Over on the Daydverse Livejournal community, we occasionally do these little events called "Whose Fic Is It Anyway." Some people throw out prompts, some people grab them and write, and the objective is to fill as many prompts as you can in the 2-3 hours the contest lasts, with points given both for number of prompts and number of words. So everything here was written as fast as humanly possible, with no edits or rewrites, and I've placed the original prompt in bold at the top of each ficlet.

Post BoH, "We all deserved to die" by lyssa_adelia

"It's not fair!" All the world was a madhouse still, the air half-translucent through the blur of sweat and dust and swirling bodies that exhausted eyes half-failed to track, but proximity raised this keen above the delirium. Arthur turned, the knotted tension of his body snapping him around on the axis of his heel like some medieval siege weapon.

It was someone's mother, he was someone's father, he should have been overwhelmed with sympathy, but she was only sleep-rumpled, her face still flesh colored and her dressing gown fluffed and with streaks of dust and grime still visible against rather than as the pattern. Her eyes brimmed and tumbled tears to drip in fat incomprehension from her quivering chin as she unleashed another howl against the universe that had put a mouse-haired boy in Power Ranger pajamas in pieces at her slippered feet. "He's a baby! He didn't deserve..."

The slap broke the last of his civility like cracking glass bitten into his palm, and his voice was a splintered stranger with one lost six missing. "We all deserved to die. They did it for us."

He couldn't meet her eyes any more, and they dropped instead to ones that were dust-covered, empty, lineless, and accusing. "Now come on, quit standing around here and we'll see how many are left."

Prompt: Crack, Squid, Squirrel by lyssa_adelia

"You're on crack!" Colin laced his arms tightly across his chest, eyes narrowing as he regarded the aliens in Li's outstretched hand with utmost distrust.

Her fist snapped shut, her chin snapping up in indignation. "And you're a racist little prat. I was trying to be nice and share my box."

Colin's lips only pressed tighter together, his suspicion now tainted with indignation at being called something he did not at all like the implications of. "Just because I'm not eating anything with more than four -"

"Squid, dried and otherwise, are a perfectly valid snack item in most of the world, and there is no reason to believe that Ms. Su would be deceiving you." There was no need to look to see who had spoken, and Colin's back stiffened at the disapproving tone, as if he was the one out of line here rather than the one trying to pass off mummified sea life to compatriots.

"She's older." He knew he sounded childish, and it wasn't what he'd meant to say, but he felt like he was being ganged up on, and knowing that was childish only made it worse.

Boot circled around in front of him now to join Li, one eyebrow raised like damned Spock. "What is that supposed to mean?"

For a moment, he was almost stumped for what to say, then the tight lips burst apart into a cheeky grin, and he shrugged, tossing his head towards Seamus across the room. "That one should always trust a 7th year, of course, Lieutenant. And by the way, Lieutenant Finnigan has a Northern Irish squirrel to sell you."

Prompt: Music, Love, someone other than Stewart. by lonelyflutterby

He had promised her she would dance at her wedding. She had laughed at him, shook her head, looked up through the beads of tears on her eyelashes like she always did when she thought he was sweetly lying impossibilities of hope. They hadn't spoken of it again, and he was sure she'd forgotten.

He hadn't. Not when he had grit his teeth and taken yet another hour in the therapy gym, taxing already protesting legs that didn't want to hold his weight, much less anything else. Not when he had practiced every turn, every switch of balance until his back and elbows were a livid landscape of falls. Not when he had closed his eyes and imagined her as beautiful as this, with her hair studded in pearl stars against black velvet, red silk shamed against the glow of her lips and cheeks.

And she remembered when he bowed almost gracefully and scooped her out of the chair. And she screamed a little when he turned with her to the dance floor. And she laughed when the music began and David Tao's voice slipped easy across the room in an effortless match to the motions. And she closed her eyes, and she was flying, she was safe, there was music and she was married and loved and just once again, even if never again, she was dancing.

Prompt: Seamus, babies, sheep by lonelyflutterby

"She's a darlin' thing, she is, but never I'd have been expectin' ya t'go soft, I wouldn't." Callahan raised his eyebrows in mock amazement as he stepped carefully into the barn, almost primly avoiding the pelleted piles of sheep dung. "But here it is, with me own eyes." He let out a low, incredulous whistle. "The Slaugh himself, playin' with fluffy little lambs with his own teeny babe tied on like a feckin' kangaroo."

