#I just wish I was more animal man. I’m okay with my stinky human body bc I’d have an identical one as my true werewolf self but man. I want

[crazysnor1ax]

Any other alterhumans long to have instincts they don’t have?

Maybe it’s more-so me wishing my “human” instincts didn’t get in the way of things, but there’s so many things I WISH I had the instincts for. I’ve got hunger-related instincts, sure, but I want to feel more like me. I want to have territorial instincts. I want to long for the chase of a hunt without that human-made side of my mind telling me not to. Ugh. Sad werewolf hours

[keorami]

So you know when you wanna write a funny situation but you realise that you have to come up with said funny situation? Yeah... I forgot that my sense of humor is atrocious, but at least I tried...? I couldn't focus on one long story so I decided to write several short ones instead! Hope you enjoy!

"I have the feeling you're not enjoying this sleepover very much."

Dream did not, in fact, enjoy this 'sleepover', because not only did it remind him that his only way out of this hell was stuck in here with him, but said way out had been nothing but insufferable since he got here.

"Is this about the bell-"

"You could have gotten us out of here."

Oh yeah, said way out also wasted their one chance at escaping on a fucking bell. Dream hadn't felt such anger in... he doesn't remember actually. He didn't get to feel angry often in here.

"Listen, it was a very important matter-"

He stopped listening at that point. It was the same tirade every time about clout and viewership and whatever that he honestly could care less about. Staring at and counting the cracks in the obsidian seems like a very interesting activity.

"Hey, are you listening?"

1... 2... 3...

"Dude."

4... 5... 6...

"How long are you gonna ignore me?"

7... 8- wait, didn't he count that one already?

"Look at me at least."

No, he doesn't think he will. Because then the bell will be within view, and Dream knows that if he wasn't so pathetically weak, either the bell or Techno would have been thrown into the lava by now. But he is, so he'll throw the next best thing: his body. And fuck whatever the pig might have to say about it.

"Dreeeeeam-"

"WHAT."

He whipped his head so fast his neck hurt a little. He was fully prepared to... well now he doesn't remember, because of all faces he expected Techno to make...

The fuckboy face wasn't one of them.

"Nooo don't be angry, you're so sexy haha."

Oh God, he just died and went to limbo didn't he?

He wasn't sure when exactly he collapsed on the floor, gasping for air in a mix of wheezes and coughing, but Techno was now hovering over him in panic.

"Dream please don't die, I don't want the last thing you ever saw to have been that face-"

Oh, if there was one thing he would make sure not to forget, it would have been that face.

~~~~~

"Man, I'm starving. When do we get food in here again?"

"Um, I don't know really. I guess whenever Sam is in the mood?"

"What."

"Yeah."

Sam hasn't dropped food a single time since he was locked in here. Well, add 'food' to the basic human rights Dream isn't getting. They're really treating this like a bucket list aren't they?

"It's... You'll get used to it."

Dream gives him some potatoes from his inventory, to Techno's absolute delight. At least Sam has great taste, he'll give him that. But...

"...They're raw."

"Well, obviously."

Listen. He loves potatoes. He'd say he loves them to death, if he could die. No matter how you cook them, they turn out delicious. But raw? He'd only eat them raw if it was a life-or-death situation AND he somehow had no source of heat at his disposal, and the likelihood of that situation happening is practically zero. So yeah, he doesn't like to eat them raw.

"And that's all you get?"

"If you can't eat it-"

Ah, those famous words. Now, he's fairly certain that Dream didn't mean it as a challenge, but at this point Techno is just too competitive to see it any other way. Look, you don't get to his level by being passive, okay? So it's perfectly reasonable.

What wasn't reasonable was the taste of this potato because what in the Blood God's name is this.

"What the hell is this."

"...A potato?"

"No, this is a fucking travesty."

And what a sight it was, the Technoblade swearing and ranting about potatoes, of all things. Dream could only last until "mossy cobblestone tastes better than this dry ass, stinky ass garbage" before he lost it. You gotta give him credit for lasting this long at least. Technoblade was too busy ranting to care either way.

~~~~~

This can't be happening.

"Dream."

"What."

He tries to sound neutral, but Techno can hear the snicker in his voice.

"You don't have to do this."

Surely he can reconsider-

"On the contrary, it has to be done."

Dream places a single card on the pile, which happens to be his last one. A Wild Draw 4, to rub salt into the wound. Techno decides that ending on that card should be illegal.

