Welcome to Ezmerelda's Plot Bunny Farm!
Each "story" is a blurb, some short, some long, that occurred to me. I have neither the time nor the inclination to develop these into a story (or stories, whichever the case may be), so decided to post them here.
Maybe these little titbits can inspire you to write an epic tale of love and magic, or perhaps one of them can provide a little bridge to help you get over a terrible case of writer's block.
Or, maybe not.
Anyway, all I ask is that you give the bunny you choose a good home. Once your story is complete, PM me the title of said story. If I like what you did with it, I will post a rave review and will add it to the favourites list on this account, so others can be similarly inspired.
If your story is rife with spelling and grammar errors, contains slash, incest, bestiality or paedophilia, or pairs Ron with Hermione or Ginny with Harry, I will not review and I will not list it in the favourites of this account. Just so you know.
There's a good chance that not all bunnies will be Harry Potter. There may end up being others some day, but I make no promises. Feel free to use any or all verbatim, or paraphrased, or even just as a primer to get you started.
Plot Bunny #1: In Which Harry Potter leaves Privet Drive
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Harry lay in his rickety bed at Number 4, Privet Drive and groaned quietly. His skin was on fire and his stomach was twisted in knots. He hadn’t felt so awful since drinking eau de Goyle in second year. His first indication that all might not be well with him was the distinctive bubbling sensation under the skin that he associated with that particular foray into the use of polyjuice potion.
On the heels of that uncomfortable sensation, he developed fever, chills and night sweats. He was so ill, in fact, that Aunt Petunia was becoming concerned. Harry could hear them in the hallway even now.
“We’ll have to take him to hospital, Vernon.”
“No! Absolutely not! Let some of his own kind come and deal with this!”
“But, Vernon, we have no way to contact his kind.”
“What about that ruddy bird? Send a note round to the headmaster at that freaky school of his.”
“Very well, Vernon.”
A little while later, Harry became aware that his aunt was attempting to attach a Muggle envelope to Hedwig’s leg. “Hedwig…” Harry croaked, “let her…” That was all he could manage, but it was enough. Hedwig was a very smart owl, after all.
The very next day, Hedwig returned, carrying a package containing a series of potions. Harry dutifully took the doses recommended on the enclosed parchment, and began to feel marginally better. Well enough, in fact, to allow for a rather weak show of pique at the realisation that no one in the Wizarding World apparently cared enough to come round and check on him themselves.
When the illness began to reappear only three days later, Harry began to worry that he might not live to see another encounter with Voldemort. Thinking about his own mortality, Harry decided to make sure that his wishes would be known, in case the worst possible scenario came to pass.
Harry gathered together parchment, quill and ink, and after staring into space for several moments, began to write, I, Harry James Potter, being of sound mind and body do hereby make my bequests known...
One week later, as Harry lay in his bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, the stifling heat of the afternoon warring with the fever beneath his skin, his scar suddenly erupted, sending a sharp stab of pain straight through his head, and causing a rather concerning gout of blood to cascade down his face and pool in the lenses of his glasses.
Through the pain, he could hear the voice of Voldemort crowing in triumph – something about wards – then he heard the sharp cracks of multiple apparition and realised what was happening. Adrenalin shot through his body, temporarily overcoming his weakness, allowing him to scramble out of bed to grab his invisibility cloak and his wand.
Harry was glad – in spite of all his relatives had done to make his life miserable – that the Dursleys were out and not expected to return home until after dark. Harry glanced at the cage on his rickety dresser and felt an even greater wave of gratitude that he’d sent Hedwig to Hermione for safekeeping.
Striding to the door, Harry threw open the door and crossed the landing to the window in Dudley’s bedroom, and climbed out of the window, hoping that the lattice work on the rear of the house was sturdy enough to bear his weight.
Climbing while wearing a cloak is tricky business, but it wasn’t the cloak that tripped Harry up. Half way down, the upper section of lattice work gave way, sending Harry to the ground with a great thud, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending his glasses flying. He lay on his back on the walkway, gasping for breath, when a tall, thin Death Eater came round the corner from the direction of the garage.
“Mister Potter,” the figure hissed from behind the Death’s Head mask. “Get up, you stupid boy,” the Death Eater whom Harry now realised was Snape looked around, “and run – run to headquarters.”
Harry scrambled to his feet and did as he was told, squeezing through the loose panel of the rear fence of the garden, running from garden to garden, carefully crossing streets and making his way southward to London.
