Content Harry Potter
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Author Notes:

Call and response.

Okay, you know the drill.

Tell me who and what and I'll write a drabble - if I can.

I'll bite.

Neville, post-war, getting ready to start his new job (or if it makes it easier on you, at his first day on the job).

Knowing Harry Potter got him the interview at St. Luke's Botanicals, but having successfully propagated Mimbulus Mimbletonia got him the job, something that he'd had mixed feelings about over the last thirty-nine days. He'd crossed the Atlantic Ocean, ridden in a Muggle airplane, paddled a canoe, waded in more swamps than he cared to recall at the moment, and fulfilled his quota for medicinal plants from the rain forests in South America with more than a fortnight to spare. His employer wasn't expecting him for another two weeks, but when they received the drop shipment of carefully packaged and preserved specimens, they'd get the hint that he was more capable than he appeared. A number of people had underestimated him during his nineteen years of life; a few of them didn't live to regret it, and one is spending the rest of her life in a very special cell in Azkaban, contemplating that mistake.

Those ghosts were quiet right now - he was back in England, marveling in the familiar smells and sounds, especially the sounds. Even the mumbling Liverpool accent of the Knight Bus driver (he did miss Stan, maybe he could look him up next week) was heart-warming. It was good to be home.

This warmth, however, paled in comparison when he let himself into the flat he'd built in Gran's basement. Lying on the table next to the front entrance was a stack of letters, all addressed in the same neat, feminine handwriting. From the size of the pile, it looked like she'd written every-other day.

Yes, it was good to be home.

Ah, that's nice. I guess he wasn't contactable by Owl in South America?


"No Owls?" Neville asked.

"No Owls," Montague replied. "You'll be working in areas where the natives don't care for them, and more than one worker has been tracked down by our competitors by imprudent use of owls. After you've spent some time in the field, you'll understand."

Harry and Luna discus being friends.


*A pick-me-up*

After the fall of Voldemort, one of the regularly recurring unpleasant tasks in Harry’s life was attending funerals. During the last year of the war, both sides engaged in targeted assassinations, some of which left a body to bury, while other people simply disappeared. He spotted her on the other side of the crowd, her dirty-blonde hair barely visible above the shoulders of the other mourners in attendance. Who else would be wearing earrings made out of nickel plated wing-nuts? As his mind wandered during the service, he’d look across the crowd, occasionally catching her eye, which garnered him a surreptitious wink. After a lengthy series of prayers, the body was lowered into the ground and the mourners were invited to toss in a handful of dirt onto the highly polished lid of the now subterranean casket. Looking over the crowd, Harry saw that Luna was beginning to bob from side to side. Although he couldn’t hear her, he knew that she was probably humming under her breath.

He forced his way against the current of bodies, catching up to her just as her eyes rolled back into her head, leaving only a ghastly white expanse where her limpid blue should be. Shoving his hands underneath her arms he pulled her to him and Disapparated, leaving with whispering crackling sound.


After finishing the Daily Prophet’s crossword puzzle and two strong mugs of tea, Luna finally stirred into some semblance of being awake, rising slowly to a sitting position, her legs dangling over the edge of Harry’s bed.

“How many times have I woken up in your bed, Harry?” Luna asked, her voice crackling a bit. She took the cup of tea that Harry proffered with a nod.

“Oh, I dunno, three or four times, if you don’t count the times that we were out in the field,” he replied.

“That was Hermione’s bed,” Luna said with a smile. “You couldn’t conjure anything that didn’t have mirrors on the headboard, and Hermione refused to step foot into a mirrored bed.”

Harry snorted with laughter.

“You know, each time I wake up in your bed, I check my knickers,” Luna said.

“Excuse me?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Well, I was just checking to see if I’d missed anything – it would give me incredible bragging rights – you know – in certain circles,” Luna said, taking a long sip from her teacup.

Harry gave her an incredulous glare.

“Oh, fiddle faddle!” she exclaimed. “I was having you on. As attractive as I find you, I value our friendship, not to mention my friendship with Ginny, to muck it up with an illicit dalliance. How bad was it at the cemetery?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Harry answered. “You didn’t speak in tongues, you kept your clothes on, and you didn’t try to mount anything.”

“Oh, good,” she replied, smiling as she looked about Harry’s bedroom.

“That gets so tiresome to explain afterwards.”

“You have to stop attending funerals,” Harry said.

“I do, for the most part,” Luna said.

“Was she a friend?” Harry asked.

“A friend? No, not hardly. She was a seventh year Ravenclaw when I was in second year – she was my tutor in Advanced Arithmancy. I felt a lingering sense of obligation, but it wasn’t friendship,” Luna said, looking meaningfully at Harry. “So, how long before she’s back again?”