"Remember the deal. No bell for the rest of the day."

"NOOOOOOO!"

Unfortunately, that had been the condition he had to agree to in order to get Dream to play. Because apparently he was "ringing it all the fucking time and it was driving me crazy". There's that, and the threat that Dream would jump in the lava again if he refused. So clearly he had a choice in the matter.

He knew that there was a chance he could lose... but he had deemed it low enough to ignore it. How could he not expect the resident chessmaster of the SMP to utterly trounce him in UNO? He was a fool, and now he has to think about how to make up for the lost clout and money.

At least, judging from the quiet snickers, someone finds his misery funny. He finds consolation in knowing that he may have lost the battle but he won the war. In a way.

~~~~~

"So I almost got mauled to death but that was how I met Steve."

Dream stares at him the way Phil does when he does something particularly outlandish and he fails to see why.

"Can I ask a question."

"Sure."

"Why would the first thing you do upon running into a starving polar bear be hugging it?"

Of course he would question it, because obviously Techno's superior intellect is confusing to the common mind. He just really likes animals, okay? Steve's fur looked so soft and fluffy he just had to touch it, he almost got his face torn off and Phil never let him live that down. But he'll sooner accept governments than let Dream know that. He doesn't want to embarrass himself too much.

"See Dream, I live by a simple philosophy."

"Long live anarchy?"

"No. Well yes, but not just that."

Dramatic silence.

"Any animal is huggable if you aren't a coward."

Dream chokes on his potato, the only one he had eaten today, and Techno worries for a second before he realises that Dream is actually laughing.

"Tech- what-" His body is shaking. "-what is wrong with you??"

"It all started when I was born-"

~~~~~

And it's enough to send Dream rolling on the ground. It wasn't even that funny, but he supposes that prison does a number on you, and Dream's sense of humor was already terrible to begin with.

...Okay, now he had to make sure that the teletubby didn't laugh himself to death.

At the end of the day- at least Techno assumes it's the end of the day, he doesn't know how trustworthy his internal clock is anymore- the two inmates of Pandora's Vault are about ready to fall asleep, but Techno has one last thing to do before that.

"Dream, come here for a minute."

Said man gives him such a wary look that he almost feels insulted.

"...Why?"

"I won't bite, ya know."

"That's... debatable."

Bruh.

"Just get over here."

And Dream complies without any further complaints. Techno hopes he didn't sound too harsh, but his cellmate wasn't shivering uncontrollably, so he thinks he's in the clear.

"What?"

Techno lays his cape down on the very uncomfortable obsidian floor. Seriously, laying down for an hour is enough to make his joints ache. 0/10 would not recommend. How did Dream- right, he doesn't have a choice.

"What are you doing?"

"Making this prison less of a living hell. Come lay down."

"...I'm fine."

Why are you being so difficult, Techno wants to ask, even though he can guess the answer. When was the last time anyone did something remotely nice for him without any catch? Especially in here?

"Stop being difficult and sleep with me already."

Silence.

"...Pft."

"You know what I meant."

In his defense, everyone has their moments, and his usually don't happen that often.

"Stop being so difficult and-"

"Just... get over here. My cape is really soft."

"Is that why you wear it all the time?"

"...Among other things."

But mostly because it was really soft.

Dream still seemed apprehensive about the whole thing, and while usually Techno would have respected his wishes and left him be... the sight of his rival curling up in a corner of the cell, obviously trying to not aggravate his injuries as he did, was saddening even to him. Prime, he's really not good at this... but Dream probably definitely needs it.

So he pulls his roommate into a side hug, which is honestly the best he can manage without ruining his image. It's awkward, Dream is way too stiff, and maybe now would be the time to say something before embarrassment kills either or both of them. Something reassuring, comforting to help Dream relax in his presence for example.

"This is gonna be the best sleepover you've ever had."

...But the day he stops relying on humor for any kind of social interaction is the day it'll either stop working or get him killed.

"...This is so stupid."

And today was not that day.

Dream lets out a laugh, shaky but genuine, and relaxes. Techno sees that as a win. Since he's stuck here for a while, might as well make his favorite teletubby's life in here more bearable.

