doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission.

Original post is here. I apologize in advance for this. G rated. Unbetad.

* * *

"Back!" Vania called as she stepped through the portal. "The HFA staff dude was way too excited to give these Muggle-use wands away, so I'm pretty sure they're going to cause some horrible problem at the worst possible time!"

"So, the same as everything else we use on missions, then."

"Oh, yes."

"At least we're being consistent, then." Doc grabbed all seven Harry Potter novels and began storing them in various pockets.

"Oh, you found a fish for the mini! Where'd you get that?"

"What?" Doc glanced towards the glow of their mini-Hound of the Baskervilles, which was gnawing on a long, greenish fish. "Oh. No, I didn't notice he had that."

"Ah. 'Cause it's . . . kinda getting fish blood all over the floor."

"Sorry, Vania. I really don't know where he got that!"

"Eh, it's been a while since a capillary towel had a cameo, anyway. We'll find one after we get back and clean up then."

* * *

Doc and Vania tracked two characters down a hallway in Hogwarts, followed by a mini-Aragog that had been created.

"A Leanne luster!" whispered Vania. "Got to give points for writing something original."

"Let's not call it 'lust' for underage schoolgirls," Doc muttered, writing down charges.

"Still, though, most people don't even know her name! She's just 'that-girl-who-was-walking-next-to-Katie-when-she-got-cursed.' Whoa! What?"

Leanne had just been smacked in the face with a fish.

"I wasn't watching the Words. What caused that, Doc?"

"I didn't catch it. Let me read it over again."

While he was doing so, Vania continued watching the students and frowned. Leanne was rubbing her nose, and the Sue had grasped her by the shoulders and was checking her face for injury. "Weird. Sues don't usually notice when their typos make stuff like that happen."

"I'm not seeing where—Raugh!" Doc jumped and flinched as a cold, wet something flopped against the side of his neck.

Vania bent down and picked up the flopping fish. "It's a salmon . . ." She shrugged.

The Sue called out in her off-timber voice. "What are you doing there? Spying on us?"

"Great. Stupid fish." Doc turned back to the first page of charges. "Carline Amanda Roberts, you are charged with—Agh, gosh darn it!" he yelled as a wet fish slapped the papers out of his hand and stuck them together. The mini-Aragog seized the fish and sunk its mandibles in.

Vania smirked. "'Gosh darn it?' Really?"

The hallway began to fill with the sound of splatters as fish began to pelt the bricks from . . . no clear source.

"Why are you doing this?" Doc asked the Sue.

"Don't look at me! My story did NOT include FISH RAIN."

"Come on!" Leanne shouted over the splats. "The Room of Requirement!"

"But you shouldn't know about that until sixth year!"

"Deal with it! I'm finally the main character in a fanfiction, and I'm milking it for all it's worth!"

* * *

As the four human characters had mutually needed a room with no fish as they approached the door to the Room of Requirement, that is exactly where they found themselves. (The mini-Aragog hadn't finished draining its fish dry yet, or it might have caused a problem.)

Yes, they found themselves in a tiny room with no fish. For about two seconds, before the salmon onslaught began again.

"They're coming from everywhere and nowhere!" Carline whined, as the spider scaled the wall behind her. Leanne was deflecting as many as she could with her wand; the agents' wands were, as predicted, useless.

"You're a Sue! Do with the plotholes or something!" Vania demanded.

"Huh? Oh, right!" Carline waved her arms and fingers in a swooshy motion. Some of the salmon began to disappear between wilvery lines in the air before they hit anyone. "Nice!" cried Carline.

But then, the salmon began bouncing in and out of the shimmers in the air, ultimately filling the small space with fish even more than before.

"Making it worse!" Doc warned.

"Ugh! Whatever." Carline threw up her hands, and the plotholes vanished. Some of the fish were tossed up into the air and landed in a web the mini-Aragog had spun.

"Yesssss, Precioussssss," the spider hissed as it closed its appendages around the flopping animal. "Tasssssty fishesssss!"

The PPC agents looked at each other. Doc turned to Carline. "For the first time in history, the PPC is requesting for you to make more typos."

Carline quirked her head. "Typos?" She glanced at her erstwhile girlfriend. "Like, Leann?"

A new mini-Aragog appeared, and immediately started to crawl up to its comrade's web.

"Whoa," said Carline. "I didn't know I could do that."

"More! Hurry!" Leanne called. "We're up to our ankles in fish!"

"And up to our noses in fish smell," Vania added.

"Uh. Dumbledoor? Minstery of Magic . . . Avada Cadaver!"

All the miniature Acromantulas set to work stringing the room with webbing. But it could only last for so long; soon, the spiders' webs began to bulge with weight, their bellies began to fill, the humans found the salmon reaching above their waists. Leanne was trying to reach the door, blasting at the thick wetness of the fish pile with her wand in order to walk.

"We have to portal back to HQ!" Vania said, digging into her pocket.

"It won't work," said Doc, shaking his head. "This is probably where the mini-Hound's fish came from."

"Oh," Vania said quietly. She had finally managed to get the RA out and above the line of sea life. "It's totally fried by all the dampness, anyway."

Suddenly, a blue doorway opened into the room. Fish began to spill out through the new entrance.

"We're saved!" Vania cried. She tried to jump for joy, but failed under the weight of the fish surrounding her legs. "SpecOps is here!"

"You are not needing Special Operations," Séverine said, stepping over the fish to show an army of agents bearing the same orange honeycombed fungus flashpatch. "The Cafeteria is here, and I understand we will all be having seafood this week."

Author's Note: Capillary towels were created by Sedri and Trojie. The Harry Potter series, Leanne, Acromantulas, Hogwarts, wands and the Room of Requirement belong to J.K. Rowling. Mini-Aragogs were created by Meir Brin. Obviously, none of the named minis in this story count as real, since they were made up by me, rather than being found in a badfic.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: This ficlet was written in response to a prompt posted to the Board by SeaTurtle: "One of your agents deals with one of their fears." It was part of a larger thread full of writing posts, which itself began as a writing game in the #rudi's room of the Discord chatroom.

Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. The Harry Potter series, Professor Lockhart, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and boggarts belong to J.K. Rowling. This interlude is rated G, unless you speak British English, in which case it contains a swear. This story had no beta.

* * *

"Augh, Merlin, the Professor has to be around here somewhere." Doc pulled one of Lockhart's larger portraits away from the wall to glance behind it.

"Have you noticed," Vania asked, "that you have a tendency to imitate the local speech style whenever we go somewhere?"

"I don't know what you're bloody talking about."

"Right." Vania rolled her eyes and continued checking the drawers of Lockhart's desk. "Why does this guy need so many copies of his own books?"

Doc dramatically threw open the door panels of a large cupboard in the back of the room. "Hey, I think I found the plothole! I can hear something . . ." He peered closely into the darkness.

A tumbling cloud rose into the air around his head, buzzing furiously.

"Aaaaaah! It was beeeeees!" Doc started a frantic run around the entire Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, flailing his arms in the air while the insect swarm pursued. "I thought it was a ploooooothole but it was only beeeeees!" Doc ended by flinging himself out of the huge window that dominated one wall of the classroom. The bees returned to the cabinet while Doc called, "Aaaaaah! Castles are actually kind of shaaaaaarp in placeeeeees. I feel like I should have knoooooown this alreadyyyyyyy . . ."

Vania gently closed the drawer she had just opened and started heading for the cupboard, a thoughtful look on her face. "You know, I can't for the life of me . . ." She frowned. "I just can't recall what my worst fear is."

She peered into the shadows of the cupboard.

". . . Huh. So that's what a boggart looks like."