“Three days,” Harry replied hastily.

“Not that you’re counting or anything,” Luna said, handing the now empty teacup and saucer back to Harry before hopping from the bed to the floor.

“How long’s he been gone?” Harry asked.

“Thirty-one days – there are fifteen letters waiting for him at his flat. A goodly sized part of me wants to fetch them back – I’m sure I’ve written something in them that will give everything away,” Luna said, examining the titles in Harry’s bookshelf. “I don’t think he has a clue.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Harry asked.

“No, yes, I don’t know, why would you do that?” Luna said, pacing in front of Harry’s bedroom window.

“Because I’m your friend,” Harry said. “Friends look out for each other.”

“Yes, they do, don’t they? Thank you, Harry,” Luna said, bending down to peck his cheek before straightening up. “I’ll let you know after he gets back.”

Looking vacantly off to the side, Luna faded away, finally disappearing with a muted pop. Normal modes of Disapparation didn't apply, of course.

How about Luna's point of view during the Department of Mysteries run?

*A letter from the hospital wing*

Dear Daddy,

In response to your Owl, I’m writing this letter, sitting on the guest chair in the Hogwarts hospital wing. I’m fine, of course, although the last several hours have been exhilarating beyond compare. I imagine that this is what it will feel like when we finally document the existence of the Crumple-horned Snorkack, but I digress.

The stories you heard about Voldemort (I’m not going to say ‘you-know-who’ as I find it to be both childish and annoying) and a break-in at the Ministry were more or less true. As you well know, Minister Fudge has been trying to stamp the school into his mould, using the High Inquisitor. Madam Umbridge (I refuse to honour her with the title of Professor) is both ignorant and irritating. I thought at first that she might have some bizarre neurological disorder, or some sort of Heliopath possession, but I’m afraid that it may succumb to a more mundane explanation. One of Harry’s friends thinks that her knickers are too tight, but I’ve not had the opportunity to test out that theory beyond my own personal knowledge of how uncomfortable it is to wear knickers that I outgrew years ago, which would certainly put me in a bad mood if I were simultaneously attempting to harass and intimidate the students and faculty of the school.

We formed a lovely club towards the beginning of the year – it was Hermione’s idea, but Harry Potter ended up teaching us all the useful things that Madame Umbridge seemed to be afraid of. We called the club ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ although the real name was the ‘Defence Association.” Harry Potter has the most striking eyes – they resemble the deep green eyes that Mother’s familiar had, although Harry can’t lift up his leg and wash the inside of his thigh the way that Mittens could, although he is pretty flexible, I don’t think he’s that flexible.

But I digress again.  One of my housemates informed Madame Umbridge of the existence of our now-banned club, which led to Professor Dumbledore’s sacking, and pretty much ended the regular meetings of the Defence Association. Towards the end of the year, however, Harry got quite agitated, insisting that he had to get away from the school to rescue his godfather, who, it appears, was not fronting with Stubby Boardman’s band, but instead was working underground against Voldemort. Did you know that I am Lord Voldemort is an anagram of Tom Marvolo Riddle? Oh, of course you did, I wrote that in the article, didn’t I? Harry’s need was desperate, so Neville and Ginny and I helped the trio rescue Sirius Black.

You do know that we call them the trio? Ronald Weasley, he has such fascinating blue eyes. I suspect that his freckles would taste quite yummy, but he’s never reciprocated my interest in him, so I may have to put that down on my list of things-that-may-remain-unknown. Hermione Granger, of course, is the other member of the trio beyond Harry Potter, who has really amazing green eyes, but I already wrote about his eye colour already, didn’t I?

We rode to London on Thestrals. I’d never had occasion to touch them apart from our classes with Professor Hagrid. Your supposition that they are telepathic is most likely correct. The Thestral I was riding on told me that her name was – well, it doesn’t translate into human speech very well, but I think it means ‘shadow,’ although it could also translate as ‘muffin,’ so I wouldn’t be too sure either way.


Ginny looked up from over the edge of the seventeen page letter. “Did you really open your blouse to show Neville where Hermione’s scar started and stopped?”

Luna nodded serenely.

“I don’t think your father’s going to appreciate knowing that,” Ginny opined sagely.

“Neville didn’t seem to mind,” Luna replied.

“Yes, well, that’s beside the point. If you nix that paragraph, I think you’ve covered it quite well – you have a gift for words,” Ginny said.

“I just write what comes into my head,” Luna said modestly.