And it's finally over! It only took me... *looks at calendar* ...time is an illusion. Idk if I'm really happy with this, but on the bright side, it's... done? Now I really wanna continue that endersmile fanfic as I got some ideas, hopefully it won't take as long? God I am a writing disaster

Also if you saw any mistakes... no you didn't :)

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars XXIV (Harry Potter xFem!Oc)

A/N: Listen the things this book has put me through gave me PTSD and now nowhere is safe –(Sidenote! I did that author’s note a while back when wattpad crashed and all my drafts got deleted for a whole day, I was about to lay in my own misery when suddenly next day all my drafts were back! It still suck and I’m still afraid it can happen again BUT it’s alright now cause I have the whole book in a backup.

P.S. Sorry for the long notes, I like to talk to you

Words: 3,548

Warnings: None besides the few mistakes this could have bc I didn’t proofread

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Six: Back To Hogwarts.

Mel convinced her mother to let her sleep with Harry and Ron the last night of August, after all, she had no reason to sneak out this time.

So they set up a second mattress next to Harry's.

Ron was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, Harry and Mel were talking in his room.

"We can say this was the best summer of all, right?" Mel grinned.

"I think so," He nodded, playing with the edge of his blanket, "I had loads of fun"

"I hope we can come here every year," She sighed, supporting her head on one hand.

"Me too... you know, I think we're lucky to be here"

"How stinky the muggle world is for us, we don't have the best luck there... but that doesn't mean we're not lucky elsewhere"

"Said that for yourself," He raised a brow, "Emily looks after you. I don't have parents, nowhere else I'd enjoy myself as much as I do here"

The girl nodded, having no objection to his reply.

"I'm not complaining about my life, but now that I saw how a big family looks like, with siblings and all... I dunno, made me think of all the things I'm missing"

Harry looked up, she found herself unable to keep talking. Mel just shrugged, rubbing her eyes in order to have an excuse for the redness in them.

"I know it's silly-"

She felt the boy's hand reaching for hers. When she opened her eyes, she found him gazing intently at her.

"You're forgetting about me," He said, it took her a moment to process.

"How come?"

"We're family, you and I," He leaned back on his bed, "like... like brother and sister, aren't we? Always together..."

Mel smiled, she forced it to look genuine, she didn't know why she couldn't smile for real, nor why his comment did nothing but worsen her sadness.

"Of course," She replied, then reached his shoulder for leverage and kissed his cheek lightly, "thank you, Glasses"

She let herself fall back on her mattress, and as she got under the covers, Harry mumbled with a slight trembling on his voice:

"Goodnight, Mel"

The next morning, Mel rejoiced in the fact that she wasn't the messiest early riser in the burrow.

Everyone ran up and down the stairs half-dressed, school supplies flying around the house and landing on each of their trunks.

"Mum, is Grey in his basket already?" Mel asked from the fourth floor.

"He's already downstairs!" Mrs Weasley answered from Ginny's room.

When they got inside the car, Mel noticed it was magically fixed so everything could fit neatly. They would go in their own car, she was leaning on the window to wish them safe travel.

"Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don't they?" Mrs Weasley said happily from the front seat, "I mean, you'd never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?"

"I should get one of these," Emily replied with a knowing smile, "maybe you can help me, Arthur?"

The man cleared his throat.

"Certainly, I could"

Mel and her mother waited until they were inside their own car, share one look and burst out laughing.

"We should get our car magically fixed!" Mel mentioned after a while, "it seems useful, don't you think?"

"Illegal as well," Her mother chuckled, "better to just look for a bigger car"

They waited for the Weasleys and Harry next to the wall, they rushed in at a quarter to eleven.

"Why are you so late?" Mel asked her friends.

"Fred and George forgot stuff, then Ginny," Ron said in a terrible mood, "I need a nap..."

"You need help with your things?" Mel asked.

"I'll go ahead and look for a compartment," Emily said, rushing over to the wall and disappearing along with Percy.

"I'll take Ginny and you three come right after us," Mrs. Weasley told them.

"Let's go together, we've only got a minute," Ron said.

They ran, confident now that they knew they wouldn't crash so they could pass through on time.

Only that this time, they did crash.

Hedwig's cage rolled onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, people stared and a guard nearby yelled, "What in blazes d'you think you're doing?"

"Lost control of the trolley," Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

Mel stood up with difficulty, holding her bruised arm.

"Why can't we get through?" Harry hissed.

"I dunno -"

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

"We're going to miss the train," He whispered. "I don't understand why the gateway's sealed itself... It's gone. The train's left. What if Mum and Dad can't get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?"

