Post by animeyuna on Feb 13, 2008 16:00:30 GMT -5
Hey guys! I don't know if anyone is interested, but I decided to post it anyways. I am one of the Admins on a Harry Potter Role play board. It takes place in the Marauder-era of Hogwarts. Check it out if you're interested!! 
Children are the world's
most valuable resource
and its best hope for the future.
A gargoyle guards the entrance to a spiraling stone stair; up the stair and behind a heavy wooden door is a large, circular room lit only by flickering candlelight. The light passes over nearly a dozen faces, some with frightened, wide eyes, but others with set jaws and clenched fists.
"This is no light commitment," says the man at the center of the room. He is seated in a high-backed chair behind a claw-footed desk. "If this plan comes to fruition, war is inevitable. Some of you will die - without question."
"If it means my son will live to see the end of this nonsense," a man atthe front of the group pounds his fist on the desk. He has white hair peppered with black, and is wearing glasses on a crooked nose. "I would die right here and right now."
There is a low murmur of assent across the room; the headmaster pushes a sheet of parchment and a silver ink-pot across his desk towards the man who spoke. "I believe you would."
The man scratches his name upon the parchment; at the top, in clear, neat handwriting are the words The Order of the Phoenix.
Our most basic common link
is that we all inhabit this small planet.
We all breathe the same air.
We all cherish our children's future.
And we are all mortal.
"Dumbledore moves against us."
A young man is pacing in a dark study, lit only by one flickering lamp. His brow is furrowed and and shoulders are slumped; hands repeatedly pass over short brown hair in an attempt to gather himself together. An older, dark-haired man sits comfortably in a chair behind a desk, looking over a scroll of parchment.
"It hasn't always been like this," he spits. "We were all...well, we disagreed, but we were all brothers, weren't we? Do they really plan to make war against their own brethren?"
"Don't be foolish, boy," says the older. "They have been making war for centuries. First by straying from our ways, and then by teaching their children to hate us, they have amassed an army that will march at a moment's notice if Albus Dumbledore gives the word. It was only a matter of time."
The younger slumps into another chair near the fireplace, resting his head in his hands. After a few moments, he looks up.
"What do we do?"
"What we can to protect our children," he says in a soft tone. "We cut their army off at the source."
All this will not be finished in the
first hundred days.
Nor will it be finished in the
first thousand days,
nor in the life of these organizations, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet.
But let us begin.
Children are the world's
most valuable resource
and its best hope for the future.
A gargoyle guards the entrance to a spiraling stone stair; up the stair and behind a heavy wooden door is a large, circular room lit only by flickering candlelight. The light passes over nearly a dozen faces, some with frightened, wide eyes, but others with set jaws and clenched fists.
"This is no light commitment," says the man at the center of the room. He is seated in a high-backed chair behind a claw-footed desk. "If this plan comes to fruition, war is inevitable. Some of you will die - without question."
"If it means my son will live to see the end of this nonsense," a man atthe front of the group pounds his fist on the desk. He has white hair peppered with black, and is wearing glasses on a crooked nose. "I would die right here and right now."
There is a low murmur of assent across the room; the headmaster pushes a sheet of parchment and a silver ink-pot across his desk towards the man who spoke. "I believe you would."
The man scratches his name upon the parchment; at the top, in clear, neat handwriting are the words The Order of the Phoenix.
Our most basic common link
is that we all inhabit this small planet.
We all breathe the same air.
We all cherish our children's future.
And we are all mortal.
"Dumbledore moves against us."
A young man is pacing in a dark study, lit only by one flickering lamp. His brow is furrowed and and shoulders are slumped; hands repeatedly pass over short brown hair in an attempt to gather himself together. An older, dark-haired man sits comfortably in a chair behind a desk, looking over a scroll of parchment.
"It hasn't always been like this," he spits. "We were all...well, we disagreed, but we were all brothers, weren't we? Do they really plan to make war against their own brethren?"
"Don't be foolish, boy," says the older. "They have been making war for centuries. First by straying from our ways, and then by teaching their children to hate us, they have amassed an army that will march at a moment's notice if Albus Dumbledore gives the word. It was only a matter of time."
The younger slumps into another chair near the fireplace, resting his head in his hands. After a few moments, he looks up.
"What do we do?"
"What we can to protect our children," he says in a soft tone. "We cut their army off at the source."
All this will not be finished in the
first hundred days.
Nor will it be finished in the
first thousand days,
nor in the life of these organizations, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet.
But let us begin.
