I do not know what this is. Honest. My friends made me do it. Blame them.
Written for Assignment #6 of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry forum along with a host of other challenges for the same forum. Prompts will be listed at the end of the work.
Task #5: Spattergroit: Write about someone displaying ghoulish behavior.
Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is not a goddess, but her writing is magical, and I can never compare. So, she keeps the characters, the places and her own created world, while I borrow them all every now and then like the pathetic human I am. The plot is all mine though!
Warnings: Swearing, slurs, torture, blood (lots of blood), insanity, capture/kidnapping, character death, murder.
Word count: 5248 words.
Huge thank you to Bex (DobbyRocksSocks) for being my test-reader, warnings-tagger and the loudest, most hilarious and most dedicated cheerleader in existence.
I dedicate this fic to Ari (arcane illusions) because a] she's my murder queen, b] she betaed this piece and plotted along with me, and c] she inspired the idea in the first place by talking about Bellatrix. Part of the prompts I used from the Hogwarts Funfair challenge involves making a flower bouquet as a gift, so Ari, this one's for you. We've said a lot of these prompt lines to each other over the months, so I'm using this opportunity to say some of the things I haven't gotten around to saying yet.
:- Light red carnations—I admire you. A lot. You have this quiet strength that you show when I need to see it the most. You tease me, challenge me, and you've never once given me reason for me to see you step down from that pedestal you've made yourself so comfortable on. And I admire you for it.
:- Yellow jasmines—you are graceful. Well, more graceful than me. But I don't just mean physically, because that's a given. You're graceful in the way you navigate conversations and situations; you make it look effortless. Nothing is too complicated when you're on the job. And I hope that's something that never changes.
:- Angelica—you inspire me. Your brilliant ideas, your witty comments, the way you just take hits and get back up. You're the inspiration in everything I see nowadays; you're the inspiration in the songs I sing and the words I write. Ari, you're a queen.
Alright, my rambling is done XD. Blanket warning—proceed with caution. Please heed the tags.
Her executioner clothes are an artistic vision in fresh and dried blood.
Rodolphus scoffs at her clothes when he thinks she's not looking, but she sees that the fear never leaves his eyes. Good. That's exactly the kind of terror she lives for.
Roddy is quite the catch; perfect for her tastes. Filthy rich, filthy mind, yet so gloriously yielding. He talks a big game and puts up an arrogant face, but underneath the bravado, he is her puppet. Hers to control. Hers to own.
So deliciously submissive.
She finds it particularly entertaining to steal up on him in dark corners and scare the living daylights out of him. There may be some blood involved. Just a few tiny drops. His fearful gasps, though, are worth the self-control she takes such pains to impose to leave him breathing.
After all, her master does still have use for his services. And when the great Dark Lord Voldemort has no further need of her precious husband's financial hoard, she has been given standing permission to dispose of him herself, at her discretion. She simply cannot wait to treasure his tormented screams.
It's always so much more rewarding to toy with the people you've known for years.
But alas, that momentous day is yet to come, and after taking that little peek into her husband's Gringotts statements, she surmises that her special playtime is yet a few years away.
Bellatrix has never been known to be patient.
Some days, she can muster the strength of will to look the man in the eyes and leave him alive. On days like today, however, the thirst for blood is too strong to ignore.
She needs someone to scream for her.
Luckily, her master, her kind, kind master is willing to feed her insatiable bloodlust. Sweet, dear Master. What she wouldn't do for him. He takes such good care of her.
The filthy mudblood lies hogtied on his stomach before her, dead in the centre of the great stone-walled room—but she scoffs at his bindings. Like she needs ropes to keep the creature in place. A little snip of a tendon here, a little gash on a vein there… oh, he wouldn't be able to crawl his way past her, much less walk out on two legs.
"Where did you find him?" Roddy's irritating hoarse voice questions Macnair, and she levels her deadliest glare in his direction. Far be it for him to think he can question the origins of the toy she's been gifted to play with.
"Avery did," Macnair replies after a second of tense silence. "Wasn't there. The Dark Lord gave me orders to give him to Bellatrix. Said that Bella was hungry."