"Oh no, oh no," Mel leaned on the wall, breathing heavily, "what is happening?"

"We can't stay here, people are staring at Hedwig," Harry grabbed her arm and guided her towards the entrance.

They walked in stunned silence until they reached the parking spot of the Ford Anglia.

Ron unlocked the trunk with a series of taps from his wand. They put the luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got inside.

"Wait," Mel suddenly came back from her shock, looking around, "you aren't actually planning- this is not a good idea, boys"

"Check that no one's watching," said Ron, ignoring her objections.

"Okay," Harry said, then he looked back at Mel from the front seat, "it's an emergency, I'm sure they'll understand, Mel"

"No, no I don't think they will," Mel frowned, "there are about a thousand different ways we could fix this that doesn't involve stealing your parents' car, Ron"

"None of them would take us to Hogwarts on time"

"Getting there in time and getting there safely are not the same thing"

"You are very welcome to stay," Ron peered over his seat to look at her, "you want to?"

Mel sat in silence, glaring at his friend. She didn't want to do it, but they were two against one, what could she do?

"We're here already," Harry insisted, "and the street is empty, Ron"

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. They disappeared, not for real, though. Just invisible to the human eye.

"Let's go," said Ron.

As they flew up, leaving the city beneath their feet, something popped and they appeared again, in front of the whole city.

"Uh-oh," said Ron, "It's faulty -"

"I told you so!" Mel covered her face in horror, "Just fix it!"

Harry and Ron hit the button multiple times and the car vanished. Then it appeared back again.

"Hold on!" Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

"Now what?" said Harry.

"We need to see the train to know what direction to go in," said Ron.

"Dip back down again - quickly-"

"They'll see us if we go back down," Mel frowned.

"You have a better idea?"

"I had one until you decided to do what you pleased"

"Stop fighting!" Ron dropped back beneath the clouds and they twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

"I can see it!" Harry yelled. "Right ahead - there!"

"Due north," said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard. "Okay, we'll just have to check on it every half hour or so - hold on"

"No need for that," Mel took her wand out of her backpack -the only bag her mum hadn't taken with her- and said, "point me!"

Her wand moved to point straight to the north, she looked up and handed her wand to Harry.

"There, that's the north"

"Where did you learn to do that?" Ron asked.

"Let me guess, Fred and George?" Harry inquired, finding his answer on her guilty smile, "At least this one is helpful..."

"All we've got to worry about now are airplanes," said Ron.

They shared a look, and burst into laughter.

"Can't be much further, can it?" Ron said tiredly, the sun had started to leave the landscape, "I think we're safe now, and we should make sure that the train is still going north. Ready for another check?"

"As you wish..."

The train was right underneath them, so Ron drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine did an awful sound.

They exchanged nervous glances.

"It's probably just tired," said Ron. "It's never been this far before..."

"Things are going way too well," Mel insinuated, Ron glared at her.

"Don't even think about saying it."

The sound grew louder and nastier, it wasn't going to hold on for another hour.

"Not far," said Ron to the car, "not far now"

The next time they flew down, it was already night time.

"There!" Harry shouted, "Straight ahead!"

The car began to move oddly as they got closer.

"Come on," Ron said, "nearly there, come on -"

They seemed to jump up and down in the air.

"Sweet Merlin," Mel gasped, her hands clasped tightly on her seat.

"Come on," Ron put his foot down.

"Here," Harry gave back her wand hurriedly, "just in case"

Mel took it with a quivering hand, screaming in terror as the car dropped.

"Noooooo!" Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel.

The car avoided the castle's wall by mere inches, now heading straight to the ground.

"STOP! STOP!" Ron yelled, hitting the dashboard and the windshield with his wand.

"WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!" Harry shouted.

They hit the tree trunk and dropped to the ground. Mel could barely protect her head from the impact but not the rest of her body, crashing against the car's door.

"Are you okay?" Harry said urgently.

"I think so," She gasped, softly touching her ribs, "I don't think anything's broken-"

"My wand," said Ron, in a shaky voice. "Look at my wand-"

Mel leaned on her seat carefully:

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

At that very moment, something hit Harry's side of the car, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof. Mel's body was thrown against the door again, hitting the same spot from moments ago.

"AGH!" She tried to hold her side, but the car was still moving aggressively.

"What's happen -?"

"The bloody tree!" Mel cried.

"Run for it!" Ron yelled, "We're done for!"

"Reverse!" Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them.

