The Game - Round 1 - Creatures and Plants Options

[Department_of_My...]

Welcome to the first round of The Game -

Creatures and Plants

Stoats – The first one of you to solve the riddle below wins a $20 gift card from Whimsic Alley!

Ferrets – Solve the riddle below to receive your writing mission for this round.

Ferret Prizes for this round are Norbert and the Lightwedge. First Place winner gets first choice.


Riddle Solving and Writing are open from June 4th – 13th, voting will be from the 13th until the 17th.




Think you know the answer?
Then send a PM to Department_of_Mysteries
If you answer wrong, you may try again.
Good Luck!

(Please keep out of that corridor on the fourth floor!)

[pinkpanther]

A Feline Fiasco

The late summer afternoon was waning, though the hour passed without Severus Snape’s notice. Deep in the torch-lit dungeons of Hogwarts castle, the potions-master methodically sorted through the contents of a large, slightly dilapidated set of cupboards. The start of yet another term was at hand, and the student stores were in dire need of tidying and replenishing. Absently, he dropped a clump of rotten roots into the cauldron at his feet.

“Dried ginger root,” he muttered, and obediently, a quill fluttered to note this on a piece of parchment on the nearest desk. Snape desperately tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but as he stacked bundles of dried flaxweed in the back of the cupboard, his thoughts began to drift. He knew that, in a matter of short weeks, he would be accosted by hordes of annoyingly innocent and naïve first years who would chatter and giggle and cause general mayhem in his classroom.

He always hated the influx of new students, but this year, there was something else, something worse. This year, the legendary Harry Potter would begin his education in the wizarding world. The school was abuzz with anticipation. Just that morning, as Snape was draining the last of his tea, he overheard Professor Dumbledore describing with a chuckle the droves of owls he had sent to descend on Harry Potter’s house.

Apparently, the relations with whom he lived—muggles, of course—were not exactly keen on their nephew’s magical potential. Personally, Snape agreed. Let the boy-celebrity stay as he was—the last thing the respectable young witches and wizards of Hogwarts needed was that kind of influence. As children, Harry’s father, James, had been Snape’s own worst enemy. He had taunted and mocked Snape within an inch of his sanity and Snape hated him, hated his memory, hated his son. This was an intense loathing, one which not even James’ death could curb.

No, he was not looking forward to the arrival of “the boy who lived,” as the Daily Prophet had always called him, and he highly resented this child whom he had never met—not only for his parentage, but also for forcing Snape to dwell on memories he thought he had mastered long ago. Originally, he had determined to forget the past, to put Harry out of his mind until absolutely necessary, but his plan was failing and he did not take kindly to failure.

His thoughts ran rampant along these lines, overpowering his self-control until, startled by the sound of a glass vial smashing on the stone floor by his feet, Snape noticed his hands shaking with the intensity of his internal musings. Immediately, a sharp smell wafted up from the shards of glass, prickling his nose. Disgusted with himself, he flicked his wand at the mess, which disappeared, then he barked, “Peppermint oil!” at the parchment. Once more, the quill took up its scribbling, just as the door creaked open, admitting Argus Filch, the caretaker, with his watch-cat, Mrs. Norris at his heels.

“Good afternoon, professor,” the old man wheezed, leaning on a desk to catch his breath. He inhaled deeply, then continued, “Professor Dumbledore asked me to fetch your supplies list, soon as you’ve finished. Wants to get everything ready as soon as possible, he does, what with . . . other matters to tend to.”

“Fine, Argus,” Snape snapped. He had finished with the last cupboard and just ran his hand along the topmost shelf to rid it of straggling rubbish. “I’m finished. The list is on that desk.” He indicated the parchment with a curt jab of his head. With a grimace, Filch retrieved the paper and hobbled back toward the endless stone steps, slamming the door as he exited. The top shelf was cleared except for a small, round stone, gleaming slightly in the torch-light.

Snape turned it over in his hand, wondering how a bezoar had found its way into his cupboards. Without warning, his mind flashed back to a classroom lecture during which James Potter and his conceited cronies had repeatedly pelted the back of Snape’s head with stones identical to this one. His countenance clouded and he threw the bezoar violently into the cupboard, slamming the doors and making the rows of glass bottles clink together.

Thoroughly frustrated with the world around him, Snape stomped back to his office. This Potter business on top of the regular start-of-term preparation was taking its toll; the potions-master was exhausted and a dull throb was beginning to pound in his skull. All he wanted was to sit by himself with today’s crossword puzzle and avoid humanity in general. He reached for the paper, which had been lying neglected beside his chair, and flipped it open. He had just settled into the cushions with a sigh when there was a frantic knock at his office door. “Come in!” he snapped irritably.

Eyes wide with panic, Argus Filch burst into the office. “Mrs. Norris!” he yelped, “My cat’s gone!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed in to a glower, “I have far better things to do with my time than to search for stray cats, Argus.” Filch, however, was not deterred.

“I’ve searched everywhere! She’s disappeared and the last time I saw her was when we came to get your list.”

Snape continued to scowl, but rose from his chair. He knew he’d have no peace until Filch’s wretched rodent returned. Personally, he had no clue where the cat had wandered, nor did he care whether she was found, but he disliked Filch’s presence in his office, so he led the distraught caretaker from the room. Retracing their steps, they returned to the cold room which housed the cupboards. The torches had gone out, but Snape restored them with a wave of his wand.

As soon as the flickering light permeated the room, Filch began stooping to peer under the desk. “Mrs. Norris!” He called shrilly, “Come on, my sweet!”

Snape watched in disgust for a moment, his lip curling slightly. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He raised his wand and, making a sweeping gesture around the room, growled, “revealeum cattum!” In an instant, the cupboard doors flew open and a low moan echoed from within. Filch rushed forward and, pulling Mrs. Norris from the cupboard, scooped her into his arms. The cat draped limply over his hands, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she continued to moan.

“Poisoned!” Filch sobbed, “My cat’s been poisoned!” He sank in to a dithering heap on the floor and buried his face in Mrs. Norris’ fur. Curious, Snape reached into the cupboard and extracted an empty bottle which the cat had obviously spilled in her exploration of the cupboard. Taking a whiff of the bottle, Snape couldn’t suppress a slight smile.

“Control yourself, Argus,” He commanded impatiently, “It’s only dandelion juice. Well, it was dandelion juice. Apparently I’ve left it rather past its sell-by date and it’s fermented.”

Filch looked at Mrs. Norris, then at the empty bottle in Snape’s hand, then back at the inebriated feline. “I-I . . .” he faltered, but Snape was already sweeping out of the room. “Yes, quite,” was the reply.

As he settled back into his chair a few moments later, Snape thought of the glazed look in Mrs. Norris’ eyes and indulged in a rare smile. With as much trouble as the next seven years were promising to be, he was glad he could always count on the misfortune of others to brighten his day.