Macnair's face is blank, but she knows the thirst for pain when she sees it. His eyes are eager. She can tell just by looking at him that he wants to stay and watch.
Well, she doesn't think he yet deserves that reward. He stole the last pancake from the table at breakfast. She had clearly staked claim over it. No, he must suffer too. Just a tiny bit. She will deny him this, but no more. Breakfast transgressions aside, he's been a good boy for their Lord.
"Well, I suppose if it's a gift from the Dark Lord," Roddy says with a sigh, and her eyes cut to him instantly. What does he sound like that for? Is her husband loyal enough to their master, or will she have to teach him a lesson on obedience?
Oh, can she? She just wants a little taste of his pain. She'd beg on her knees for her master every hour of every day if it would get her a nice sampling of her husband's blood. It must taste so sweet.
And now she's back to being hungry. The nasty mudblood would make her a very tasty meal. All that terror, all that coppery wine and solid flesh parting like butter at the slice of her knife…
"Get out, boys!" she stares up at them giddily, cackling at the thought of the feast that is to come, "Time for Bella-Bel to playyyy."
Macnair steps forward, face blank as ever. "Maybe I can—"
"No," she frowns at him, the smile falling off her face, "You're not invited. I don't like you."
"I need to stay to dispose of the body when you're done, Bella," Macnair persists with his stupid blank face. Why can't he cower at the sight of her like a good boy? Everyone else does.
"You'll know when I'm done, Waldie, just like everyone else will," she replies, deciding to be nice this once and not slit his throat. After all, he did bring her her meal—and what a lovely meal it looked. Icky human. She'd so love to play with it.
She hears Roddy say, "come on, Macnair, let's go," but she's too taken up assessing her newest prize. The ickle mudblood looks scared of her. How cute.
"Want to have fun with Auntie Bella?" she asks him with her best smile when she hears the door shut. The bang echoes like a rhythm around the cavernous stone cellar, and she grins in anticipation of the echoes to come.
He shudders.
"Well, we can't have fun with all these yucky ropes in the way," she says to herself, frowning. "We'll just have to get rid of them." Pulling her wand out of her robe's pocket, she slashes at the ropes that bind the man with a spell. His legs are untied first, and they fall limply to the stone floor. His head also falls forward to rest on the ground, face down, with no stretch and pull of the arms tied to his feet to keep his head and torso arched up.
Her wand slashes too hard at a knot near his elbow, spilling blood. "Nasty, nasty, nasty," she tuts. It's all his fault. "Wasting all that blood. It's mine, ickle human. You don't get to waste."
She directs a punishing kick at his side, aiming to turn him over onto his back. He rolls with a groan, and his hands, still tied at the wrists behind his back, get crushed under his weight. He takes a second to scream, and she tuts again. Poor mudbloods. So slow to react. They must be touched in the head.
Still, his scream rings with pure agony, and she grins at the promise in it. Oh, this one's a good toy. He'll be so good for her.
She stares analytically at his heaving torso, at the way he tries so hard to lift his weight off of his bound hands. "Hmm," she wonders aloud, "Will your arms be useful?" The mudblood doesn't even hear her. "Oh yes, they will be," she hisses in delight, answering her own question. "More blood. It'll smell so good."
She gives him a joyous kick, lighter than the previous one. He doesn't seem to appreciate her playfulness, so she kicks him hard a third time in retaliation. Then she gets bored of kicking him, so she instead moves to lift him enough to untie his wrists and pull the rope off of them. She isn't gentle when she drags his arms out at his sides.
He doesn't sound like he likes it, which makes her like it more. She pulls on his elbows some more, but they won't straighten. He's likely had a dislocation—the angle of his arms are all crooked and he won't stop groaning and crying out, and oh, the mudbloods she's played with before have such little tolerance for pain. He probably thinks this is the height of suffering. Well, she's going to open him up to a whole new world.
Starting with these pesky elbows.
"No no no, ickle mudblood, that's not how your hands are supposed to go. Straight, see?" She demonstrates for him, aligning her hands rigidly at her sides, but his glassy eyes seem to look right through her. That won't do. She wants his arms at his side all proper-like before she begins her fun.