* * *

Author's Note: Obviously, it's not entirely appropriate for a PPC agent to have knowledge of something that's never appeared in canon, like the actual appearance of a boggart. Don't worry; Vania will never tell.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: I wrote this short story in December of 2012, during a period when the Board was getting flooded by a spambot declaring itself a little boy (like all of us are, of course, I mean, obviously) and offering free candy. Whoever programmed it didn't seem to have a shift key on their keyboard, because capital letters never appeared once out of all the hundreds of posts. The flood eventually halted, and the Nameless Admin removed all the offending hilarious messages. I don't remember if any of the spambot's dialogue in this story is word-for-word quotation, but as this example shows, all the messages followed basically the same structure. (Seriously, why did the spambot specifically address its audience as boys? Did the programmer think females and men don't like candy?) This story was originally posted to a thread discussing the spam attack.

Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission.

* * *

”A Short Story About Spambots”

Agent Vania paused Epic Mickey after a knock sounded at the door—an oddly metallic knock, considering the door itself was fashioned from Generic Surface. She passed Doc, who was reading some murder mystery on the bunk bed, and opened the door.

“would you like some candy” the . . . person . . . standing at the door said. They wore a sickeningly brownish-pink suit and bore an oddly blank, staring expression. They were short and stooped, and had a head covered in tan hair that was so stringy, it looked almost like yarn. “i have candy”

“Uh . . .”

“Is it that Sunflower’s Witness again?” called Doc. “Tell her to stop interrupting Canon Research Time™.”

“It’s definitely not the Witness,” Vania said. “What kind of candy are you selling?”

“i have free candy little boy”

“Whoa, now! I usually leave the literary quotes to Doc, but—”

“BUT NO LIVING MAN AM I!” Doc interjected, standing up in bed and impacting the ceiling with his head.

“. . . Right. Well, I’m certainly not a boy, at any rate. I’m beginning to suspect you’re not a legit candy man. Do you mix it with love and make the world taste good?”

The odd person’s eyes seemed to bug out for a moment. “running Friendship Protocol v2.1” The mouth briefly turned up in a smile, then settled back into perfect straightness. “i am little boy like you”

“Doc? Did you agree to let Chris Hansen set up a sting in our RC and forget to tell me?”

“No . . .” Doc finally got down from the bed and joined Vania at the door, rubbing his forehead. “Who is this?”

“i am little boy like you . . . both”

“God damn it! Seriously?” Vania shouted. “Are you a badly described parody clone of Professor Oak? Look!” She started lifting up her shirt, but Doc blocked her arms.

“Wait! Do you smell hot dogs, Vania?”

She sniffed. “The air does seem a bit . . . meaty, doesn’t it?”

“there is only free smell of free candy”

“♪Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam♪”

Behind the odd person, six Vikings marched through the hallway, swinging their broad arms back and forth with elbows crooked as they sang.

“♪Lovely spam, wonderful spam! Lovely spam, wonderful spam! Spam, spam, spam, spam . . .♪”

The singing faded away as the Vikings moved further down the hall.

“this is coincidence”

Vania batted her eyelashes. “Doc, please bring me my pen.”

“You want a pen?”

“I want my BIG, WOODEN PEN, Doc.”

“Oh! Oh, of course.”

As Doc retreated back into the RC, the odd person’s eyes bulged out again. “yes free candy for boys just go to double-u double-u double-u dot dot dot dot dot . . .”

Vania’s baseball bat had interrupted the individual’s speech by way of decapitation. The standing torso’s neck oozed pinkish meat while the wire-filled head stuttered on the floor. “. . . dot dot free candy little boy free candy fraaandy fraaandy—” The head was interrupted a second time by its body toppling backwards and crushing it.

Vania smirked at Doc. “It was a—”

“I figured it out from context.”

Vania nodded. “Let’s just be thankful it’s gone now.”

“And definitely just an isolated incident.”

A metallic clanging echoed through the air. Both agents leaned out and observed that every RC door in the hallway had an odd person standing before it, knocking.

“Doc, get on ICEP and contact DoSAT. Then open a portal to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I’m getting some candy out of this, damn it!”

“♪Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam . . .♪”

* * *

Author's Note: Epic Mickey was created by Warren Spector and Junction Point Studios and belongs to Disney Interactive Studios. The Sunflower's Witness was created by Miah and belongs to the PPC community. Doc's quote was written by J. R. R. Tolkien in chapter six of The Return of the King, "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields." Willy Wonka and his factory were created by Roald Dahl, and the lyrics from "The Candy Man Can" in the first movie adaptation were composed by Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley. The spam vikings and their spam song belong to Monty spam Python and spam.


Aug. 7th, 2015 03:16 pm
doctorlit: (Default)
Author’s Note: This short story was done as a response to the thread on the Board where Huinesoron introduced Nutmeg Television. It was meant to just be part of the discussion at the time, but I did it in narrative form for fun, but it wound up rather stream of consciousness, and maybe not much fun to read? Also, I think Doc wanting to watch TV is probably OOC for him, but uh . . . chock it up to curiosity? I didn’t really have a beta for this, but Neshomeh helped out with Parwill’s part for the final posting. The original (much worse) version appeared here on the Board.

Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. Nutmeg Television was created by Huinesoron. Castor Parwill was created by Neshomeh. The Chronicles of Narnia were written by C. S. Lewis, and the quoted lines come from The Silver Chair. Miss Irene, the mini-Bricks and L’Université des Écrivains Misérables belong to Bubonic Woodchuck, lokogato-sama and Zorpisuttle. Gavroche Thénardier was created by Victor Hugo.

* * *

"So, do we actually get television, or is this just for researching games?"

"Oh, no, we get all kinds of stuff! HQ has its own channel: Nutmeg TV!" Vania grabbed the remote control and pressed something. The screen flickered, but displayed the same image.

"Is it . . . stuck?" Doc asked.

"Oh, I was broadcasting a Let's Play. The A/V Division sponsors them. It lets agents show off what they're playing from their RC. And then . . ." She pressed another button on the remote. "There's a separate channel for kids. Nutmint."

"Ugh. Like Nick, Jr. or whatever?"

"Well, this is the PPC, so no. It's much better."

The screen showed a thin-haired man reading from a large book. "'My name's Scrubb, and this is Pole,' said Eustace. 'Would you mind telling us where we are?'"

"Ah, Narnia," said Doc, but then he frowned. "Is that actually Lewis?"

"Yeah," said Vania, smiling.

"But." Doc shut his eyes and shook his head. "But Lewis is—Lewis is—"

"Dead? Maybe on your Earth."

". . . Okay. But that's it? Two channels, and one aimed at kids?"

"Oh, no, no, no! Those are just the two created here, specifically for HQ. We get reception from all different worlds. Here, do some surfing. I gotta pee."

Doc frowned as he took the remote. "Thanks for sharing," he muttered. He tried out an arrow key, and the channel changed again.

A cartoon theme song began playing, with animation of a huge, yellow vehicle covered in rods and pistons and blasting out steam as it twisted in on itself, changing its shape. "♪On the Transformatronic Vocational Transport! Step inside, it's a wondrous, fantastical ride! Ride on the Transformatronic Vocational Transport!♪"

"Okay, wow, yes," Doc murmured.

"What did you find?"

"Cartoon," Doc replied obliviously. He changed the channel again.

A bipedal green lizard was charging at a weird black figurine with red eyes in a circle around its head. A pinkish light suddenly appeared in front of the doll, which the lizard tried to slash through. An announcer's voice called out, "Claydol managed to survive that Leaf Blade thanks to Reflect, but it was still super effective damage! And now it looks like Steven is switching to another Pokémon."

Doc flipped. A girl with long hair was marching jerkily towards the camera with a well in the background.

"Weird," said Doc, and he flipped.