"That," panted Ron, "was close. Well done, car -"

"I think I did break something now," Mel groaned, lifting up her sweater to check her ribs.

But the attack wasn't over for them, the poor Ford Anglia had had enough and without a warning, threw them out of their seats, then rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

"Come back!" Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. "Dad'll kill me!"

"We're already dead," Mel stayed on the ground, looking up to the sky, "That bloody tree!"

"Can you believe our luck?" said Ron at some point on her right, "Of all the trees we could've hit, we had to get one that hits back."

She heard light steps getting closer, and soon enough Harry's figure was standing next to her.

"Come on," said Harry holding his hand out for her, "we'd better get up to the school..."

Mel grabbed it and got up with a light whimper, her ribs would certainly be bruised by the morning.

"Are you okay?" Harry examined her.

"I'm fine," Mel nodded, "just a bit worn out, that's all"

They walked to the main entrance.

"I think the feast's already started," said Ron, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. "Hey- come and look- it's the Sorting!"

"Hang on..." Harry muttered, "There's an empty chair at the staff table... Where's Snape?"

"He's gone," Mel mumbled, standing on the tips of her toes to look over the window.

"Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully.

"Maybe he's left," said Harry, "because he missed out on the Defense Against Dark Arts job again!"

"Or he might have been sacked!" said Ron enthusiastically. "I mean, everyone hates him -"

"Or maybe," said a very cold voice right behind them, "he's waiting to hear why you three didn't arrive on the school train."

"Oh," Mel said shortly, losing all color from her face.

"Follow me," said Snape.

They obeyed, walking away from the wonderful smell of food and to his office.

"In!" he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

It was quite nasty, with death things floating inside odd liquids and poor lighting, his office was freezing cold.

"So," he said softly, "the train isn't good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekicks, Weasley and Dumbledore. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we?"

"No, sir, it was the barrier at King's Cross, it-"

"Silence!" said Snape coldly. "What have you done with the car?"

Snape unrolled an issue of the Evening Prophet.

"You were seen," he hissed, showing them the headline

'FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES'.

He began to read aloud:

"Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing... Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police... Six or seven Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?" he said, looking up at Ron and smiling, "Dear, dear... his own son..."

Mel was about to reply but Harry pinched her arm and shook his head.

"I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow," Snape went on.

"That tree did more damage to us than we-" Ron blurted out.

"Silence!" snapped Snape again. "Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power. You will wait here."

"Brilliant," Mel paced around the room, "bloody brilliant. What now? The only Dumbledore to get expelled, how embarrassing!"

The boys were silent, she kept spiraling into her own overthinking.

"And my mum'll kill me, I'll never see the light of day again- locked in my house forever- not even allowed to do magic, after all those years! Ugh, why did I listen to you? I should've stayed, send a letter, what do I bloody know? Ugh!"

"Mel," Harry caught her wrist the moment she walked next to him, "you're losing it"

She calmed down, not because she wanted to, it was just that Harry didn't let go of her hand and she didn't feel like fighting with her friend.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned with Professor McGonagall. She raised her wand the moment she entered, pointing at the empty fireplace, a warm fire appearing right away.

"Explain," she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

"-so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn't get on the train."

"Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?" Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.

Harry gaped at her. He also avoided Mel's intense stare at all costs.

"I - I didn't think -"

"That," said Professor McGonagall, "is obvious."

Mel wasn't talking, she wasn't even trying to defend her case, she knew it was a lost cause. Things only got worse when Dumbledore entered moments after. Her stomach dropped and her whole face went red, she wanted to have a silver button she could press so she could disappear away from his disappointed expression.

"Please explain why you did this."

Mel lowered her head and stared at her shoes as Harry told the story this time.

"We'll go and get our stuff," said Ron.

"What are you talking about, Weasley?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Well, you're expelling us, aren't you?" said Ron.

Mel closed her eyes tightly, holding her breath.

"Not today, Mr. Weasley," said Dumbledore. "But I must impress upon you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you."

Mel looked up without blinking.

"Professor Dumbledore," Snape said in a thin voice, "the children have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree - surely acts of this nature -"

"It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys' punishments, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly. "They are in her House and are therefore her responsibility. I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I've got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there's a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample-"

He gave a last, meaningful look at Mel before disappearing.

Snape glared at them before leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall.

"You'd better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you're bleeding."