She narrows her eyes warningly, but the stupid man doesn't want to comply. The audacity of this mudblood makes her blood boil—the filthy creature doesn't even look at her. How rude.
Well, if he doesn't want to play, she'll simply have to force him into playing along with her.
Both his elbows are angled awkwardly. She doesn't like to see limbs out of order so early in the game. Why, she hasn't even started yet.
"Need some help?" she asks him courteously before she yanks his arms into position the way it should be. It takes a lot of screaming and blubbering—mudbloods are so stubborn—but she finally gets his arms somewhat straight. It still doesn't look quite right, but that's okay. She's sure she'll find something else to focus on soon enough. Irritants as subtle as these never stay irritants for long.
Her daddy used to say she has a short attention span, and that it'll get her into loads of trouble someday. Dear Cygnus. Oh, how wrong he was. She knows she's okay, no matter what Daddy used to say about attention spans and propriety and sanity. He was wrong about her focusing problems, so he must be wrong about everything else as well. Why, if he saw her today, playing with her pretty toys, he'd see just how "short" her attention span truly is. She can go on for hours.
Oh, that's right! She has a pretty mudblood to torture. She had nearly forgotten.
She kicks him in the shoulder to say hi, giggling happily at his tortured groan of response. She likes this one.
And since she likes this one so much, she should go for the gold standard. The special privileges she reserves only for her best toys.
He gives her a scared look—well, a look that's even more fearful than his previous glance at her—and she belatedly realises that she had said the last part aloud. She smiles wider and nods, confirming that what she said is true. "That's right! You're being very nice. Ickle mudblood gets a reward for being nice."
Her wand is still in hand, and she uses it to conjure floor-length mirrors everywhere she looks. Nice broad ones, capable of capturing and reflecting everything. And for the final touch, there's the mirror she conjures to stick to the ceiling so that the mudblood can also see how pretty he looks when he's all bloodied and screaming. He should thank her for being so considerate.
"Say thank you," she commands, poking him in the shoulder, but all she receives is a wordless groan. Lovely as the sound is, it's not the one she asked for. "I don't hear anything," she sing-songs to him, but he doesn't scramble to please her as he should.
This won't do. Nincompoop.
"Say thank you!" she barks, poking him harder at a juncture she knows will hurt a lot. He stifles a sob but doesn't give her the words she asked for. As if he's holding onto something stupid, like dignity. Pah! Mudbloods don't need dignity.
Needless to say, she doesn't like it.
He relents and gives in to her whims once she really lays into him. It may or may not result in a fractured clavicle when she stamps at his shoulder with her heavy boot and accidentally treads over his collarbone. She didn't mean to crush the bone, of course, but her aim has never been true to form when she is incensed. It's all his fault, of course, but the end result is delightful.
"THANK YOU!" he wails in pure, unadulterated agony once the snap is heard, followed by a stream of incoherent begging. His thanks echoes around the stone walls, round and round and round, settling like syrup in her ears and filling them with its sweetness. Her grin this time is one of satisfaction.
"You're welcome, sweetie," she coos to him like she would a baby bird, "But you really need to work on your thank you's." She flashes her pleased grin at him to show how proud she is, but he doesn't seem to be able to see it through his tears. Loathe to waste a perfectly good grin, she gazes at the mirror closest to her instead to take in what she looks like.
Oh, who is that gorgeous woman in the mirror? Is it herself? If so, she looks good.
Her executioner clothes look fantastic, as always. Tight, asparagus green robes hug her form, flared out and twirly at the bottom just the way she likes it. And painted across the fabric is a gorgeous blend of blood-red, splattered and sprayed over her clothes in glorious discord. It's beautiful. A masterpiece. It's a work of art. It's a showcase of her very best experiences from the near and distant past.
The mirror shows her a woman with wild black hair and pretty green-bloodied-with-red robes and a lovely big grin, and she realises she must look at herself more often. As far as pleasurable activities go, her reflection should rank only slightly below drawing patterns in blood on the stone. Which of course, ranks below hearing the tortured sounds of her play toys when they scream for her, which makes looking in the mirror her new third-favourite obsession. She couldn't do better than this.