Back at Number 4, Privet Drive, Severus Snape looked down at his feet to see the blood encrusted glasses of Harry Potter. With a quick flick of the wand, he summoned the cat he’d startled out from behind the trash bins when he’d apparated into the garden. Using the blood from the glasses, an ancient spell, and more magical energy than was good for him, he transformed the cat into Harry Potter.
Before the cat could recover, Snape pushed the glasses onto its face. Stepping back, the potions master stomped his foot, startling the cat and causing it to attempt to run back toward the front of the house. It took a few moments for the cat to realise that where it’d had four feet, now it only had two. Before it could really become an issue, it was stunned by another Death Eater.
“We have him, My Lord,” Snape followed the path of the transformed cat and joined his partners in crime at the front of the house.
“Ah, Snape,” hissed the Dark Lord, “so good of you to join us.” Snape merely inclined his head in greeting and focused on remaining on his feet in spite of the magical fatigue he was feeling. “Let us wake our guest of honour, shall we?” The Dark Lord turned his wand on the naked form of Harry Potter. “Enervate.”
The spell hit the body, but there was no response. “Snape, wake him!”
Severus knelt by the body and checked for a pulse. “My apologies, My Lord, he seems to have...expired.”
“Impossible. Step aside.” The Dark Lord cast a simple diagnostic spell and examined its findings. “Who killed this boy?” The Dark Lord’s red eyes glowed with power as he examined each of his followers.
Avery shifted nervously, drawing the Dark Lord’s attention. “What spell did you cast, Avery?”
“’Twas a simple stupefy, My Lord, nothing more. It shouldn’t have done more than knock him out...”
“Crucio.” The Dark Lord only held the spell for a moment, then turned to Snape. “Collect the blood and leave the corpse here.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Severus withdrew several phials from his magically expanded pouch and proceeded to draw the blood from the cooling corpse, seemingly unaware of the sound of the Dark Lord dismissing the rest of his followers.
“Will it be enough, Snape?”
“Yes, My Lord, I believe it will.”
“You know what to do, Snape.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
With a crack, Voldemort disapparated, leaving Severus Snape to cap the phials, return them to his pouch, and struggle to his feet. Tiredly, he removed the mask, allowing it to return to the pocket dimension from whence it came. With the last of his strength, Severus cast the Dark Mark over Number 4, Privet Drive, and activated his emergency portkey, losing consciousness as the hook grabbed him by the navel and hurled him to Hogwarts.
Just outside the neighbourhood, Harry stumbled upon a dual carriageway that effectively cut off his route of escape. Following the carriageway on the verge, Harry stumbled to the flyover and began to make his way across.
Harry stumbled as the adrenalin abruptly wore off. A dizzy wave of nausea overcame him and the ground tilted alarmingly. Reaching for the railing at the side of the flyover, he missed and plunged headlong over the edge, directly into oncoming traffic.
Plot starters: Why was Harry sick? What happened when he fell? Where will he go from here? This one was my attempt at a Severitus challenge (ya know, Snape is Harry’s father), but I just don’t have the time or inclination to develop it into a story anymore. What can you do with it?
Plot Bunny #2: In Which a New (or Old) Character is introduced (or re-introduced)
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry shook herself with annoyance at the realization that she’d been woolgathering again. “You cannae allow your grief to overcome ye,” she murmured to herself, her exhaustion bringing her Gaelic burr to the forefront. With new resolve, she turned to the mountain of acceptance letters on her desk, determined to see the pile resolved before afternoon tea.
She would never admit, no, not even under fire, the relief she felt at the whoosh of the fire and the resultant pink glow that indicated a floo call from someone on her Close Friend – Allow Anytime list.
“Min? Min, are you there?” Minerva happily moved from her desk to the fire.
“Why, Mamie, how nice to hear from you!”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it, Min? I was wondering if I could steal you away for tea? Now?”
Minerva pursed her lips and eyed the pile on her desk. “Well…I have a mound of letters to get through…”
“We really need to talk, Min." The tone in Mamie’s voice pulled her attention away from the office and the mound of parchment.
“Very well, pull back and I’ll step through.” Minerva definitely did not imagine the glimpse of relief on her old friend’s face as she faded from view.
In the Headmistress’ study of the Malvern Children’s Home and Academy, Mamonette Bellamy (Mamie to her close friends and to the orphaned children she raised) stood aside to allow her old friend to enter.
“Thank you, Min, for coming,” Mamie exclaimed as she caught her friend in a gentle hug and kissed her cheeks.
“Truth be told, Mamie, I was desperate for an excuse, any excuse, to get away from the castle for a while.”