"Not much," said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve. "Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted -"

"The Sorting Ceremony is over," said Professor McGonagall. "Your sister is also in Gryffindor."

"Oh, good," said Ron.

"And speaking of Gryffindor -" Professor McGonagall said, Harry cut in:

"Professor, when we took the car, term hadn't started, so- so Gryffindor shouldn't really have points taken from it - should it?" he finished, watching her anxiously.

Mel looked at her teacher expectantly.

"I will not take any points from Gryffindor," she said, and Mel felt her shoulders a bit lighter, "But you will get a detention."

"Brilliant," Mel mumbled, defeated, "thank you, Professor"

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape's desk. A large plate of sandwiches, three silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared.

"You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitories," she said. "I must also return to the feast."

When the door closed, Ron let out a long whistle.

"I thought we'd had it," he said, grabbing a sandwich.

"So did I," said Harry, taking one, too.

"I can't believe you two are my best friends," She snapped, grabbing a sandwich as well and eating half of it in one bite, "we ha' no choice, huh? Lies!"

"Can you believe our luck, though?" said Ron thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. "Fred and George must've flown that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them. Why couldn't we get through the barrier?"

Harry shrugged.

"We'll have to watch our step from now on, though," he said, taking a swig of pumpkin juice. "Wish we could've gone up to the feast..."

"We woul' cause a scene," Mel swallowed the food, "look at us, we look worse than stray dogs"

"She didn't want us showing off," added Ron. "Doesn't want people to think it's clever, arriving by flying car."

"I tol' you," Mel had taken another sandwich and was devouring it as well, "you shoul' lissen to me mor'-"

"Now you're sounding like Hermione," Ron rolled his eyes, "sorry, alright?"

Mel was too hungry and tired to argue.

Once they finished eating, they walked back to their tower, sleepy and full.

"Password?" The fat lady said as they approached.

"Er -" said Harry.

"We didn't ask," Mel groaned, passing a hand over her face in frustration.

"There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors - someone said you'd been expelled for crashing a flying car"

"Well, we haven't been expelled," Harry assured her.

"You're not telling me you did fly here?" said Hermione.

"Skip the lecture, Mel already took care of that part," said Ron impatiently, "and tell us the new password."

"It's 'wattlebird,"' said Hermione, "but that's not the point-"

The students pulled them inside in confusion and loud clapping.

"Brilliant!" yelled Lee Jordan. "Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people'll be talking about that one for years-"

"Good for you," said a fifth-year to Harry.

"Were you scared?" Katie Bell asked her with wide eyes.

Fred and George pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, "Why couldn't we've come in the car, eh?"

"So is this what you meant when you said you were going to cause your own mischief?" Asked Fred.

Ron and Harry looked at her with the same outraged expression.

"No!" Mel said, blushing deeply, "I did not plan this!"

"Come on!" Fred exclaimed.

"Percy's coming!" Harry mumbled, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the stairs.

"No time to talk- we're really tired," She said loudly, then added in a whisper, "besides, I think I do have a broken rib..."

Next Chapter —>

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[puttingfingerstokeys]

the shambling deceased

Nanowrimo day 23 Featuring an unnamed narrator Post-apocalyptic setting, zombies Zombies, death, body horror Finished and unedited

Human olfactory senses are not meant to become accustomed to the sweet stink of death. I don’t care how many television programs you have consumed over the years, where the heroes don’t notice the shambling threat until it is far too late. If the noises these revenants make are not enough to alert the characters in the show, surely the stench of rot and decay would catch their attention, right? Depending on the dramatic needs of the program, it may or it may not. But I am here to tell you, point blank, that the dead—they stink. They stink bad. They stink worse than the ugliest most odious smell you have ever experienced, bar none. A skunk cannot compare to the smell of death, though it certainly tries. The smell permeates, sticks, clings, and drags on you until you are well away from it.

And if the dead are the pursuing kind, rather than the sort who lays on the ground like a corpse really ought to do? Well, you do the math. They are not what anyone might call “quick”, but if the wind is right, the smell will do you in but good. It is rot, decay, and wrong. The smell is actually alarming, if you can believe that. Trust me when I say this: you never want to experience it if it is at all avoidable. Most people, in their lifetimes, smell death once or twice, usually when an animal has gotten itself up under their home and done the indecent thing, dying there to stink up the house and the surrounding area. They always seem to do this on hot days, too—it’s in rather poor form. Regardless, this stench only mimics what the shambling dead bring with them when they rove through an area.