A dark stairwell showed, lit only by a weird emergency light, beginning to sputter, glued to a wall. There was just enough light to see an expressionless, disembodied face floating in midair. It slowly began to glide towards the screen.

Doc huffed. "Weird." He changed it again.

A stone statue of an angel stood in mist, hands covering its face. Hearing the sink running, Doc turned to address Vania as she returned to the main room, and so missed the statue pull its hands away from its face.

"Vania, a lot of these channels are just weird."

"Whatcha got?" she asked, coming around the corner of the screen to see a Weeping Angel advancing towards them. She shrieked and grabbed the remote from Doc, hitting the "Home" button to go back to Nutmeg TV. "Let's just stay in HQ for now, okay?"

Doc's brow was furrowed. "What was that?"

"Something we wouldn't want in HQ."

"But then, we're stuck with just the two channels."

"Well, sort of. But remember, this is the PPC! Time isn’t quite so static, here. Let's see what was on an hour ago." She pressed one end of a long button next to the image of a clock.

The video game footage was replaced with a classroom setting. A little kid in filthy clothing was talking at the head of the classroom. "And seeing as how you students is all having such difficulties in writing about the lives of Paris's poor, Miss Irene informs me that you'll each be having a turn spending a night in the elephant—" he grinned— "with the rats.

The seated students groaned, some beginning to complain before the gibbering of some book-shaped figures silenced them.

"Oooh! OFU lessons! How about an hour from now?"

The screen now showed Nurse Parwill, apparently being interviewed. "It is hard sometimes, you know? I mean, I'm trained to improve people's mental health, and with agents, that's what I do. But with some canons . . . Well, let's get back to Captain Ahab; he's a prime example. He was heavily Sued when we got him, and we had to get rid of all his well-adjusted behaviors and find a way to bring back the monomania."

Vania glanced at Doc mischievously. "Wanna cheat?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's see what was going on back in Jay's time." She held the back end of the time button down for nearly a full minute. When she stopped, an agent was just setting down a paper. "That concludes our list," she said, folding her fingers together and giving the camera a look somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. "If you have any information on these dangerous rogue agents, do not hesitate to inform the first officer you see. Just look for the sash with the Black Cat." She turned her shoulder to demonstrate the item on her own sleeve.

"Eh. Bad example," Vania said, hitting "Home" again. "Let's try a couple decades in the future?"

It was another news report. A young woman was on the scene of a section of HQ hallway brutalized with scorch marks and slashes in the generic surface. "Several of the agents involved are currently being cared for in Medical," the reporter said into the microphone. "However, one agent present in the confrontation is said to be missing entirely. Internal Affairs is asking for any information regarding the whereabouts of Agent—"

"Meh. I'd rather not know." Vania flipped back to the present. "So anyway, what do you feel like—watching."

Doc was back on his bed, reading. He grunted.

* * *

Author’s Note: Nick Jr. belongs to Viacom. The Magic School Bus was created by Joanna Cole and Bruce Degen, and the prime multiverse’s version of the theme song was performed by Little Richard. Pokémon, and the characters and moves named here, belong to Satoshi Tajiri of Nintendo. Samara was created by Koji Suzuki; SCP-087 was created by Zaeyde and belongs to the SCP community; Weeping Angels were created by Stephen Moffat. Captain Ahab was created by Herman Melville.
doctorlit: (Default)
In December of 2014, doctorlit made a giant leap towards adulthood, in the form of taking an airplane without the aid of his parents for the first time. Even though his dad still helped him with scheduling and buying the tickets. The goal was to meet up with fellow PPCers Araeph and FractalDawn and watch the premier of The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies. I'm just lucky I had the appropriate shifts off!

Gathering Report )

So, that's about it for my first encounter with fellow PPCers. Thank you, Araeph, for inviting me, and thanks to both you and FractalDawn for helping me out with some of the details. Also, thanks to dad for getting up early the one morning and driving me both ways.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note:The Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in it with permission. Epic Mickey was created by Warren Spector and Junction Point Studios and belongs to Disney Interactive Studios. The Poison Joke role play was started by Laburnum and kitsune106, and Poison Joke itself was created by Lauren Faust and belongs to Hasbro Studios and Studio B Productions. The fanfiction Epic Mickey with Millie belongs to Schoolie, and passages from it are bold. It can be read (now renamed) at The badfic has since been edited, and no longer syncs up with the lines quoted in the mission. (And it must be said, it has improved!) Thanks to the Irish Samurai and Ekyl for beta duty in an unfamiliar canon! This mission was first posted here.

Warning: Spoilers for the first Epic Mickey game.

This mission, and the badfic it sporks, were written before the release of the Epic Mickey sequels. Details in this mission may be contradicted by those later games, but the mission will only reflect information available at the time of its (and its badfic’s) writing.

Update August 10, 2017 I am embarrassed to admit I used to be far too obsessed with mini creation, and counted failures to use capital letters in proper nouns in minis. I recognize now that this is not correct, and am retconning my use of such minis in this mission. That would leave this mission with only a single true mini, "bolt;" however, having only one mini in this mission would change its plot significantly, so it will remain populated with a group of anonymous, unadoptable minis. I am also leaving "sweepers" on the PPC Wiki, as it was adopted by PPCer Outhra.


Pick Your Poison )

Post-Mission )
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: This takes place during “The Adventure of the Misplaced Musical Miscreant” and was written as part of PoorCynic's second writing workshop on speech. Protectors of the Plot Continuum was created by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. The Hound of the Baskervilles was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and belong to his estate. Mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles were created by Juliet Norrington. Mawgs and Spaceballs belong to Mel Brooks. The concept and naming convention of a “kitchen cat” was started by Hawkelf. The PPC was created by Jay and Acacia.

* * *

"Gris . . . gris . . . gris . . . everywhere is more gris!" muttered Séverine. She was only partially paying attention to her surroundings as she followed her partner through the hallways of Headquarters. "I am tired now of seeing so much grey!" She walked several paces behind Yoof, who was zigzagging back and forth as he walked, testing the air around them with his wet, black nose.

"Ha!" It was a sharp, high-pitched whine, more bark than laugh. "Your Idea!"

"I know," Séverine replied. Her eyes continued to skim over the RC doors, not really looking at them. "It is only that . . . walking in la Nouvelle-Calédonie, we would have the sky, the flowers, and people, and colors—"

Yoof stopped and turned to look at her, the bases of his long, floppy ears raising just a bit above his fuzzy brown hair. "I'm people!" he whined, his human hands held up to chest level in a begging posture. "Sort of! Half a people!"

Séverine shut her eyes and frowned. "I know, Yoof. I am sorry. That was not what I meant."

"Ha!" Yoof barked happily. He returned to sniffing his way down the hallway.

"Caught any promising scents yet?"

"Just chocolate and Bleep-things." Yoof stopped again and half-turned so that one eye was looking at Séverine. "I don't want to get in trouble again."

Séverine shook her head. "No. We will not try that again." As Yoof returned to sniffing, Séverine muttered to herself, "This ridiculous Département Médical, claiming cooking ingredients to be medical supplies."

Her words were still picked up by Yoof's sharp ears. "Ha. Shouldn't be stealing from RCs anyway, ha?"

"It is either this, or we return to searches through the worlds. Remember when the house elves discovered us in the kitchen of Beauxbatons? Or running from the Medusa spiders? And do not forget what nearly happened with James Bond."

Yoof's ears laid back against his head as he whined, "Hnnn, hnnn, hnnn." He spun around as he continued his nasal search. After a few more yards, the little black tail that hung down under his jacket began wagging.

"Ha! Ha! Something!"

"Bon, bon! Find it, Yoof, find it!"

Yoof kept his nose held high up in the air and began to walk more slowly, soon zeroing in on one RC door in particular.