“And I’m so glad to be able to offer you that excuse. How would you like your tea today?” The two ladies shared a smile. After all, it wasn’t very well known that Minerva McGonagall never drank her tea the same way two days in a row.
“Today, I shall have my tea with a dash of Drambuie.”
“My, you are overworked, aren’t you,” Mamie responded with a smile.
Minerva sighed and settled deeper into her chair, relaxing her normal plank like posture and accepting her cup with gratitude. “Yes. The Headmaster has…other duties…and has passed his duties, all but his title, I might add, onto me for the foreseeable future.”
“I see…” Mamie’s voice trailed off and the two ladies sipped at their tea and helped themselves to the many treats on the table, relaxing into a silent camaraderie that can only really be achieved through lifelong friendships.
Once thirst and hunger had been satisfied, Minerva resumed her normal posture and spoke, “I am enjoying the break from my duties, but I was under the impression that there was more to this meeting than just providing me with a temporary escape.”
Mamie nodded her head and sighed. “Yes, Min, I called you here because one of my children received an invitation to Hogwarts.”
Minerva frowned, “This isn’t the first student you’ve lost to us.”
“No, no, it’s not, but…this child is…well, this child is special. There might be…problems.”
Minerva’s frown deepened. “What sort of problems?”
Mamie sighed, “perhaps it would be best for you to meet Mr. Prince first, and then we’ll talk about it.”
“Very well.” Minerva cleared her thoughts and prepared herself to meet the child with open mind.
“Mopsy,” at the call, a house elf in a tidy black uniform dress covered with a dainty white apron popped into the room. “Mopsy, please fetch Mr. Prince and make sure he brings his Hogwarts letter with him.”
“Yes, Headmistress.” Less than a moment passed before there was a timid knock at the office door.
“Enter.” Minerva turned to the door and nearly fell out of her chair.
“Come here, Corban.” The boy appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen years old, with jet black hair, pronounced cheek bones and pale skin.
The teen stood by Mamie’s chair and kept his eyes on the ground. “Corban, this is my friend, Minerva.” The boy shifted slightly and looked at Minerva through his eyelashes. “Say hello, Corban.”
The boy shuffled his feet and whispered, “nice to meet you, ma’am.” Mamie smiled gently at Minerva’s confused look. She knew how odd it was to hear such childlike tones from a young man practically grown.
“Corban, do you have your letter, inviting you to Hogwarts?”
“May I have it, please?” The boy finally lifted his head with a look of alarm. “It’s OK, Corban; I only want to show it to my friend, OK?”
“Ok, Mamie,” the boy hesitated. “You won’t, you won’t lose it, will you?”
Mamie smiled gently, “no, I won’t lose it. I’ll not be taking it anywhere, we’ll be sitting right here, and it will be right here when you come back.”
“Ok.” With a sigh, the boy handed the letter over reverently, and then sketched an awkward bow to Minerva. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” then without waiting for a response, he slipped quickly from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Now you see where we might have a problem, Min.”
“He...he looks...he could be the mirror image of Tom Riddle.”
“You noticed that too?” Mamie leaned forward and tapped Minerva on the knee. “He may bear a passing resemblance to the young Tom Riddle, but you’ll never find such a sweet, caring soul as his.” Minerva focused on her friend and allowed her school memories to fade. “He has a tremendous capacity to love, Min, and he has such a joyful outlook. He couldn’t be more different than Tom.”
Without being asked, Mamie handed over the letter to her old friend, who immediately skimmed the contents and tapped it three times with her wand. The crest, salutation and her signature glowed with a golden shimmer.
“Well, I definitely did send this letter, but I don’t understand. That boy must be fifteen or sixteen years old. How could this have happened?”
“Allow me to explain how Corban came to live with us. Would you like a little more tea?”
“Yes, better give it two splashes, this time.”
Mamie served Minerva her tea, sipped at her own, and began. “Nearly a month ago I was called to the Royal County Surrey Memorial Hospital. A young man had been brought in after a horrific automobile accident. He had sustained extensive brain trauma and had died as they were trying to stabilise him in the ER. They were able to bring him back, of course, but a strange thing had happened in between times.
“When the boy’s heart and respiration ceased, a magical phenomena was witnessed by the emergency room staff. Since the hospital has several Muggleborns and Squibs on staff, the boy’s chart was flagged for Ministry contact. Once he was stabilised, he was moved upstairs to the operating room where they undertook to piece him back together.
“From there, they moved him to a room for observation. The Muggles believed he had a less than 45% chance of ever waking up, and a greater than 75% chance that, if he did, he would be...impaired.