To his surprise, Seamus didn't respond at all to the needling, the bare, tattooed back crossed so incongruously with the straps of the baby carrier just continuing to work rhythmically over the edge of the partition. "I mean, I knew ya'd been good with your parole and all that, but truly, when the Missus - and damned if I ain't impressed ya let yourself be tied to one o' those - said ya were out playin' with the wee lambies..."

Callahan frowned, about to call out again, but a sudden, hideously human-like scream split the air, as Finnigan spun with that freakishly catlike speed he had almost forgotten. Something red and bleeding sailed through the air, and he heard himself emit an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak as he recognized the gory object that had just hit his shoe.

Seamus' smile said it all, and he vaulted light as a mist over the edge of the partition, wiping the knife on the edge of the sleeping baby's blanket before tucking it into the holster at his belt. "Sorry, there, Brian, me old lamb, castratin' takes a bit o' concentration, it does. Ya were sayin'?"

Prompt: Epic problem, Terry, girls. by lonelyflutterby

"This isn't just an inconvenience, Terry, it's a problem. It's...it's an EPIC problem!" Michael peeked out the window of the bookstore again, as furtive as any fugitive, and Terry rolled his eyes.

"There are three girls across the street."

"Precisely!" His friend gestured frantically at the curtains, the recent, fragile breaking of his voice threatening to reverse itself against the sharp edge of panic. "They're waiting for me!"

"Michael Julius Corner," Terry put his hands on his hips, trying his utmost to match as precisely as possible the method and manner of delivery that he had seen Michael's mother use so effectively. "You are thirteen years old. They can hardly be lying in ambush to hijack you to marriage."

"Well...no," There was a momentary hesitation, then the large, dark eyes looked up at him again with melting sincerity. "But they make me feel...defait. Like they're all going to go home and cry if I don't spend time with them. And I just wanted to hang out with you this week."

Almost understanding in general now, but quite certain on the important bit - that his Michael was distressed - Terry nodded sagely, putting both hands on the other boy's shoulders and meeting his eyes intensely. "I will take care of it."

"You will?"

"My oath."

Michael took a deep breath, a smile of relief on his lips warring with sudden creases of worry between his eyes. "All right."

With a brief pause to collect himself against the confrontation to come, Terry squeezed Michael's shoulders one last time, then turned and strode briskly out of the shop. With brisk, measured strides to indicate confidence and authority, he crossed the street, stopping directly in front of the girls in question. "You are here awaiting the emergence of my associate, Michael Corner?"

The boldest of them, a tall Hufflepuff with a hartsblood-auburn mane, tossed back her head cheekily. "And if we were?"

"Then I will have to hurt you," Terry replied matter of factly, "Because he belongs to me, and you will now disperse."

Terry had been aware of over 4,000 separate possible reactions for which he had been ready to respond. The sound of Michael's forehead repeatedly striking the windowpane behind him was not one of them.

Prompt: DA, Hufflepuffs, "We care for our own." by lyssa_adelia

He hadn't told. There was that at least, and a man had to hang on to something. Maybe he'd cried, maybe he'd thrown up, maybe he'd begged for his mother, maybe he couldn't even hope to stand up any time soon, but he hadn't said a word, and whether or not Creevey had realized it in his self-righteous fury, that mattered now.

Zach coughed, bringing up a fresh foam of salty sour copper to gag in his throat, and something grated against itself in a way that lit his entire head with a thousand colors of vivid white. He spat against his will, feeling the fragment of tooth dislodge, rolling it on his tongue, wondering thickly whether he should swallow it or try to keep it for...something. A souvenir, maybe. Something to shove up Creevey's ass the next time that infant called him coward. Another try to roll over died in a shudder across his shoulders, skidding his cheekbone again against the rough carpet.

The world swam crimson grey for a moment, canted sideways, then reeled back again, pain-drunk, only this time, there was a change that lingered after the planet had staggered back to its axis. Tiny hands, soft and cool, stroking gently against the side of his face.

Someone moaned, a man's voice in a House that had been stripped to children, so he was certain it was probably him. Then another voice, terrified but resolute. "It's going to be okay. I'm getting Rowan."

He blinked, hard, trying to place the knee of the pink panda pajamas that were all he could see. "Becky?"

"Shhh..." She petted his face again. "Don't try to get up."

"Swuhh -" Zach spat again, forcing his swollen mouth to cooperate. Who the fuck needed steel toed boots to fucking teach boarding school anyway? Every enunciated syllable was a bitter victory. "She. Won't. Help. Me. DA."

"Nonsense." The pink pandas vanished, but already he could see more of them coming, a quiet, resolute collection of slippers and bare feet, some with bubble-gum painted toenails. "You're still a Puff. We care for our own."