"RC number two hundred fifty-one," Séverine read aloud. She interacted with agents in person far less frequently than she did with their stashes, and had no idea who lived where. She tested the doorknob and was surprised to find it locked—most agents didn't seem to bother. However, a quiet swipe of her PPC ID card through the space of the door-frame was all it took to force the catch out of its hole.

Séverine opened the door just slightly, scanning the room through the crack. The RC appeared motionless. She opened the door wider and shut it after both she and her partner were inside.

RC 251, like so many others, reflected the variations of its occupants' personalities. One wall held a long, low bookshelf, very obsessively neat. The wall opposite had a television set surrounded by a tangle of wires connecting it to various game consoles, with game discs and open cases covering the floor around a splitting bean bag chair. The green glow of a night light spilled from behind the mostly closed door to a separate bathroom.

It was the far wall, however, that held the prize they sought: on the platform below the portal's regular location sat a huge mound of golden-brown tater tots.

Séverine sighed. "I study to become a professional chef, yet I spend my life raiding the padded cells of lunatics for American junk food." Nonetheless, she took a roll of garbage bags out of her denim bag and tore off the outermost bag. She started towards the potato product, but stopped when Yoof began to speak strangely.

His ears were perked way up. "Early nineties model. Manufactured in NCIS continuum. One floor bolt loose. Back lid missing. Ceramic body, plastic lid and seat. Fill line down to ninety-four percent of full capacity."

"Yoof? What is the matter? What are you talking about?"

Yoof tilted his head. "Can't you hear it? Someone's drinking from the toilet bowl."

The green glow from the bathroom, which Séverine had mistaken for a night light, grew brighter and brighter as its source approached the main room. The door was bumped open, and a luminescent bloodhound puppy came out and gave a low, "Whuff."

"Of course," said Séverine, sneering. "Un petit."

Yoof began to growl, "Harrr, harrr, harr." The mini-Hound of the Baskervilles, 221b baker street, returned with its own low rumbling, a sharp contrast to Yoof's high-pitched yelps.

"Keep it distracted, please, Yoof." Séverine shook the bag open and kneeled down, scooping in the tater tots. "Little beasts," she told herself. "Bad enough to have a cat in the kitchen, but the whole of Headquarters is filled with monsters." Trying to ignore the growling behind her, she worked as quickly as she could, and tied off the bag when every piece was inside.

When she turned around, she saw that Yoof had dropped to his human hands and knees and was holding his head and shoulders close to the ground to match the mini's defensive posture. The two technically-canine beings kept feinting a charge, forcing the other to back up momentarily before it, too, lunged forward.

Séverine heaved the bag of tater tots over her shoulder Pere Noel-style and headed for the exit. "Heel, Yoof. We are done here! Stop that fighting; you are not even a real dog!"

"I'm half dog! Ha!" Yoof retreated from the mini anyway and stood up. "And half man! I'm my—"

"Own best friend, oui oui. But it is funnier when John Candy says it." Séverine held the door open for Yoof to pass, then clicked the door locked with the inside doorknob. She almost had the door shut when the mini-Hound of the Baskervilles let loose a howl worthy of its canonical namesake.

Séverine froze, almost feeling the sound physically travel up and down her spine, and then up it again. "Mon coeur," she swore quietly. She slammed the door and turned to Yoof, who had all of his hair and fur standing on end. "Let us return to the kitchens before that beast attracts attention."

221b baker street continued to howl as they left that hallway; preoccupied with worry, it took the pair only minutes to return to the cafeteria. On the way past the eating tables, the current cafeteria cat, Fr'sst, leaped onto one to watch them pass, unencumbered by the missing left foreleg he had lost during 2008's Sue invasion. The cat glared at the agents with deep, orange eyes.

"Do not look at me in that way, beast."

Yoof made a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl. Fr'sst hissed at their retreating backs in response.

* * *

About an hour later, agents were loading the newly heated and served tater tots onto their plates and splitting into various groups of friends to eat together. Yoof and Séverine watched from one of the doorways to the kitchen.

"This is a job well done, Yoof." Séverine crossed her arms and smiled contentedly. "Look how happy they are to have real food."

The happiness didn't last long. (It tends not to, in the PPC Cafeteria.) Soon, agents' eyes began to glaze over, multicolored stars began to spin in the air above their heads, and nearly everyone present stood and began to brawl with those closest to them.

Séverine stared, wide-eyed. Then she closed her eyes and said, "Food fights have never been uncommon here, after all."

Yoof whined, "Hnnn . . . hnnn . . . but they aren't even using the food."

"It is surely a coincidence," Séverine continued. "We have no reason to assume we are the cause. Nor should anyone else."

A sharp hiss drew her attention to the floor, where Fr'sst sat, black fur raised around his shoulders, mouth partly open to show off his shining white incisors. The cat stared directly into Séverine's eyes.

"Beast," she spat.

Author's Note: House elves and Beauxbatons belong to J. K. Rowling. Medusa spiders were created by Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz and belong to J. J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof. James Bond was created by Ian Fleming, and belongs to him, so far as I'm concerned. NCIS was created by and belongs to Donald P. Bellisario and Don McGill.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Protectors of the Plot Continuum was created by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. The Sherlock Holmes characters and setting were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and belong to his estate. Kelok, Unger, Miah and Cali belong to Miah. The Baker Street Fanfiction Academy belongs to Juliet Norrington and Lux Piper. The fanfiction “Walk though the fire” was written by MoonlightWonderer, and excerpts from it appear in bold. It can be read here. Thanks go to Miah for beta duty and general advice! This mission was originally posted here.

Update August 9, 2017: I am embarrassed to admit this, but in earlier years, I was rather obsessed with getting as many minis out of missions as possible. To this end, I was counting failures to capitalize letters in proper nouns as minis, but This isn't really considered appropriate. This mission originally produced ten mini-Hounds of the Baskervilles, but I have edited out the ones that only existed from capitalization mistakes. This means I have had to misrepresent the locations of certain typos to keep the original story flowing correctly; however, all remaining minis do legitimately appear in "Walk though the fire” somewhere. I have also kept ncis in, as there were no other mini-LEOs to substitute in his place.

* * *

The Adventure of the Misplaced Musical Miscreant )

* * *

Post-Mission )
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: My entry for the Transfictional Canonical Defense Authority, a steampunk-themed alternate universe of the PPC started by Pieguy on the Board in May 2012. The original thread is gone, but Huinesoron archived all the story entries. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. Some of the terms used here were invented by other PPCers writing for the TCDA before me.

* * *

Constable Doc adjusted his monocle and frowned as the typewriter on the Transfictionally-Activated Computational Device clicked out a reel of parchment. He leaned over the machine to read as the report slowly appeared.

When he has read enough, he called out, “Miss Vannie! We have received yet another crossing-over between Sherlock Holmes and Les Misérables!”

“That makes three such assignments in under a score of days.” Constable Vanna Toulouse sighed. “Though it gladdens me to see that Mr. Hugo’s works are still popular among the public, I do long for the uncomplicated days before these o’er-crossings entered into fashion.”

Constable Doc moved to join her at the equipment pantry. “I am not certain ‘uncomplicated’ is an adjective which was applicable to our profession at any time.”

“Truly spoken.” The constables both bent down to retrieve a large apparatus from the bottom shelf. “Nonetheless, this Fused-Fiction Disentanglement Device is becoming quite a strain on the nerves, if I do say so.”

“As well as on the muscles,” Constable Doc huffed as they both strained to lift it. “But such is the lot of those of us under the Hydraulic Hyacinth. Her agents aren’t referred to as ‘Various and Sundries’ for no reason, after all.”