“The Muggleborn doctor, perhaps you remember her - Marianne Thomas?” At Minerva’s thoughtful nod, Mamie continued. “Dr. Thomas contacted a healer from St. Mungo’s on consult. The healer was able to heal all of the broken bones and reduce the swelling in the brain, and noted that the patient’s magical core was very strong. The healer tried to have the boy transferred to St. Mungo’s, she wanted to place the boy under her care in the Janus Thickey ward. That was all the encouragement Marianne needed to contact me. I, of course, agreed to act as the boy’s guardian until such a time as his actual guardians could be found.
“To the amazement of the hospital staff, the boy woke up the day after his treatment by Healer Strout. But, their dire predictions seem to have been realised. The boy could not speak, he could not control his arms and legs, and he did not know how to feed himself, or even understand how to eat solid food. It was as if he were an infant in a teen’s body.
“Because he was awake, and his injuries were healed, I asked that he be released to me. I brought him back here and placed him in the nursery with the other babies and made sure he received the same care and stimulation as they.
“You know how babies develop - in the first month, an infant can lift his head momentarily, turn his head from side to side when lying on his back, in the second month, he can follow dangling objects with his eyes, visually search for sounds, and so on from month to month?
“We watched him reach each developmental milestone in minutes, rather than months. His development sped up when he reached the mental age of five, seven days ago. So in one month, he went from a newborn infant to an eleven year old boy, mentally, of course. Our confirmation of his mental age came with this letter.”
“I have no idea. Obviously, the boy has never been enrolled in a magical school, or this letter would never have been generated. There is more. I had our healer check him over, to do a complete health history on the boy.” Mamie cleared her throat and blinked furiously. “He…he had countless injuries, many of a serious nature, dating back to his actual physical infancy.
“He was severely malnourished and had apparently lived in a constant state of dehydration. As a result his growth was stunted. His eyes were weak from a lack of proper lighting and stimulation during his formative years. We don’t know where he has been, but it was not a good place.”
Neither woman could avoid thinking back to what they knew about Tom Riddle’s early years in one of the worst Muggle orphanages imaginable, whose treatment had only been alleviated because he used his magic to strike back at the other children who would mistreat him, and hide from the adults who would do likewise.
Minerva turned her attention to the letter. “Corban Prince. Did you Name him?”
“No, I always called him young sir. I had hoped that he would remember who he was eventually and did not want to confuse him. The letter came to him, addressed to Corban Prince, so I must assume that is his given Name.”
“Prince...I believe there were a few Princes at Hogwarts during my time teaching there, but I can’t really recall much about them.”
“Well, I want to take him to Gringott’s. I know that he must have a fairly large vault, or he never would have received a letter from Hogwarts.”
Minerva pinched her lips at the bitterness in her friend’s voice. “Mamie...”
“Don’t you ‘Mamie’ me, Min, you know as well as I do that the only Muggleborns invited to Hogwarts are those with wealth backing them up. The only indigent students to receive financial assistance are Purebloods or the occasional Half-blood with old family connections.”
Mamie’s anger died as quickly as it flared. “And I know, Min, I do know that you have no control over that. I’m not angry with you. I just think it’s incredibly unfair and questionable at best to keep Hogwarts enrolment artificially low so that Purebloods and Muggleborns are equally represented.”
“Yes, and I’ve given it much thought and cannot determine the motive for it. It could be argued as a funding issue, there are hundreds of Muggleborn witches and wizards in the British Isles who would be unable to pay the tuition at Hogwarts, but likewise there are also hundreds of Muggleborns who could pay the tuition but still aren’t invited. There seems to be a net worth requirement that leaves out all but the wealthiest Muggle families.”
Both women sighed at the injustice and contemplated the enormity of attempting to change such an entrenched policy.
“Well, there’s not much you and I can do about that,” Mamie stated brusquely, “Except commiserate with one another. Shall we turn out attention to the young Mr. Prince and his invitation?”
“I’d like to speak to him again, if I may, before we go on?”
“Of course. Mopsy, please show Mr. Prince in again.”
The house elf popped out and moments later, the shy eleven-fifteen year old entered the room.
“Corban, dear, I didn’t tell you where my friend works. Come have a seat here, sweet, she won’t bite.”
The boy smiled to the floor as he made his way to the chair between the two witches. “Allow me to make a proper introduction. Mr. Corban Prince, may I present to you, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, of...”
“Hogwarts!” The teen finished the sentence, shyness apparently forgotten. “You wrote my letter!”