Ginny nodded. “He really does have amazing eyes, but I don’t want to think about him licking the inside of his thigh – that’s somehow very, very wrong,” she thought to herself.


Jasmine's one of my favorite character from TLOS, so I was wondering if you could do a drabble about Jasmine in training? :)

"You worthless wretch!" the voice snarled. A burst of something landed nearby, throwing up shards of hard-baked soil that stung the exposed portions of her body. She oozed into the ward, penetrating it just enough to overload one of the supporting beams. The ward collapsed with a bright flare of orange light. "Hmph," she said to herself. "That's new." She picked up the parcel, more than one hundred fifty pounds of dead weight, running full tilt across the unprotected field. There were no natural defences there, so she was scattering bursts of explosive energy with her battle wand in all directions, the type of burst that shattered the inanimate objects in the immediate vicinity, which usually prompted people to keep their heads down. All she needed was a few seconds before she was in position.

The snarling sound of Rhodesian Ridgebacks caused her to pause at the last moment. A quick burst from her wand got one, but the other managed to snag the fabric of her cargo pants as it lunged into her feint. A small blade managed to dissuade the second dog from thinking of her as either prey, or something that could be intimidated. The dog withdrew for a more auspicious day.

She'd made another twenty yards when the golem materialized behind her, a cold, clammy hand grabbing at her waist. She spun and kicked, not daring to put down her parcel. She'd die before she surrendered that burden. While the golem was catching its balance, a quick freezing charm followed by a bludgeoning spell shattered the unliving warrior.

She was outside the final ward. She burned a purifying ring around her position, guaranteed to sever any tracing magic or passive wards, and then Disapparated.

Mum was in the kitchen, holding a stopwatch. As Jasmine put the parcel down, Mum pushed the stop button.

"Not bad," Mrs. Paprikash said admiringly.

"Let me see that," Jasmine said in exasperation.

She'd shaved ten seconds off of her best time, a full two minutes from her time in a similar scenario during her final practicum at the Institute.

"Very satisfactory," Abelard said from the stool where she'd just deposited him.

"Thanks," Jasmine said, turning to look at her mum. "What's for lunch?"

Drabble idea: 20 yrs post Hogwarts. Ron becomes Minister of Magic

Ron Weasley paused after unlocking the door. Serita was flicking her wand at the pile of now-dry dishes on the counter, sending the dishes into the cupboard. She then picked up a dishtowel and wiped down the counters, an endearing mixture of Muggle and Magical technique.

Gabrielle waited behind him, placing her hand knowingly on his shoulder.

Ron stood watching a while longer.

“I know you’re there, and no, I don’t look like Mum,” she said, banishing the now damp dishtowel upstairs to the laundry bin.

“Who said you did?” Ron asked cheerily.

“Every time you get that vacant look in your eyes when you’re looking at me, you’re thinking of mum and jump her bones as she comes in the door,” Serita said knowingly.

“I do not ‘jump her bones’ as she comes in the door,” Ron protested.

“It’s sweet, in its own disgusting way,” Serita said, noticing Gabrielle at last. “You wife-swapping with Uncle Harry, or did you have another one of those evenings?”

“As charming as your father may be,” Gabrielle replied haughtily, “and he is charming, I might add. He’s not my type.”

“What?” Ron retorted. “You don’t have a thing for one-armed sports announcers?”

Gabrielle winked at him before moving to the coffeepot on the counter, loading the top chamber with decaffeinated coffee.

“Yeah, it was one of those nights; mum got called into St. Mungo’s for some horrendous accident, and then Harry got called away to an emergency session of the Wizengamot – they must have forgotten how to call out for pizza again,” Ron said sardonically.

“So your father gallantly suggested that we attend the cinema without our spouses,” Gabrielle said. “It was fun – I haven’t seen a Muggle movie in a while. So, where’s Janine?”

Serita motioned with her head towards the stairs. “We played rock-paper-scissors and she lost – I got to clean up the dishes, she got to put the monsters to bed.”

Gabrielle looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t she be done with bedtime stories by now?” she asked.

Serita arched one eyebrow. “Either she’s fallen asleep with them, or she’s telling them the unexpurgated story of how Magdalen saved Uncle Harry – after very nearly killing him of course,” she said dramatically.

“She wasn’t even born when that happened!” Gabrielle said incredulously.

“Yeah, but who was her babysitters for years?” Serita asked in reply.

“Point well taken – Eskarne did love to tell that story,” Gabrielle replied. She wrinkled her nose briefly as if picking up an elusive scent. “Harry’s coming – he’ll be here in a minute.” She busied herself preparing four mugs of coffee.