The blank, dull stone of the Malfoys' ex-wine cellar reflected in the mirror poses an uninspiring background to her fierce beauty. When her master had first forced Lucius to give up his precious wine collection to make place for her playroom, she had been thrilled. The look on ickle Lucy's face, oh—she could treasure it forever. But once the euphoria passed, the clean slate-grey stone started to grow maddening.
Being the talented witch she is, of course, she had a brilliant idea to fix it.
The house-elves have been instructed not to touch this room. The stench of stale blood is cloying, but it's worth the sight of the pretty patterns she's drawn on both the walls and the floor. They look so pretty, reddish-brown swirls and splotches and trails dried into the stone. All it needs is a fresh coat for her little infatuation to be appeased.
All that's missing from the view is the bright crimson of fresh blood.
Now, where could she find a new blood bank to extract it from?
A muffled moan comes from her right, and she instantly turns to the source, wand at the ready. Then she looks down and sees the whimpering mudblood on the dirty floor, eyes wide at having her attention on him again, and nearly slaps herself in the face.
Of course! Silly Bella, she had nearly forgotten her prize yet again! And such a lovely prize too. What had she gotten distracted by, again?
Oh, that's right—the blood.
Blood. She wants blood. Bella-Bel wants blood now.
Her knife is out of its boot and in her hand on instinct, being wielded like it's an extension of herself. It slashes at the first fleshy part of him she can find, which turns out to be his left thigh. Seeing the first trickles of blood seep through his dirtied trousers along his outer thigh settles something in her brain.
These pesky clothes are in her way. She'll have to remove the rest of them later. For now, though…
She cuts out a patch of his trousers with an eager grin, excited to see more blood. Her knife nicks him here and there in her haste; he looks like he's in discomfort at the cuts, but there's more blood for her. Pretty, pretty red.
There's a nice hint of reddened flesh around the cut when she pulls a shred of the cut cloth to the side. It looks so lovely, that she simply has to see it get redder. Her wand is still in her left hand, and she has the best idea.
Muttering her favourite non-lethal spell with a giddy laugh, she aims the bright white lightning it produces right at the wound. There's a crackling sound of its energy permeating the air, and the crackling intensifies as it touches his flesh. A loud sizzle, an ear-shattering scream. Oh, it's beautiful. Simply beautiful. She needs to do it again.
And so she does.
His nails are bloody, scrabbling for purchase on the unforgiving stone floor. He doesn't stop screaming, not even when his lungs have no breath to give, not even when his voice turns hoarse. He screams and screams and screams, body jerking, his damaged shoulders hitting the stone with every spasm. His every breath, his every scream, his every cry, they're all for her.
When she's bored of seeing the pretty white light, she cuts off the spell. His body, though, still spasms with leftover energy from it. What's left of the wound is the sizzling scent of burned flesh in the air.
Pulling off the cloth stuck to his skin isn't as fun as it usually is—she finds it more rewarding to rip it off once the blood has properly clotted into the cloth since it brings out the best cries. But she doesn't mind this time, since there's so much more cloth to rip off.
Later. After all, that's when the best fun begins.
.oOo.
The door to her playroom bangs with enough force that it bounces off the wall, echoing around the room like a series of Bombardas. While the reverberation of the bangs dies down, though, the delightful screams from her new favourite plaything sing in neverending echoes around her, uninterrupted.
Even when she drops the knife and turns on her knees to face her intruder, he continues to scream for her. He is so precious.
The man blocking the faint light in the doorway, on the other hand—Severus Snape is far from a delight.
"Lestrange told me you were down here," Snape says to her, his face impassive as ever.
She sneers at him, mudblood temporarily forgotten. "Why are you here, Snapey?"
"Inconsequential," he counters. "Having fun?"
"What do you care, halfblood?" she spits, incensed at the bland tone of his voice. And his face. Everything about his face is infuriating.
"Oh, don't be like that, Bellatrix," he says, the corners of his mouth turning down as he walks towards her, "I just want you to be happy."
She blinks. That's nice of him. "You… you do?"
His big nose flares out, and his face instantly morphs into disgust. "Of course not, you deranged hag. What a moron."