“Yes, I write all the invitation letters for Hogwarts, Mr. Prince.” She handed him his letter with a smile, “and I believe this one is yours.”
“Oh, thank you, ma’am.”
Now that they were in closer proximity, and the boy no longer towered over her, Minerva could see the joyful sparkle in the young man’s dark green eyes.
“Tell me, Mr. Prince,” Minerva used her classroom Voice, “do you want to attend Hogwarts?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, yes. I’ll miss it here, of course, but...but I’ve always wanted to go to Hogwarts.” Minerva’s eyes met Mamie’s over the tea table, asking the unspoken question, and Mamie merely offered a tiny one shoulder shrug.
“What do you know of Hogwarts, Mr. Prince?”
“Well, only what I’ve read in Hogwarts, A History, ma’am, I read it when I was eight.”
“You’ve read that, have you? I see. What do you know of magic, Mr. Corban?”
“Well,” the boy scrunched his face in thought, “I can do this.” With a nervous glance at Mamie, he held out his right hand, palm up. To the witches’ amazement, a ball of pure white light appeared. The boy’s nervousness fled when neither woman scolded him. “Look what else I can do!” He touched the ball of light with his left index finger and said, “Blue!” The ball immediately turned blue. “I can do all the colours!”
“Well, Mr. Corban, that is impressive. How do you dismiss it?”
“Like this!” The boy squeezed his right hand into a fist, and opened his now empty hand.
Minerva was amazed at the boy’s control, especially since he’d apparently never received any formal training.
“Corban,” Mamie interjected, “do you remember when you were seven?”
“Of course, Mamie, it was only last week.”
“And do you remember how we talked about that?”
“That most people take a whole year to have a birthday?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Uh, yeah, I mean, yes ma’am.”
“And we don’t know if you’ll wake up still eleven tomorrow, or if you’ll suddenly be twelve...”
Corban’s face fell. “I’m a freak, and freaks can’t go to Hogwarts.” He tried to stand, but both witches, without conscious thought, gripped the arm closest to them and pulled him back into the chair.
“You are not a freak, young man.” “No, Corban, that’s not what I meant.” The two spoke over each other.
“Mr. Prince,” Minerva continued with a nod at Mamie, “Mamie only wanted you to understand that it might cause you some difficulties at Hogwarts, not that it would make it impossible for you to attend.”
Both Corban and Mamie looked at her with hope in their eyes. “We will have to make allowances for the differences in physical age, and we’ll need Poppy to check you daily, at least for the first few months, and we’ll just have to see how you do.”
“You mean, I can go to Hogwarts?!”
“Yes, Mr. Prince. You can. You were Invited, after all.”
Plot starters: Who is McGonagall grieving? Who is the mysterious eleven-fifteen year old? What is the cause of his condition? What can you do with this?
Plot Bunny #3: In the Great Hall
“You’re staring again.”
Corban looked up at the sardonic smirk of Blaise Zabini, fifth year Slytherin and the only one in his year who ever bothered to address anyone below third year. “Good morning, Mr. Zabini.”
“Good morning, my Lord Prince.” Corban rolled his eyes at the honorific and glanced around to make sure no one else heard. He had no idea where or how Zabini discovered that little titbit, but the dark fifth year insisted upon using it at the most inopportune times.
“My offer still stands, my Lord, I’ll introduce you to Granger if you’ll assist me in scraping an acquaintance with the Weasley girl.”
“Humph. What makes you think I can help you with Weasley, Zabini?”
“Everyone knows she’s afraid of you, Prince. Just...accost her in a lonely passageway and I’ll swoop in to rescue her. You know she’s susceptible to the dark hero.”
Corban shook his head wryly. “Even if that worked, I’d still be right where I am now, an ickle firstie with a crush on an older girl.”
“Ah, “but you’re not just any firstie, are you?” questioned Zabini as he took the seat to the left of Corban.
“I certainly am.” Corban grated, “I may look like a fifth year, but I attend first year classes. Not to mention my most glaring fault – at least in the minds of Gryffindors – I am a slimy Slytherin.” Corban shook himself and resolved not to give in to self pity. “However; I am willing to attempt to help you with your little problem, say, for consideration of a favour to be named at some future date?”
“Excellent. So, how shall we do this?”
Plot Starters: Who is this Corban fellow? Why does he look like a fifth year, but is taking first year classes? Why is Ginny Weasley afraid of him? If he’s Lord Prince, then how is he related to Snape, the Half-blood Prince? What does Zabini want with Ginny? Will Corban ever get to act on his feelings for Hermione? What can you do with this?
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