The constables carried the FFDD across the room and lay it before the wall where the Aether would soon be parted to allow entry into the o’er-crossed canonical worlds. Constable Vanna then walked to the TACD and began to flip a series of numeric dials.

“May I assume,” asked she, “that Holmes is once again traveling to Paris to consort with revolutionaries, in spite of the impropriety of a well-known British celebrity doing so during a period of social unrest in France?”

“You certainly may assume so, for it is precisely the case.”

Constable Vanna tsked and shook her head sadly. “Well, it falls to us, now. Shall we on, Mr. Doc?”

“Certainly, Madam!”

* * *

In practiced unison, Constable Doc slapped Mr. Holmes across the face with The Sign of Four as Constable Vanna delivered a much softer blow to Monsieur Enjolras with a copy of the Brick. The mouths of both canonical persons expelled a bright white fog, which mixed together to form a ghostly gentleman in top hat and cane. The constables nodded to each other before advancing on the author-eidolon.

“oh i get it were in the steampunk verson and im made out of steam ha ha ha AAAAH”

The eidolon was easily dissipated by copies of two powerful canons being swung through its being.

On the topic of powerful canons, however, Monsieur Enjolras was was now raising a caplock rifle to his shoulder, and Mr. Holmes was drawing an anachronistic Webley revolver.

Each constable drew a small glass ball from a pocket and threw it before one of the canonical men. The glass shattered, and from within, the mists of the river Lethe rose up to the gentlemen's faces. The hands holding their firearms dropped, and their faces displayed a blank expression.

Constable Vanna pulled two handles out of the bank of interlocked gears which covered the top of the FFDD, and locked them into place on opposite sides of the device. “Sir, Monsieur, if I could trouble you to place your hands here, and here . . . Thank you kindly!”

With the canon characters facing each other across two sides of the FFDD, each constable knelt down next to one of the unoccupied sides and began to turn the cranks that protruded from those faces of the machine. The forest of gears began to rotate, all grinding against each other. Warm steam began to billow out from the base of the FFDD.

As the steam streamed past the feet of the canons, growing thicker with every crank, the streets of Paris began to fall away, collapsing like the set backgrounds in a stage show. In spite of the dazed state of his mind, Mr. Holmes detected a sensation of sliding, as though his shoes were running backwards over the rails of a train track. But after a few moments, the river of steam, the sliding sensation and the mental stupor all had vanished. Mr. Holmes found himself reclining in the sofa of his apartment at Baker Street, wondering if he had perhaps mis-measured a dose of cocaine.

* * *

Two weary constables panted as they watched Monsieur Enjolras charge back to the Corinth to rejoin his friends on the barricade. Constable Doc offered his handkerchief to Constable Vanna to wipe the sweat from her brow before using it on his own.

“I should say . . . we did well, today.” Constable Doc said while breathing heavily. “Not overly much madness today.”

“No,” agreed Constable Vanna. “Perhaps next time. Shall we retire to our Readiness Chamber?” She held her arm out with her elbow crooked.

“I certainly think we shall,” her partner replied, linking his elbow with hers.

Author's Note: Lethe was a river in ancient Greek mythology that erased the memories of those who drank from it. Not very steampunk—honestly, the genre isn't my specialty—but of course, neuralyzers wouldn't exist in the proper time period. If someone creates a more in-genre way of erasing memories, I'll probably edit this story to reflect that.
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Filker's Note: A filk after the tune of "Last Christmas" by Taylor Swift (because I can't stand the Wham! version.) This was covered by Keily Shinra here!

Last fanfic, I gave you concrit,
But the very next day, you waved it away.
This time, I guess you won’t mind
If I just leave flames instead.

Once written, we must try
To get good feedback, but you just roll your eye.
Tell me, Suethor, do you need a beta?
No, I figured not; guess I’ll read ya later.

Here’s a website; I linked it up and sent it
With a note saying “You need help!” I meant it.
Now I know what a fool I’ve been.
You don’t want to improve, you just crave the attention.

Last fanfic, I gave you concrit,
But the very next day, you waved it away.
This time, I guess you won’t mind
If I just leave flames instead.

Last fanfic, I gave you concrit,
But the very next day, you waved it away.
This time, I guess you won’t mind
If I just leave flames instead.

In a chat room, users with weird names.
I see you’ve blocked me; why such childish games?
My glod, I thought you’d appreciate assistance,
But your grammar errors show up with great persistence.

Another tenth walker for the one-hundredth time;
A Harry/Snape slashfic? This is really a crime!
Oh well, if this is what you call plot,
I guess I’ll leave you to it, since that’s all that you’ve got!


Last fanfic, I gave you concrit,
But the very next day, you waved it away.
This time, I guess you won’t mind
If I just leave flames instead.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Protectors of the Plot Continuum was founded by Jay and Acacia, and I write in their universe with permission. The Fahrenheit 451 setting was created by and belongs to Ray Bradbury. The fanfiction My own match was written by Pele the Goddess, and passages quoted from it are bold. It can be read here. Thanks to Neshomeh for beta duty. Also, thanks to Aster Corbett for catching a charge I missed. This mission was originally posted here.

Warning: Spoilers for Fahrenheit 451.


May or May Not Be Non-Inflammable )


Post-Mission Notes )
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Written for Huinesoron's First Monthly PPC Writing Challenge. The Mysterious Somebody was created by Huinesoron.

“You know how it started, don’t you?”

Arvin paused, his hand fidgeting with the sonic screwdriver it held. He had been about to sit back down to his desk covered in malfunctioning CADs when the older man had spoken. As much as Arvin would have liked to get back to work, he supposed he owed it to Voctor Kamras to at least stop and hear what he had to say. After all, most of what Arvin knew he owed to Voctor’s careful training, back when a plothole had plucked the young Argivian out of his proper time and place and stranded him in the PPC’s original headquarters. Arvin placed his screwdriver down and leaned against the desk, watching the other technician.

Voctor relaxed as well, straightening his arms a bit before continuing. “You remember when you first arrived in part of the PPC?”

Arvin nodded. “In the museum.”

“Yes, the museum. Back then, that was the whole PPC. And that was where it first happened. The Mysterious Somebody.” Voctor started to smooth his hair away from his forehead, but seemed to think better of it and let his arm drop. “Three agents—very idiotic, susceptible to mind tricks—brought him back from my home continuum. A Sith Lord, lad, can you imagine?”

Saying nothing, Arvin continued to stare over Voctor’s shoulder.

“And all because agents were foolish enough to recruit characters from out of badfics back then! The Mysterious Somebody was the worst thing—the greatest disaster—to ever threaten the PPC. Certainly, there were others, though none as bad as the MS. And they were ALL badfic recruits. It’s amazing how long it took the Flowers to instate our current policy of only recruiting background canons from outside the influence of badfics. The chance is always present that we’ll wind up with Somebody Else just as bad.”

Voctor looked up at the ceiling, a bit longingly. “That is, after all, why we’ve installed all the departments on different worlds now. The DMS is, appropriately enough, in a formerly unsettled area of Middle-earth. Crossovers is stationed in Twilight Town in the Kingdom Hearts universe, and Bad Slash is in the old St. Mungo’s, before its staff joined together with that Muggle hospital. And, of course, we at DoSAT are currently in the former headquarters of the Men in Black, which was disbanded after the existence of aliens became common knowledge to the population of this world. We can accept applicants directly, and simply kill all the characters encountered in any badfic. It’s much safer all around.”

Arvin hung his head. “I know all this already.” After a pause, he added, “Sir.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course, lad!” Voctor chuckled in embarrassment. “I only meant—well, I wanted you to know that I’m proud of you for doing this. You must always be watchful for that next Somebody Else. And you mustn’t trust anyone…not even me.” Voctor gave a small smile, but Arvin didn’t see it.

