Minna's Three Sentence Fics

The Brandybucks were ever a queer lot, and young Rory as a scion of that house was not so much a departure as if he’d been a Took or a Baggins. Still, they heard strange stories of him, even in the Shire, where news of the world beyond was so scarce: tales of taking up with a Wizard and an Elf and getting involved in all sorts of un-Hobbitlike business.

Even the staunchest gossip in Eastfarthing refused to credit the wildest of the tales, though - not even a Brandybuck could’ve taken an Elf to wife.

She’d always had a tendency to become fixated on mysterious men, men who seemed larger than life. That was what found her at Sherlock Holmes’ grave the autumn of the year he died, speaking bitterly to the gleaming headstone about how such men never did live up to their promise.

And yet, when a sharp crack signaled the appearance out of thin air of a slump-shouldered blond man, Amy couldn’t help but follow, her curiosity getting the better of her.

It sounds great as a chat-up line, “saving the rainforest,” but my job’s actually really boring. Calling people up, asking them if they’d like to donate.

You should hear Donna when she gets going, though; she’s a holy terror, begging and haranguing people till they either hang up or give in - makes my day.

The shelves are still full, like the plague came and consumed this place so quickly no one even had time to try to survive.

“I hope they’ve all gone looking somewhere else for food,” Martha says, though she keeps a wary hand on her gun.

“We’re the only ones eating tonight; just let them try,” Oliver replies, quickly stuffing tins of food into his miraculous bag.

We’ll have to move on before long, or the cold winds will slice right through the holes in these walls and sharing body heat will only help so much. Strange, this house is strong enough to keep in two werewolves at full moon, but too weak to hold off winter.

I used to have a pack, me, up in the Highlands; now it’s just Eli and me, two wolves against a world that could crush us in an instant.

silenceinthelibrary asked you: You’re such an arse, Draco. I thought we could have a reasoned discussion, but obviously that was an extremely naive hope.

My dear lady disdain, are you yet living?

PC Leo on lead guitar - it’s the last thing I expected. He looks different out of uniform, almost mysterious on stage rather than in the fluorescent-lit mediocrity of a small-town constabulary.

Best get going before he notices me and tells my dad I’m in London, not home studying at Wallace’s; shame, I’d love to watch a bit longer.

“I’m not him,” he murmured, his eyes searching mine.

“I know,” I said, trailing my fingers down the side of his face; he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. I’m not him, either, and I can’t tell John he’s alive; I just hope Sherlock doesn’t hate me for giving John what comfort I can.

It had been a bloody, terrible day, full of men fighting like animals (don’t ever let anyone tell you just because they’re using magic that they’re not utterly savage: I know what savage looks like, I am it, and so are they). Sirius and I had to do a runner in the end, and we fetched up in an alley in Muggle London (“first place I could think of,” Sirius said, and I wasn’t at all surprised this was what came to Sirius’ mind when he needed a retreat fast). We were panting and sweaty and had to lean on each other to stay upright (and Merlin, for once I couldn’t restrain myself, so I pulled him close and kissed what little breath he had out of him).