Writing Sample Thread

[Mlle Bienvenu]

Probably not really neccesary with this group...since I've seen a lot of your writings already... but meh... this thread is for your sample writing for joining the RPG... remember to write in third person, past tense please :-)

[Lolua]

So this is a bit longer than 500 words, but I wanted what I posted to make sense... below is the opening section/chapter to an unfinished 7th-year Harry Potter songfic called Have a Little Faith in Me, which follows Hermione before and during the final battle for Hogwarts.

* * * * *

When the road gets dark
And you can no longer see

It had been a long day, and though the sun had set many hours ago, sleep had not yet come to Hermione. Her body could not find a comfortable position, not on the hard stone floor; her mind could not rest, not with so many questions left unanswered. During the hysterical flurry of preparations, student after student had come to her, all asking something of her -- where were they supposed to go, what were they supposed to do, had she seen Professor McGonagall, did she want to owl her parents.

Of all the things she had been asked in the last eighteen hours, the one question she expected the most had not once been uttered, and so she closed her eyes to ask it of herself: What happens now?

Hermione Granger, eighteen-year-old witch and Hogwarts Head Girl, leaned back against the unyielding stone and opened her eyes. She sat with her back propped against one of the massive pillars that framed the door to the Great Hall. Ronald Weasley was slumped against the wall next to her; beyond him, his younger sister Ginny and most of the rest of the older members of Gryffindor House formed a wedge of bodies that angled from the wall into the vast space of the Great Hall. Ernie Macmillan, who despite his bouts of self-importance was a reasonably competent Head Boy, rested against the opposite doorjamb. Other familiar faces from Hufflepuff House ranged behind their leader. Closing the gap between these two Houses were the elder Ravenclaws, who looked to Ernie and Hermione for guidance, and the remaining Slytherins. The latter group twitched visibly, doubtful of themselves and their task, poised to bolt for safety among the younger students waiting at the back of the Hall.

Hermione bloody well knew what would happen. So did everyone else.

We’re going to die tomorrow, she thought for the hundredth time that day.

No matter how much she tried to push it back into the deepest corner of her mind, the thought resurfaced with infuriating regularity. Repetition had numbed her to the words themselves, but the meaning had been etched on every part of her being. Robbed of strength and hope, she could only turn her head against the wall, seeking relief in the cool limestone against her aching temple.

Eighteen hours ago Professor Dumbledore had summoned Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Hagrid to his office. They had emerged from behind the gargoyle in the second floor passage, Professor McGonagall pale under her wide-brimmed hat, Snape’s dark eyes glittering dangerously, and Hagrid sniffling but resolute. While Dumbledore went to the staff room to talk to the other teachers, Professor McGonagall had sent messengers to Hermione, Ernie, and the Prefects, summoning them from breakfast in the Great Hall to the Transfiguration classroom. Snape and Hagrid had simply disappeared.

When Hermione, with Ron and Ginny, walked into the familiar classroom, she found many of the Prefects already there. Hannah’s pigtails shook in response to the tense, frightened atmosphere in the room, and Ernie Macmillan glanced about nervously for someone in authority to explain things to him, apparently forgetting that as Head Boy, he was the authority figure. Some fifth- and sixth-year Prefects from all four houses, who were accustomed to taking instructions from Hermione as Head Girl, turned anxiously from Ernie to her as she entered. She found herself briefly separated from Ron as the two fifth-year Ravenclaw Prefects threw questions at her, but all she could do was shake her head and say that she was sure Professor McGonagall would be there soon to answer their questions. The younger Slytherin Prefects, taking their lead from Pansy Parkinson, who continued to be a thorn in Hermione’s side, made snide remarks about the Head Girl’s lack of information, but a warning look shot at them from Ron’s impressive height momentarily quelled their rebellion. Hermione gave Ron a grateful smile as Ginny headed off a question from the youngest Gryffindor Prefects.

Professor McGonagall entered and everyone settled into the nearest seat.