He couldn’t bring himself to raise his head, to look his long-time tutor in the eye as the Weeds who had been restraining Voctor pulled him to the door and led him away.

Author's Note: Argive and Magic: The Gathering belong to Wizards of the Coast, while Sith Lords and Star Wars were created by George Lucas. Middle-earth belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. Twilight Town and Kingdom Hearts belong to Disney and Square Enix. Men in Black was created by Walter F. Parkes and Laurie MacDonald. St. Mungo's and the term "Muggle" belong to J. K. Rowling.


Jun. 11th, 2011 05:23 pm
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Author's Note: This is the story I used as sample writing to get permission to write in the PPC.


Captain Janzen Peck sighed as he observed the image before him. The ship’s view-screen showed an average-sized, but beautiful, planet, wrapped in blankets of cloud. It was their next target, and he had been tasked with making sure the cargo vessels in his fleet had a safe landing and recovery effort. That meant locating any life forms able to pose a potential threat and destroying them from orbit.

“So. This is our next victim.”

The statement had been rhetorical, but the communications officer chose to respond anyway. “This planet’s surface is abundant in metals that haven’t been seen in our crust for decades now: iron, copper, even silicon. It’s a rare find. The Geologic Assessment Crew from the cargo ships estimates the planet may have formed over five billion years ago.”

“In other words, this planet is nearly as old as ours.” Captain Peck sighed again as he leaned against the metal railing that separated crew from the view-screen. “Today, we could be killing beings as evolved and complex as us.”

The communications officer, whose last name was Pryor, but whose first name Captain Peck couldn’t remember, gave him a weary glance. “We are quickly running out of natural resources. Our neighbors”—Lieutenant Pryor sneered as she said the word—“in the east are hoarding what materials they still have left, and have made it clear there will be no more exports or imports, no more loans. Our country can survive, but only if we keep bringing in new materials from other solar systems.”

Captain Peck had heard this many times before, though phrased differently each time. The government’s desperate attempts at maintaining order—and control—in the crumbling international climate had taken the form of survivalist xenophobia that focused on self-sufficiency. As times grew harsher, the populace as a whole clung to these messages more and more, ignoring the signs of the nation’s gradual slide into weakness and obscurity.

Lieutenant Pryor displayed many of the same signs of blind faith in the government as many other young officers Captain Peck had come to know in his time serving on the Alkaline Dream. It seemed that the mounting losses of resources and importance had instilled a deep fear in the populace, giving rise to overwhelming nationalism that left no room for discussion or dissent. Peck rarely met anyone who shared his misgivings, and he couldn’t help the feeling that his entire country was setting itself up for a disappointing failure.

Captain Peck felt that he had to try and voice his concerns, now, before he and his crew led another attack. “We're mining other systems with just as little restraint as we mined our own country's lands. Can we truly expect to rely on extraterrestrial materials forever? As it goes, we put half of what we collect back into ship repairs and fueling collection voyages.”

Pryor frowned. “What choice do we have?” she asked. “Our nation has led the world in aviation, military tech, communications and social welfare for almost our entire three centuries! Our economy is the world economy! We have a legacy to live up to, and we can’t simply give it up!”

“Why not?” Captain Peck pressed. “It’s a lot of pressure, always being the strongest, the best, at everything we do.”

“Don't you have any pride!” Pryor rose from her seat as she raised her voice, tingeing it with desperation. “Don’t you like having a right to say, 'We're the best! We're the strongest!'”

Peck stared hard at his subordinate, waiting for her to sit down again, which she soon did. Settling back into her seat, she masked her face in a blank expression. “My apologies, Captain.” She still couldn't hide the hardness in her eyes. “But we have a duty to our homeland—a duty we all swore to.”

“Don't inform me of my duty, please,” Captain Peck said calmly, but coldly. “We will all do as we have been ordered, Lieutenant. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Peck turned, sweeping the room with his eyes. Most of the bridge crew was ignoring the exchange, though not all were smart enough to avoid watching the Captain. Internally, Peck was disappointed with himself, not because of the argument, but because he had been so easily put on the defensive once his loyalty had been questioned. Was he, too, so easily swayed by the same blind nationalism that afflicted Pryor? Did Pryor herself have the same misgivings as the Captain, only to be too fearful to admit them?

Captain Peck turned back to the view-screen, and gazed at the planet there. Beneath the wispy clouds were massive oceans of pristine blue, wrapping tightly around what continents were visible from this angle. One was colored white, which probably signified proximity to a pole. The other landmasses were mottled with green and brown.

“What do we know about this planet?” Peck asked. “Besides its physical characteristics, I mean?”

“Well…” Pryor must have been looking through data on her computer screen. “Based on observations of various wavelengths used for communication or entertainment broadcasting, there appear to be at least one hundred twenty-five political states here, probably more. Thousands of differentiable languages, with multiple variations on each.”

“Translation progress?”

“We’ve made some headway in what seem to be the dominant tongues, mostly just to figure out central military locations.”

Peck paused for a moment. “And what is its name?”


“The planet. What do the natives call it?”

“Some of the names we’ve come across include Ziemia, Jord, Aarde, de Erde, Tierra, Earth? The last two seem to be most commonly used.”

Captain Peck grasped the railing with his claws. “Well, Earth,” he mumbled quietly through the vocal slits on either side of his face, “I hope, for your sake, you’re better organized than we are. I hope you’re unified enough to stand a chance.”
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Written for this game of Fill the Plothole. Everything from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling. The Chronicles of Narnia belongs to the estate of C.S. Lewis.

The spell of the moon...Draco Malfoy was having a good day when Longbottom did IT.Now,all they have to do is find Draco's true love.The problem is everybody wish to get inside his pants but no one inside his heart...or do they?slashHD

[This story broadcast in HD where available.]

Draco Malfoy had been walking around the back of the stands to reach the Quidditch pitch when he heard someone whispering to him from underneath the seats. He stopped and listened; a short figure moved forward out of the shadows. Malfoy couldn’t have expected the face that revealed itself.

The face was covered in white makeup, with bright red on the lips. The nose was covered by a big red ball. The face was surrounded by an orange wig of frizzy hair above, and a frilly white collar below. “Hiya, Malfoy!” the figure said in a raspy voice. “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Hello?’”

Malfoy was dumbfounded. “. . . Longbottom?”

Neville tossed an unfolded balloon animal at Malfoy’s feet. “A snake certainly does have a long bottom! Aha! Aha!” Neville squeaked the clown nose in time to his laughter.

Malfoy looked around. He didn’t see anyone else. Had someone jinxed the Gryffindor? Malfoy had certainly never seen Longbottom smiling for so long.

“Has your pitiful life finally driven you completely mad, Longbottom?”

“My name is Pennywise, the dancing clown!”

“Yes, fascinating. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some Quidditch to practice.”

“But don’t you want a balloon?” Longbottom was now inexplicably holding a bundle of balloons by their strings. “Look! They FLOAT!”

“Where are you getting these?” Malfoy shouted, furious.

“We all FLOAT down here!” Longbottom shook the balloons desperately.

Malfoy turned to go, but as he walked away, he felt the sensation of something being pulled out of his pants pockets. He glared and spun around, coming face to face with the Weasley twins.

“Well, it was a fine plan,” said George. “Just didn’t quite work out.”

“You did great, Neville,” added Fred.

Malfoy was looking back and forth between the twins. “Do you mean to tell me,” he seethed, “that this was all just a plot to steal my wallet?”

“Well, you are rich,” said Neville, blushing through the clown paint.

Author's Note: It was created by Stephen King. The original link to the following story is lost.