"I really don't like you very much," she says, indignant.
"Yes well, you give me no joy either, Bellatrix," he replies with a little sneer, "so we're even."
She hates this man.
"I hate you," she says with feeling.
"Likewise," he tells her with narrowed eyes, and then his face goes back to being impassive.
She blows him a raspberry in response, and his only reaction is a judgemental raise of an eyebrow. Repugnant. She hates him. Why can't Master give him to her as a prize? She's been good, hasn't she? And she's begged him for Snapey so much.
"I see you've been busy," he says to her with a jerk of his chin. She follows his gaze to where her toy lies stretched on the floor, a pool of glistening dark blood around him. Pretty, shiny blood. She wants to lick—
"How long has he been screaming like that?" And see, this is why she hates him. He always seems to know how to ruin her fun. Never lets her do what she wants in peace. Hateful man.
She turns to him, her face scrunched up. "I don't know, an hour? Not long enough."
He grimaces. "Sounds a little too long if you ask me. His voice is hoarse. It's irritating."
She frowns at him—she likes it like that. She says so. "I like it like this."
"Well, I don't," Snapey responds huffily. "Make it stop."
"I don't want to," she says with a haughty sniff, "because I don't like you. And because I like it."
"You have the most abhorrent tastes, Bellatrix."
She looks up, startled but pleased. A compliment? Severus Snape complimented her? Why, she never thought she'd see the day. How does one respond to a compliment?
She thinks, then says proudly, "Mummy would say that I should say thank you. Thank you, Snapey."
He gives her a bizarre look, like he thinks she's mad. Well, she is. She giggles at him. Mummy would be proud.
She pokes at her new friend to pay attention. Snapey gave her a compliment! But the yucky mudblood simply moans loudly, turns away, and moans again. Her hand comes away with blood on her fingers though, so she figures she might as well have a little lick. Maybe it's his way of telling her how proud he is.
"Well, I did come here for something, Bellatrix," Snapey says, looking assessingly at her work on her latest subject. She wonders if the flayed skin of his torso is what is catching the man's attention. She doesn't blame him; it's a very interesting sight. "The Dark Lord has called for your presence."
At the mention of the Dark Lord, she perks up. "Master? Master wants me?"
"Well, he wasn't enthusiastic enough to convey a desire of the sort for your presence, but yes, I suppose," Snapey nods. "No doubt, something to feed your… fetishes with," he adds with an inscrutable look towards her toy. "He doesn't typically require you for much else."
Her eyes widen. "Another gift? But I'm not yet finished with this one!" She spares the barely-breathing human a panicked glance. "I don't want to waste!" she wails to Snape.
Snape's face is dark, and he looks like his patience is being tested. "Oh, calm yourself, woman," he snaps, "He's holding a meeting in the main drawing room of the manor, and he wishes for your attendance. He has informed me that you are needed effective immediately, and that the outcome of your… activities," another cryptic glance at her 'activity's' body, "should be disposed of and you are to appear at your most presentable. He has guests."
She aims him a confused look, and he clarifies with a sigh, "That means no bloodstains on your clothes, you dullard. Honestly," he rolls his eyes, "tact simply flies over your crazy head." Her mouth drops open at the insult. Tactless? She is not tactless!
Snape's eyes roam sceptically over her face. "So messy, Bellatrix. Take care to clean yourself thoroughly. Your little victim's blood is all over you. It's repulsive."
Victim. Her toy. She can't leave her toy lying here!
"I can't leave my toy lying here!" she exclaims to Snape. "It's my favourite one yet. I can't leave it behind; I've hardly played with it!"
Snape raises a black brow. "Not even for our Lord?"
She hesitates. Well… Her master was the one to gift her this prize. She should be more grateful. But this human's blood is the sweetest she's ever tasted—she finds it hard to part with his sweet offerings. His begging is music to her ears; even now she can hear him mutter pleas to her, his eyes glassy and rolling without purpose in his head. It's such a lovely sight. Oh, can she not stay? Just a little longer?
"Very well," Snapey says, and she looks up at him with hope. Will he let her play some more?