Voldemort is coming.

Ernie Macmillan winced at the use of the name. Pansy Parkinson shrieked as Hannah Abbott burst into tears. Padma Patil shook with fright. Anthony Goldstein’s mouth opened and closed in uncanny imitation of a goldfish. Ginny swallowed, nodding numbly as if in acceptance of their fate. Others begged McGonagall with their eyes to tell them that it wasn’t true, that Hogwarts was still safe.

But Hogwarts has never been safe, Hermione had thought, shivering a little and looking away from Professor McGonagall. From across the aisle, Ron met Hermione’s wandering gaze and held it. Ron knew. He understood. Every year, they had faced something dangerous within the castle itself. Sometimes they had gone looking for it; at other times, it had found them. It had stumbled upon them because they were best friends with Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, who had defied Voldemort numerous times.

Voldemort's name hadn't bothered Hermione for a long time, but the thought of Harry chilled her insides until she thought she would never be warm again.

McGonagall continued to talk, her voice quavering a little as she described the fall of the Ministry, the havoc in the streets of London, the reports of giants on the move, and the names of the fallen.

His army is regrouping. He could be at Hogwarts as early as tomorrow at dawn.

McGonagall had paused, as if expecting someone to pose the question Hermione had waited for all day. But no one had asked her, and no one had asked Hermione, for only one possible outcome remained, and everyone knew it.

We’re all going to die tomorrow.

Hermione turned her head to the other side and closed her eyes against the impending truth.

We’re all going to die, because Harry Potter won’t be there to save us this time.

[Big Brother]

This is an idea I had the other day, for a scene where an alchemist trains a student in the arts of visualizing the structure of a material in order to reshape it into a different form. I'm borrowing two of Lolua's characters since I haven't created an alchemist character myself yet, but this shouldn't be considered canon for her characters. I mainly just used the names and physical descriptions.