“The Mirror” by o0NarnianLullaby0o
When Clary and Isla Kennedy are taken aboard the Dawn Treader, they find something more amazing than they could've ever imagined. A mirror that shows what you want the most. But the girls didn't even know that love was what they wanted... AU

The sisters had been wandering around the Dawn Treader since their arrival on the ship. To their utter disappointment, the majority of the ship’s cabins were either empty, or worse, filled with equipment or supplies. They were just giving up on finding anything amazing and magical when they opened the door to one room in particular.

“Like, whoa! Check it out, Clary! A magic mirror!”

“Totally, Isla! Like, mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the hottest one of all?”

“What’s that writing at the top? Mirror of . . . Erised?”

“Dude, it’s an Italian mirror. So chic.”

“No way, Clary! That’s so totally French.”

As the girls walked closer to the mirror, however, each saw something a little different in the reflection.

Isla cried, “Oh, it’s that total hunk from school!”

Clary sighed, “It’s that dreamy stud that runs the Cinnabon register at the mall!”

The sound of the door opening behind them broke both girls out of their reverie.

“Terribly sorry to intrude,” said Professor Dumbledore, “but I seem to have—Ah! Yes, there it is.” With a flick of his wand, the mirror levitated off the floor and headed for the door.

Dumbledore followed after it, but turned back in the door frame. “Incidentally, you young ladies ought to go home. Before you . . . as they say, mess something up?” He smiled politely, raising his eyebrows. Then he left.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Written during this game of Fill the Plothole. All Harry Potter elements belong to J.K. Rowling. The original fanfiction has been deleted.

"Setting Severus Snape Up" by Azuria Asiyarana Annabellah
Harry, Ron and Hermione have decided to place an advertisement in the Daily Prophet under the Singles' Column. Their mission: To find a perfect lady companion for their Potions Teacher, the one and only Severus Snape. But things soon get out of control!

“Blimey,” breathed Ron, peeking out from behind the curtain. “Look at all the applicants!”

“Who would have thought so many women would be interested in dating Snape?” wondered Hermione.

“Well,” said Harry, “we did make him sound rather more . . . appealing than he really is.” He turned to his friends. “You guys ready for this? It’s time for part two of Operation: Mellowing out the Git.” Hermione and Ron nodded, and Ron pulled the curtains fully open.

The Room of Requirement had provided them with a simple table set with three chairs; Professor Snape’s potential dates were lining up from outside. The three students took their seats, and Harry called the first name on the list. “Sybill . . . Trelawney? Professor, what are you doing here?”

Professor Trelawney pushed through the crowd. "Oh! Oh, Harry! I saw—yes, I saw—I was meant to come here, I came to warn you, yes! A great danger—"


“Evil shall beset you from—"


“Darkness is—”


Professor Trelawney spun and shrunk away from the woman standing behind her.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Umbridge.”

“I believe you mean Professor Umbridge, Harry dear.”

“D’you really think we would say yes to you? After everything you did last year?”

Umbridge took on a look of mock sorrow. “I only did what I had to in support of the Ministry. I’m sure there are no hard feelings.”


Umbridge pouted and turned around, driving Professor Trelawney before her as she left.

Hermione took the list of names. “Is there a Miss—of the West?”

“Oh, please, just call me Elphaba.”

Ron’s mouth gaped. “Your skin is—smooth!” He had changed what he was going to say when Harry’s foot had kicked him under the table.

Hermione looked confused as well. “Why are you dressed like—well, like a witch?”

“Oh? How do you mean?” asked Elphaba, spreading her robes and coughing. “These were gifts from a friend. I am a witch, though.” She coughed again.

“Are you okay?” asked Hermione. “Here. Have some water.” She conjured a glass cup and filled it.

Elphaba’s face drained to a paler green. “Oh, I’m quite all right. Thank you anyway.” She edged away from the table.

“Oh, no, please! Help yourself,” Hermione replied, holding the glass out to the woman.

Elphaba only backed away faster, heading for the door. “Um, actually, I . . . I just remembered, I need to go . . . meet someone! Sorry!”

The three students watched her go. “Well,” said Ron, “that was . . . Who’s next?”

“I am,” said a woman in a dark blue coat and skirt, holding an umbrella. “Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way.”

“Miss Poppins, your submission says you’re a nanny,” Harry said. “Are you good with children?”

“Most certainly.”

The three friends looked at each other. “That won’t do,” said Hermione. “Snape hates children.”

“Well, I certainly don’t hate children,” began Mary Poppins, “but I never said I particularly liked them. I think one needs to treat children strictly, so that they learn what’s proper.”

“Never mind Snape, then,” Ron stated. “Let’s introduce her to Filch instead.”

A voice squawked out, “Don’t you believe a word of it! She loves each and every child she’s ever cared for! Why, you should have seen—” The voice was silenced as Mary closed two fingers over the beak of a plastic parrot’s head on the handle of her umbrella.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you,” she said quietly.

“Blimey,” said Ron as he leaned over the table. “I wish Dad were here. He’d love to see a charmed umbrella!”

“Pardon?” asked Mary. “Charmed?”

“To make it talk like that!”

“Now, young man, you’re certainly old enough not to be telling ridiculous tales about talking umbrellas.’

Ron and his friends exchanged puzzled glances. Hermione said, “Your umbrella was just talking, ma’am. We all saw it. It was magic!”

“Well, goodness gracious,” Mary said, opening the umbrella above her head. “And here I thought you seemed such nice young people. If you’re going to go on and on about silly make-believe magic, I shall simply have to leave.” With that, she flew out the door.

Ron stared at the door in puzzlement as another candidate pushed into the room.

“Hi, Vampire!”

Harry banged his forehead against the desk. “I give up. We’re closing down.”

Author's Note: The Elphaba incarnation of the Wicked Witch was developed by Gregory Maguire, although the character was originally created by L. Frank Baum. Mary Poppins was created by P.L. Travers and belongs to her estate. Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way belongs to Tara Gilesbie.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Written during this game of Fill the Plothole. Everything from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling.

"Hogwarts Gets Sex Ed" by Chaos-in-Sync
Hogwarts gets sex education,and Snape's the teacher for the job.What could possibly go wrong- especially when the Gryffindors and Slytherins are supposed to take the class together? These are the days leading to it and the countless challenges.

The Potions classroom was under a gloomier cloud than usual that day, the day Snape would remember all his life as the source of his greatest headache.

The third year boys of Gryffindor and Slytherin were assembled in the dungeon. Aside from the sniggering grins on Crabbe and Goyle, every face betrayed shock and revulsion. Blaise was casting baleful scowls up and down the desks, as if daring anyone to try talking to him today. Neville Longbottom, convinced that only a Boggart could be responsible for this situation, was frantically patrolling the room with his wand. Perhaps the greatest sign of distress, however, was when the eyes of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy met, and the two exchanged a look of sympathy.

When Professor Snape strode into the room, fierce and silent, an uneasy stillness settled over all—except for Neville, who decided he had finally located his boggart, and pointed his wand at Snape, crying, “Riddikulus!”

Snape’s sour expression betrayed no reaction to suddenly wearing Augusta Longbottom’s hat. “I’m going to ignore that,” he said, “only because this day cannot get any worse than it already was.”

As Dean and Seamus pulled Neville down into a seat, Snape flicked his wand at the wall, and the first image appeared, triggering a chorus of groans, feigned retching, and other sounds of disgust. Despite these noises, the tone of his voice never wavered, nor did his eyes leave the wall in the back of the room.
doctorlit: (Default)
Author's Note: Taken from this Fill the Plothole game. Everything from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling.

"The Life I'll Live" by BleedingxRedxSkies
Draco met Deanna, a Slytherin like him, during their 1st year. They became very close and knew they were in love during 1st and 2nd year. Then-3rd year. Deanna was gone and never came back. Until 7th year. Draco wants to know the truth on why she left him

Draco Malfoy began his seventh year at Hogwarts wearing a gloomy expression at Slytherin table in the Great Hall. His parents were in a constant state of tension thanks to the increased activities of the Dark Lord. Draco was happy to get away from home, where the Dark Lord had been staying.