That they move in herds is something the old shows used to get right, at least. I genuinely have no idea what, precisely, attracts them, though I think it might be sound. The dead, you see, don’t have lung capacity; their vocal flaps are generally decayed beyond use as it is soft tissue and, as a result, are unable to produce sounds like the groans you might think they would make.

I guess that might be one thing the television would have had right, about not being able to hear them, except those ambulating corpses would always moan and snarl and make all kinds of animalistic sounds. It was as if they were begging to be discovered. Real ones are hardly apex predators, but at the very least, they do not alert their prey of an incoming attack via audible means. It would really be embarrassing to be killed by a loud, stinky corpse.

It is still incredibly unclear what exactly animates these things. They do not appear to have normal blood flow or brain function; nothing beats or moves and they are decidedly lukewarm. Something is still firing up in their rotten noggins, but it certainly is not what you would call “proper” function. It seems to drive them toward the base urge to feed. I don’t think their bodies process the flesh they consume, however. The stuff probably sits in their guts and ferments—that’s where you get the explosive ones. We haven’t really bothered naming them anything fancy or cutesy. They’re shambling, bloated corpses and honestly, flippant as this commentary has been, there is absolutely jack shit all that’s funny about seeing once-living humans reduced to … that.

They cannot help it. There is no malice in them. There is nothing in them. They are husks, which is as good a name as any. Zombie has always sounded kind of silly to me, even if the implications are always fairly dark and dire. Husks better describes the hollowness of them, I think. So “the undead” or “the infected” work, but “husk” is a better term, given that we do not actually know if they are infected with anything or how they got that way and when you call something undead, it makes the thing somehow spookier than it has to be, lending it some sort of power. We should not fear these things. We need to dispose of them quickly; it is the absolute least we can do.

As far as corpses go, they are just as brittle and easily-perforated as what you might expect a half-decayed corpse to be. The hardest part, to be perfectly honest, is the clothing. Most people did not turn whilst also happening to be nude, unfortunately. Piercing clothes with a stick or any other blunt instrument is a lot tougher than the television shows always made it seem. You are best off with a machete or even a bat. Cutting off brain function stops ambulation. I… do not know if it stops brain function entirely unless the brain is vaporized. No one seems inclined to hang around husk-infested areas long enough to find out.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I was (partially) wrong about the events of a so-called “zombie apocalypse”. I had always theorized (during slow times at my job, mostly) that no society with known zombie-based media could fall victim to the idiotic happenings of your average zombie show, that the zombies could not last much longer than a few months, at most in, for example, a densely populated city, but that in the country, the problem would be solved within a week. There is simply more space way out in the boonies to see things like that coming—people are more armed, too, and not necessarily even with firearms. I am referring, of course, to basic farm implements: pitchforks, shovels, a literal tractor, splitting mauls, axes, actual logs—I could go on.

I was foolish, thinking it would be easy to simply go out and strike down things which had formerly been human, because I would know that they were not. What they don’t usually show in zombie shows—or didn’t; I doubt anyone will ever produce another, assuming we get to that point—is that when someone is freshly dead, they still look… human. Not just humanoid, mind you, but like a sick human being.

Okay, so remember when I said the husks don’t make noise? The old ones don’t, that’s true. But the fresh ones… sometimes it feels as if they are trying to communicate in some way. It definitely is not the growling-hissing sound you get from a movie or whatever. It feels like speaking to a person with a severe speech impediment, who is also deaf, and has some combination of Alzheimer’s and dementia. That is to say, you are not speaking with them, so much as listening. I have no idea what they are trying to say and I have only seen a fresh one a few times; thankfully, by the time they reach our home base, they have deteriorated thoroughly enough that there isn’t any more of that half-talking thing. It gives me the shivers even considering it. Do they consider what they are doing? Can they feel it? What part of them is left—if any?

I am one of those people who hopes that whatever they feel is rudimentary, pure instinct, that there is nothing of the soul who was once occupying the body—yet another decent reason to call them “husks”, rather than zombies.

They are chilling to behold, more than any George Romero film could attempt to portray. As a matter of course, anyone who has ever owned a zombie film or series has tossed it summarily out into the gutter, so to speak—though in some cases, literally. I have genuinely witnessed people with whole collections, tossing them out into our now-defunct trash bins. The gesture seems more symbolic than anything else; the only garbage truck I have seen in the area is the one the former “rogue garbage man” (a story for another time) had used to make his living, except this thing was ass-over-teakettle in a swamp. Whether it was a group of husks or just some of the run-to-riot wildlife in the area that drove him off the road, I guess I’ll never know.