“I still can’t get over how she can do that,” Serita said before heading up the stairs.


The wards at Ron’s house were keyed to allow a select list of individuals to Apparate and Disapparate at will, the only restriction being that anyone who was not a Weasley was announced with a gentle chiming sound. In Harry’s case, it was the opening signature of “Lord Vader’s March” by the American composer, John Williams.

Harry appeared in the kitchen beside Gabrielle, who embraced him briefly before giving him his mug of coffee.

“So,” Ron said, “how bad was it?”

Padma Weasley appeared in the kitchen with a gentle “snick” of a crack.

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news?” she asked, kissing Ron taking a mug of coffee from Gabrielle.

“The bad news,” Ron replied somberly.

“There was a vote of no confidence in the Wizengamot tonight; the government has fallen,” Harry said calmly.

“Which explains why Drippy appeared all a-twitter, asking if you could come to the Ministry,” Ron said drolly. “Why would they need you for that?”

“They were hoping that I could craft a compromise,” Harry replied.

“Did it work?” Ron asked.

“After a fashion. Skarpella has stepped down, resigning before he could be sacked with style. The reformers didn’t have the votes to install a new government in its place however. I was suggested as a compromise candidate,” Harry said, making a sour face.

“I’d think they’d snap you up in a heartbeat,” Ron said enthusiastically.

“The Purebloods didn’t go for it,” Padma interjected.

“How do you know? You were at ER receiving at St. Mungo’s,” Ron objected.

“It was broadcast on the WWW,” Padma replied with a smile.

“What?” Ron replied. “I’ve been trying to get them to open up their proceedings for years!”

“Yeah, well, I did manage to get an obscure technical motion passed, which had the effect of turning on microphones,” Harry said with a grin.

“So, what was the Pureblood’s problem?” Ron asked.

“Allow me, Harry,” Padma replied, “You’ll pull your punches. Sillington-Smythye objected to the notion of ‘a half-blood shacked up

with a half-breed.’”

“We are not shacked up,” Gabrielle objected. “He made me wait for weeks for a proper wedding!”

“And you’re not still sore about it, are you?” Ron asked. “Well, I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Wizard are going to take kindly to that remark.”

“That was the point,” Harry replied with a grin.

“So, who’s going to be running the government?” Ron asked, his journalist instincts aroused at last.

“It’s not official yet,” Harry said conspiratorially.

“C’mon, you can tell me,” Ron whinged.

“It’s a he – he’s a Hogwarts grad,” Harry began.

“Of course,” Ron said.

“Pureblood – married into an extremely old magical family,” Harry said.

“Yeah, guess we have to accept that,” Ron said half-heartedly.

“Decorated war veteran,” Harry said, ticking the characteristics off on his fingers.

“Stubbed his toe escaping from Death Eaters, I suppose,” Ron grumbled.

“Okay, sounds like he’s going to be fireproof – who’s the lucky stiff?”

Harry looked at Padma, who was stifling a giggle.

“You are.”

“Bugger me!” Ron exclaimed.

“Harry doesn’t care for that,” Gabrielle said impishly. “He prefers…”

Ron reached out to place a finger on Gabrielle’s lip. “I so don’t want to hear you finish that sentence.”

“Hey, there’s some of us here who want to know, Dad!” Serita called from upstairs.

Ron pulled a face and placed a privacy zone around the kitchen. “It’s not April Fool’s day, is it?”

“No dear,” Padma replied. “You’ve been well and truly snookered. Every red-blooded Quidditch fan in the English speaking world knows your name, and most of them love you.”

“’cepting the Falmouth Falcon fans, they still haven’t forgiven you for that interview last season – it cost them their Chaser,” Gabrielle interjected.

“I’m not qualified,” Ron objected.

“Oh pish-posh!” Padma declared. Her expression was equal parts amusement and pride. “You always have an opinion of what the Ministry should be

doing after you read the morning papers.”

“That’s different – it’s one thing to be a critic, it’s another thing to be the bloke who has to drive the bus!” Ron replied.

“Other than Harry,” Gabrielle began, “is there anyone in the Wizengamot that you particularly trust?”

“No,” Ron answered.

“Well, there you have it,” Gabrielle replied. Giving Harry a smoldering look, her voice dropped half an octave. “Take me home, husband. I think Padma want to take the next Minister to bed. Goodnight, Weasleys.”

“Goodnight Potters,” Padma replied. “Think you can get a bottle of wine chilled before I finish my shower?”

“I think I can manage,” Ron said as Padma canceled the privacy zone and walked up the stairs. “Yeah, I think I can manage.”

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