

“Tell me, again. How old was this man?”

“Fif—fifteen, sir.”

There was silence in the room for a long few seconds before Victor let out a bark of laughter, the echoing laughs of his men sounding hollow with each passing second.

“Fifteen?!” He gasped, letting out a raucous laugh before he threw a goblet at the man before him and growled, “A child?! You were thwarted by a child?!”

“Mighty powerful child, sir—“

“Shut up! Useless, idiotic imbeciles!”

The most horrifying thing you could subject a librarian or book lover to.

OR

If there was anything more horrifying to a librarian (or aspiring librarian), it was the Ministry of Magic’s audacity to introduce the most vile of all books to any student’s hands— “The Field Guide”.

Agnes Scribner’s nails were tempted to break and claw down the table before her as she stared at the enchanted pages slowly emerging from the enchanted tome in Matilda Weasley’s hands.

“You mean to send students… outside?” Aesop Sharpe asked with a quirk of his brow, “Dangerous idea don’t you think, Matilda?”

“Why— I think it breeds character!” Mirabel Garlick exclaimed with a clap of her hands, “Think of all the memories and experiences!”

“More like pain and devastation,” Satyavati Shah murmured beside her.

Agnes Scribner could not agree more. Such pain, such horrifying devastation awaited that book with its pages torn from its home!

“Agnes? Are you alright?” Matilda asked.

No— wicked witch, she thought. “Fine. Everything is fine.”

In which a woman makes a deal with Death personified to rid herself of her unfaithful husband and fall in love in the process.

OR

Lightning never struck the same place twice. Much like a woman could not love a man the same. Especially when her halls stunk and seeped of the proof of his betrayal.

Had it been her who broke her vows, the world would not have welcomed her with open arms nor indulged her in sharing the tale of such a conquest.

And so, she lay— night after night in the farthest room of their house, listening to the moans and groans beneath her roof until she could take it no more and wept.

This night however, she did not weep. She stood, tall as she walked past her doors and into her garden— her fingers trailing along the sleeping buds as the sounds of her husband and his mistress’ coupling grew quieter in the distance.

“Lady— my… how far you are from home,” called the shadows.

“You’re mistaken, sir. This is my home.”