The village I call home is a small place, a five-by-five mile square with probably five hundred people, total. The cop shop doubles as the library and town hall, if that gives you any idea of the scale of things. We have a four-way which is the biggest attraction in town and isn’t even a stop—traffic on the old highway zooms right on through. We have the essentials, a bar, a hardware, a convenience store and two churches, one Catholic, the other non-denominational, the church equivalent of “Original” and “Spicy”. I’m not entirely sure which one is which, but since the Catholics serve wine, I’m going with Original Recipe—they’re the ones who own the one graveyard in town, which I am pleased to say has expelled none of its residents. It probably isn’t feasible to rise from your grave when you are encased in cement and filled with formaldehyde. Who knew that our uncomfortably Egyptian burial practices would come in handy? There are a few cross streets here and there, but they either lead to dead-ends or a twisted mass of nonsense roads that curve and twist and transform into other roads as they hit county lines.

Everything that is not a house or trailer is a field, woods, a swamp, or some combination of the two.

For having so much farmland, however, there are very few farms. In recent years, times have been tough on anything that is not a massive, factory farm and, needless to say, anything called a “village” does not have the consumer base or, likely, the location to support such a thing. The government has been doing what it does best: making it hard on the little guy. I wish I could tell you it was because of this regime or that, red or blue, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure the agenda changes much across the aisle—not where regulatory licensure is concerned, anyway. Farmers just cannot keep up with government subsidization if they aren’t an approved recipient and then they lose their farms, plain and simple. It isn’t the best explanation, nor is it a terribly sympathetic one; don’t think me cold for this, but I recognize that there is plenty about the world I cannot change and, when the dead are walking, you quickly learn which battles to fight, which passions to chase, and which issues to leave behind in the dust of a previous age. I’ve shaken that particular blend of mud from my shoes.

My family is one of the fortunate few who had a “hobby” farm before this whole thing went down. I don’t know who decided to call it that, but this thing is no hobby. It is absolutely, without question, a full-time job taking care of the animals. We have the staples, chickens and hogs, like you would expect in the rural Midwest, but rather than cows, my family long ago elected to raise, breed, milk, and butcher goats. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, my friend; goat is good eating. The milk is creamy, the cheese is exquisite, and they are friendly, mid-sized beasts who can be pushed and pulled where you need them to go. Sometimes, we lament not having at least one cow, but upon reflection, the sheer size of any bovine is enough to stop that thought quickly; they eat a ton and if they do not want to cooperate, they simply won’t. There is little a human can do without a cattle prod (or dogs) and we’re fresh out.

We are fresh out of cattle prods, that is, not dogs. We have dogs. Everyone around here has at least one dog. It’s just something you do in the country. You have dogs. We have four, actually, and right now, they make for excellent guards, alerting us to the presence of the undead with quiet barks—we call them “low-commitment”, because it isn’t a full-on bark, but it’s loud enough to let us know something is up. It’s as if the dogs understand that the dead are attracted to sounds. Now, if a human being wanders by the fence, the dogs go all out. They’re really the epitome of ���a bark worse than their bite”, but nobody else knows that, so they keep the riff-raff out. By riff-raff, I mean drifters, thieves, those who are not committed to survival by hard work, but by capitalizing on the work of others. Around here, there are plenty—or there were. Needless to say, that behavior does not win you many friends during a crisis like this one. My family is generous, but we are not soft, nor stupid. Telling the good from the bad has never been difficult for us… or the dogs, actually.

So there you have it… “hobby” farm with doggy security system. We have ham, goat, and chicken a-plenty; we have eggs, milk, and cheese. We are very well-outfitted for this “apocalypse”, if you want to call it that. I think it might be a bit overblown, but nobody asked me, did they? There are plenty of people and families out there who were not so fortunate. It did not take long to realize how well-positioned we were (and still are) to survive and even to thrive in these new dark ages. Oh, but I guess I got ahead of myself again—or maybe behind… again. You probably aren’t here for logistics or whatever. You probably saw the opening monologue and thought “shit, she’s going to spill it all; we’re going to get a real juicy story”. You want to know how it started, or at the very least, how it started for me, don’t you? Well, strap in. This is a long one.