But his beady black eyes are not on her but her toy, and she doesn't like the look in them. It's too soft, too… merciful.
Snape's wand is in his hand before she can blink. The sickly green light shoots out the end of the wood before she can stop him. Her toy is dead before she knows it. Avada Kedavra.
"I suppose I'll just have to take the choice out of your hands, Bellatrix."
She's shocked silent for a few long seconds, staring blankly at the mudblood, searching for the pleading, miserable life that was in her human's eyes not so long ago. There's nothing to be found; his body lies uncannily still. There is… there is peace in his lifeless form. Peace.
Mudbloods shouldn't be given peace. After everything she put him through, all the pain, all her effort—the mudblood was finally starting to understand that his place in the world was pain. And after all her knife's sacrifice, this is how he gets to die? This privilege? Painlessness? Just like that? Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
This is all Snape's fault.
She can see her reflection in the mirror when she stares up at herself. The mudblood's blood is all over her—painting her lips, her chin, her hands. His blood soaks her robes, dark and glistening. Her black hair is wild, frizzy from her spells, and matted from running her blood-stained fingers through the curls. Her eyes, grey as they're supposed to be, shine an irate black in the mirror. She looks furious. She is furious.
"You!" she screeches at the top of her voice, turning around to face her newfound enemy with a whirl, "You did this! You killed him!" Her sharp nails dig viciously into his arms but he seems unfazed. "I wasn't done with him!"
He shakes his head mockingly at her. "Oh, grow up, Bellatrix."
His words incense her more. "You will pay for this! I will kill you, Snapey!" Her wand is in her hand once more, and what should she do to this garbage-faced human? His insides will look so shiny and pretty on the outside, oh she has to see it—
But he summons her wand out of his hand with a wordless Expelliarmus, and the knife is the next thing to be wrenched out of her grip. Before she knows it, her arms are locked at her sides with a quick but vicious spell and she is left defenceless. Snape always was a quicker spellcaster than her.
"This is so unfair," she whines loudly, stretching the last syllable in defeat.
"C'est la vie, I suppose," Snape drawls with what could, in another universe, be called a smirk.
She cocks her head, both confused at the unfamiliar term and irritated that her hands are not allowed to strangle him. Cryptic bastard.
"I'll leave you to surmise what it means, dear Bellatrix," he chuckles with heavy mockery as he leaves out the open door with an imperceptible twitch of his wand, "And while you wait for enlightenment to smack you in the face and bestow you with its wisdom, I'm sure you can be trusted to clean up your mess? I'll get Macnair down here to help you take out the trash." He throws her wand across the room, sparing only a second to watch it roll to her feet.
And he's gone before she knows it, the swish of black robes flaring out with finality behind the banging of the now-shut door. When she struggles to release her arms from their invisible bonds, she finds that she can wiggle free. The room is dark again, and it's just her and the icky, miserable, now-dead-and-not-miserable-anymore mudblood.
She sighs.
With a dejected twirl of a wand, she vanishes all her mirrors. She slashes at the ceiling mirror and watches it fall to the ground and cover the dead man's body with tiny glass shards, a tiny part of her hoping there'd be at least a little twitch.
Nothing.
Her wand hand droops as she walks over to him. She kneels on the glass-covered floor, sharp glass shards and glittering dust under her knees. Her hands touch his blood-covered face tenderly, fingertips stroking along his temples as her mind feeds her vivid dreams of what more she could have done to him. All that unmarred flesh, all that missed opportunity…
"I'll be back for you, ickle human," she whispers softly in his blood-crusted ear, "I'm not done yet. We'll have our playtime again. Soon."
She cradles his limp hand, digging her nails under his dirty fingernails. She feels around for the cuts under each one. "Snapey will pay for separating us, baby mudblood. But I couldn't let his garbage-face be the only one to give you company. That's not what you deserve." Her fingers drag through his slick hair. "I promise you, ickle mudblood, I'll give you another one of your kind to keep you company before I send nasty Snapey to your hell. And I'll let your companion have the full taste of what you could have been given so that they can tell you all about it while you wait for me."
She smiles and kisses his cold forehead.
