Harry Potter and the Untitled
Burning Bush
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A raging fire was built in the fireplace. The world outside was deep in the depths of winter, and the fire provided welcome warmth and comfort for the various students in the common room. Various students proforming a number of activities, ranging from a few just lounging in the chairs around the fire, idly chatting, to cramming for tomorrow's potions test in one of the cornor tables. One second year had spent too much time trying to transfigure a clothes-pin into a quill, and had fallen asleep with dozens of feathered clothes pins sorrounding him.
Most of the students, however, had already headed to bed. It had been a long week, and long hours of studing magic tend to take their toll on the body. All were glad that tomorrow was Friday, and all hoped to get through the day fast enough to enjoy their weekend.
All were glad that the weekend was fast approching, except, of couse, a sixth year boy sitting in the cornor named Harry Potter. In fact, Harry Potter wished that it was Monday, the most cursed of all days. What mental dysfunction could possibly make him feel this way, you ask? Not a dysfunction, but a fear. A perfectly rational fear at that. Tomorrow, young Harry has a Potions class. This, alone, was not cause for concern. Potions classes are fairly common in Harry's world, usually happening on a bi-weekly basis. This one, however, was fairly signifigent. Snape, Harry's potion master, was going to give him a fairly diffucult test. Snape had also hinted that they would be ingesting their potions at the end, and points would be given on how well they worked. Failure at this potions test meant two things for Harry: one, if he prepared the potion wrong, it almost garenteed a trip to the hospital ward. Snape had hinted that, under the right conditions, this potion could be fatal. (Harry didn't quite believe this, however.) Secondly, if prepared wrong, it would also cost him a good portion of his Potion's grade.
Hermione had helped him for the better part of an hour to try and understand it, but he still didn't think he was any closer to mastery of the potion. Leaning back, he rubbed his forehead.
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Far from being finished. Please tell me what you think of my writing style and etc.