The Lesson

Perenelle flounced into the small laboratory just off the smithy, her long skirt fluttering behind her. “I’m ready for my next lesson,” she called out.
Nicholas Flamel silently raised his hand behind him, signaling her to be quiet. He was hunched over a low table. On the table was a broad metal plate, which had a complex multi-ringed alchemical circle engraved into its upper surface. The silvery tracework of the circles gleamed in comparison to the duller grey of the metal, and the center of the design was nearly obscured by a dark black scorch mark. Flamel was patiently measuring out a small pile of stark-white powder onto the scorch mark.
“Before we begin, I want to finish this project,” he murmured quietly. “This sand is of very high purity, it was brought all the way from Ishbal.”
Perenelle marvelled at the idea that someone would bring a small pile of sand thousands of miles. This must be very special sand indeed.
As soon as he had finished pouring the measured amount of sand onto the metal plate, Flamel rolled up his sleeves and slowly traced his right index finger around the innermost ring of the circle. “Watch, observe, and learn,” he whispered.
The pile of sand began to glow, and thin wisps of pale-grey smoke rose above the table. The sand went from red-hot, to white-hot, and finally melted. As soon as it was molten, Flamel reached over with his left hand, and his left index finger began tracing the next ring out from the center of the design. This ring was composed of wavy lines and crossed at regular intervals with chevron-shaped tick marks. The small blob of molten sand began spinning in place, and levitated a couple of inches off the surface of the plate.
Perenelle involuntarily sucked in a breath. Melting sand was fairly low-level alchemy, she’d seen even her brother tap a circle to heat up iron and brass for the forge. But levitating an object, much less a non-solid object like a blob of molten sand, was far beyond her skill or that of her brother.
The molten blob spun faster in place, flattening out into a disk. Still running his left finger around the circle, Flamel began tracing the next ring out from the center with his right index finger. His hands circled each other in a slow, steady rhythm, passing within inches of the floating blob but carefully avoiding touching it. As it spun, the blob slowly cooled and the glow faded. Flamel slowly lifted his left hand off the plate, and the flattened disk of glass slowly floated down to the scorched center of the circle, still spinning but slowing to a halt. Finally, he lifted his right hand off the plate, then brought it back down and brushed two fingers along the outermost ring of the design. The blob of glass seemed to shrink slightly, like a chip of ice melting in the sun, and Perenelle heard a very faint sound that reminded her of pottery shards scraping against each other.
Flamel spoke. “The lens is now fully crystallized, and ready for final grinding and shaping.”
“Is this another lens for the telescope project,” the young woman asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes,” the man answered. “Hopefully, this lens will be of sufficient quality that we can build a telescope capable of seeing finer details on the moon than we have ever seen before.” He straightened up. “We’ll finish grinding it later. Now....today’s lesson...”
He led Perenelle over to another table against the wall. On this table was a small device like a narrow spyglass in a framework, pointing downward. “On the stage of this microscope is a very thin slice of wood.” Flamel gestured for Perenelle to look through the eyepiece of the device. She bent over and gazed through the tiny lens. Through it, she saw dozens of small shapes, like rectangles with rounded corners, arranged in a plane like bricks in a wall, overlapping each other.
“Wow, it’s like a checkerboard or a brick wall,” Perenelle said in a hushed voice.
“Those are called cells, they are the building blocks of wood and all other substances made from once-living things. Bone, leather, even coral, all are made of up different types of cells.”
“You’ve mentioned cells before, but this is the first time I’ve seen them,” she replied, still gazing through the microscope.
“An axe or a saw cuts wood by prying apart individual cells, along the joints between them,” Flamel went on. “To manipulate wood by alchemy, you must visualize the structure on a cellular level, then you can rearrange the cells to make whatever shape you desire.”
“The first step of alchemical transformation: analyze the structure,” Perenelle quoted.
“Yes, before you can break the structure down, you must first visualize how it is put together in the first place.”
Perenelle stood back up straight. “Okay, I’m ready to try.”
The two moved to the other end of the table. There, Flamel had placed a sheet of parchment, on which was drawn an alchemical circle, this one much less complex than the one etched into the metal plate he had been using earlier. On this parchment he placed a small cubical block of oak.
“I want you to transmute this block into a new shape. We’ll try something simple at first, turning it into a sphere.”
Perenelle reached out and caressed the block of wood. Flamel stood behind her and reached out to guide her hands. “Run your fingers over the wood...feel the surface. Feel the grain of the wood...”
She brushed it lightly with her fingertips. “Now reach out with your mind, see it with your inner eye,” he quietly whispered. “Follow the grain into the heart of the wood, visualize the pattern of cells....see how the grain forms whirls and layers...”
She closed her eyes and saw with her mind...reached out mentally and flew among the cells, seeing them not as tiny specks, but as great blocks the size of houses and castles, flew amongst them like a bird flitting down the streets of a city past shops and tenements. She opened her eyes again, and reached down with her other hand to touch the circle inked on the parchement. The circle glowed and a wave of energy washed through her, and through the block of wood. She reached out with her mind and twisted, and the chains of cells twisted at her command, reshaping the wood into a new form.
When the glow died down, the once cubical block of wood was now shaped like an egg.
Perenelle frowned. “Not quite a perfect sphere,” Flamel noted. “But very good for a first attempt.”
“It’s hard to move the cells far enough to make a true sphere,” Perenelle complained. “It wasn’t quite a perfect cube to begin with.”
Flamel pulled open a drawer built into the table and pulled out several more cubes of wood. “Take these and practice this evening,” he said, rolling up the parchement and handing it to her along with the blocks of wood. “Tomorrow, I want you to hand me a perfect sphere of wood, and then we’ll begin working on more complex shapes and materials.
As Flamel left to begin assembling his telescope, Perenelle stayed behind, and the glow of alchemical transformation lit up the room.
She’s coming along nicely, he thought to himself. She’ll make a fine alchemist someday.