The absence of Harry Potter and his pair of friends from the Gryffindor table was an additional source of relief. With them on the run, Draco might even be able to enjoy this last year at school. All the tables, aside from his own, were obviously missing some of their usual inhabitants. Draco began scanning the room, seeing what other annoying students he would be spared the company of.

It was at his own table that he saw something that made him gasp. It wasn't the absence of a face, but the presence of one which had been missing a long time—since Draco's second year, in fact. That had been the year Draco and Deanna had admitted they were in love. Draco hadn't seen her again after that; and now, here she was again, sitting at the Slytherin table as though she had never been missing at all.

Crabbe and Goyle were too busy eating to have noticed Draco's gasp, and they paid no attention now as he stood up and walked silently to where Deanna was sitting. As she turned to him, Draco saw the changes the past four years had inflicted on her. She was older, of course, taller and with more defined features. She was also, oddly, far more muscular than the daughter of pure-blood wizards would ever be expected to be. Deanna's once pale face was now tan, almost dark. That face now lit up into a smile as Deanna recognized Draco.

"Draco! I wasn't sure you would be here!"

"Deanna. Where have you been?"

Deanna smiled. "Well . . . you won't believe me."

"Of course! Of course I will," Draco said impatiently.

"Well . . . we went to the Arctic."

". . . What?"

"My family! We all went to the Arctic during the summer after my second year. We rented a yacht from a Muggle dealer, and went sailing up to the Arctic. We went hiking around across the ice, but then we fell through! There were patterns scrawled into the ice down there, and it looked like goblin! We thought it might be talking about a treasure, so we memorized what it said as best we could before we tunneled through the ice and back out. The message said something about Peru, so we got back to the boat and headed for South America. Another boat showed up on the way, and we thought it would be the Muggle collecting more money for his boat being rented longer, but it was actually Somali pirates! They were after the treasure, too! So we had an amazing boat-to-boat duel, with the pirates using guns, and my family using wands! Mom got shot in the shoulder, but we managed to sink their boat! We reached the mainland in time to get Mom's shoulder treated by some "witch doctor" guy, who's sort of a Muggle that knows about Herbology. We traded him our snowsuits from the Arctic in exchange for some llamas, which we started riding through the Andes. We eventually came across an ancient temple, and when we went inside, there were decomposed bodies wearing Nazi uniforms everywhere! We kept going deeper, and it looked like the Nazis had triggered all the traps, but I almost got caught in one they had missed, and swords came out and cut me—here, on my chin—but we got past them all finally. In the bottom chamber of the temple, there was a golden statue of a guinea pig. Dad picked it up, but when he did, a horrible shriek filled the air, and something started clawing at the back wall. We all ran out, with this huge something following us the whole way. When we got out, the Muggle boat dealer was there, with a bunch of armed men. It turns out, he had sent the Somali pirates, and had even suggested we go to the Arctic in the first place hoping we would find that ancient message! His men captured us and took the golden guinea pig, but they didn't think to take our wands away, and we managed to escape that night. We stole our llamas back, and tried to get back to our yacht, but the pirates had already taken it aboard their battleship. Then the witch doctor reappeared, and said that there were more golden animals like the one we found, and showed us a golden llama statue he had had all along! He said it was important to find the rest before the pirates did, and told us to head for Mexico next, to look for the golden chicken! So we started off on our llamas again, heading north, trying to evade the pirates . . . "

Eventually, Deanna reached the end of her tale. ". . . the old witch doctor revealed that he was an alien, too! Then they all entered the giant spaceship and flew away!"

Draco blinked, and looked away. "So . . . you've been doing drugs for four straight years?"

"That too," Deanna admitted. She reached across the table, grabbed a poppy-seed muffin, and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply.


Jun. 2nd, 2011 11:56 am
doctorlit: (Default)
Filker's Note: A filk after "Womanizer" by Britney Spears. Neuralyzers belong to Walter F. Parkes and Laurie MacDonald.

Character, why are you here, watcha doing?
I bet you have got no clue what is ongoing
You are in a new roll that's got you looking stupid
But I know who you were, who you were baby

Look at you, getting a complete makeover
You are like a puppet, strings tangled all over
It all seems so wrong, but baby, just keep going strong
'Cause I know who you were, who you were, baby

Neuralyzer, neura-neuralyzer, it's the neuralyzer
Oh, neuralyzer, oh, it's the neuralyzer baby
Yeah, it is the, Yeah, it is the
Neuralyzer, neuralyzer, neuralyzer

It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
She's got you going
She thinks she's charming
But we can stop her!

It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
You think you're crazy?
I'll fix your crazy
I'll do it with the

Don't forget! You were once a mighty champion
It's too bad, because your style she's a-crampin'
I have handled oh, so many. I'm glad to help you remember
Who you were, only who you were baby

Yes, you're out of your right characterization
But now she's gone, and there's no need for hesitation
It just takes a little flash, here, after I don my sunglasses
You'll be back, back for good, baby


Pretty soon you'll be back in your normal world
(Neuralyzer, neuralyzer, neuralyzer, neuralyzer)
Things will be all good, and you'll want to thank this girl
But you can't, 'cause you won't know


It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
It makes memories go oh-oh
Of things you should not know oh-oh
Neuralyzer, neura-neuralyzer, it’s the neuralyzer
Oh, neuralyzer, oh, it's the neuralyzer baby
doctorlit: (Default)
Filker's Note: A filk after "Soulja Boy (Crank That)" by Soulja Boy. Pokémon and all names used from that franchise belong to Satoshi Tajiri of the Pokémon Company and Nintendo.

Trainer Boy (Catch That)

(I choose you!)

Trainer boy catch it.

Now I got a new game for y’all called the Trainer Boy.

You got to throw the ball, train it up three levels from dawn to dusk.


Trainer boy up in this route
Watch me catch it, knock it out
Watch me catch that Pokémon
Then Hydro Pump Ho-oh
Now I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)

Trainer boy up in this route
Watch me catch it, knock it out
Watch me catch that Pokémon
Then Hydro Pump Ho-oh
Now I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)
I choose you! (Catch that Pokémon!)

Trainer boy out from this town
Watch me catch a Ground-and-Rock
Magnitude them down
Yeah, watch me beat Gym Leader Brock
I’m Satoshi, watch me catch,
Catching all them insects, hey
When they paved all my tall grass
I programmed an opportunity
(for you)
To catch ‘em all (yeah catch ‘em all)
And if we get to battle
We’ll see how good you are (how good you are)
You catch me at your local game store
Yes I play it every day
Rival’s getting mad ‘cause
I just caught a Suicune, mate.


I’m Swords Dancing up my guy
Using Slash before I try
Baton Passing to Abra
Now Attack is up four lines
Miyamoto wants to be me
Trainer boy, I’m the man
He be looking at my games
Saying “He’s the Poké-man!” (man)
Let’s admit it (let’s admit it)
Lance (Lance)
Just don’t fit it (just don’t fit it)
Nah, he can’t do it like me
Hah, they can’t do it like me
Lol, I see you trying to do it like me
Man, that hack was ugly.


I’m too mean to this NPC
Watch me Curl and watch me Roll
Rollout on that Pidgeot
It’s super effective!
Super effective!
Super effective!
Super effective!
Super effective!

I’m too good for tournaments
Every badge, full Pokédex
Watch me work my magic ‘til I’m
Champion (do it)
Champion (do it)
Champion (do it)



(I choose you!)



doctorlit: (Default)

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