"And when I join you, mudblood, I will give you everything you deserve." Her eyes trace his indiscernible features. "I'll let you tell me when the pain kicks in."
Don't hate me, I wrote this under extreme duress. Bex and Ari are coercive individuals. *slinks out of the room quietly*
April Writing Club:
Record Collection - Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye: Write about needing something.
Written in the Stars - (trait) energetic
(word) tactless
Book Club - The Commander: (genre) angst, (relationship) husband, (setting) nighttime, (action) grinning
Showtime - Gee, Officer Krupke - (plot point) An Addiction
Lizzy's Loft - "You really need to work on your thank you's."
Elizabeth's Empire - Hundred - Khalid / (word) control
Liza's Loves - Ron: (Word) Sacrifice - (shiny - BONUS)
Sophie's Serial Killers: Prompt:
(scenario) Electric Shock Therapy
Scamander's Case - (emotion) fear
Film Festival - (song) 'Looks That Kill' by Mötley Crüe
Marvel Appreciation - Widow Bites - Write about someone getting an electric shock
Hawkeye's Quiver - Write about a magical person using a muggle weapon
Lyric Alley - Pain!
TV Spree - (Colour) Red
The Forecast Says... - 1st: Sunny with clouds: Hurt
EnTitled - Down the Rabbit Hole - (theme) death
Hobby Hole - (word) masterpiece
Gen's World Tour - Rusalka - Write about a woman who hates a man for any reason
Spring Seasonal Challenges:
Days Of The Year: May 15th - International Astronomy Day: Write about a member of the Black family
Aquarium Month: Fishnet: Write about someone being captured/kidnapped.
Library Week: Horror
Karaoke Week: One Way or Another - Blondie
World Theatre Day: Chicago - Chicago!AU - alt: 'He ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times.'
Crayon Day: Asparagus
Children's Book Day: The Tin Man - (Trait) Heartless
World Autism Day: Write about someone with a special interest or intense focus on something.
Zoo Lovers Day: Tiger: Write about a 'villain'.
National Teacher's Day: Severus Snape
Spring Colours: Green
Spring Flowers: Crocus - "I really don't like you very much."
Hufflepuff Challenge By Lyrrie: Ridin' the Storm Out – R.E.O. Speedwagon – Prompt: write about waiting for something bad to happen
Spring Funfair:
Sophie:
Sophie:
Sophie:
Milkshake Bar: Topping - Chocolate sprinkles - Word: Nincompoop
Spring Fling: C'est La Vie - B*Witched
Cherry Blossoms: Kanhizakura - (trait) Eccentric
Urban Safari Checklist: Hyena - (action) screaming or shouting out in frustration
Paint A Rainbow: Red - "I don't hear anything."
Tree Planting: Dogwood - "This is neither fun, nor exciting."
Teddy Bears Picnic: Plate 1 - Pork Pies - (plot point) a death
Flower Arranging (Gift for Ari):
Light Red Carnation means I Admire You - (Setting) Malfoy Manor
Yellow Jasmine You Are Graceful - (Emotion) Anger
Angelica means You Inspire Me - (Dialogue) "I just want you to be happy."
Birdhouse Building: Step 2 - (emotion) Surprise
Spring Petting Zoo: Ponies - (word) short
Egg and Spoon Race: (main character) Bellatrix Lestrange; (supporting character) Severus Snape
Egg Hunt: Love Me or Leave My by Little Mix [You say I'm crazy and there's nothing wrong/You're lying and you know I know/And you're turning away like you hate me/Do you hate me? Do you hate me? Oh/You can take this heart/Heal it or break it all apart/No, this isn't fair]
Spring Parade: Winnie-the-pooh - Winnie-the-pooh - (Emotion) Hungry
[Spring Quarterly] Leaving on a Jet Plane - Costa Rica: (Emotion) Rage
[April Monthly] Would You Rather?
Teach Defence Against the Dark Arts OR teach Potions?
April Fortnightlies:
Salad Bar - Portabella Mushroom: Write a character with an unusual interest or passion.
Hogwarts Library (The Muggle Edition): Murder on The Orient Express - Agatha Christie: (Genre) Crime