Harry Potter Drabbles

maniacalmuse — Mon, 29 Aug 2005 07:38:42 GMT

Wrote this for dungeons100. 100 words.

Title: Intoxicate
Rating: PG-13 for underage drinking
Characters/pairings: Bellatrix Black/Rodolphus Lestrange

She stared at him with an icy aplomb of older than thirteen, cold and hauteur reddening her cheeks.

Rodolphus Lestrange set his glass down on the table with a sardonic smile, watching her through the contradictory mist and clarity of his Killing-Curse-green drink. "Too harsh for you, Bella," he whispered, sliding a finger along the goblet's rim.

Bellatrix Black glared at him, pulled over the glass, and sipped the absinthe. The taste burned bitter down her throat, but she swallowed without flinching, euphoria building. He watched her eyes glitter in intoxication, and smoothed his hand over her hair.

greenapricot — Sun, 14 Aug 2005 13:04:47 GMT

Remus wandering around Europe. Inspired by this Remus as discovered by longsunday. Unbetaed.

( Road - Remus gen (Sirius/Remus implied), PG, 576 words )

be nice, I haven't written in ages.

sincelastjuly — Wed, 03 Aug 2005 00:41:22 GMT

no title. approx 120 words. set in year seven, the prompt I had to mention was "ring."

The locket was heavy in Harry's hand; the warm summer breeze brushed past his face, but he shivered, unable to shake the cold feeling that'd settled around him. Hermione'd once made Harry read a book in his sixth year about a character named Frodo and how he had to destroy an evil ring, how it weighed at his spirit until he hardly recognized the people he'd loved. Harry wondered if that would happen to him.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Harry knew without turning that it was Ron.

"Are you ready?" he stifled a yawn, and Harry's hand tightened around the locket, his thumb unconsciously tracing over the S etched on the front.

"Yes."

Sleeping Memories (gen, 148 words, by Kimmie)

mmmdraco — Mon, 13 Jun 2005 03:28:13 GMT

This is, I believe, my first post here... so here goes.

Title: Sleeping Memories
Author: Kimmie
Length: 148 words
Type: Gen

Harry likes to sit in his pajamas on the window ledge with one leg propping him up toward the moonlight. It makes him think of things he'd rather forget, like times not so very long ago. But he sits and watches the stars twinkle like Dumbledore's eyes and remembers, because he knows he must. The stone is cold and more little bursts of cold seep through the cracks in the windowsill, making his breath puff at odd intervals, syncopated with the angry howl of the wind tearing through the same night sky. Harry thinks of people long gone, and not so long gone, and remembers them. And as the sky begins to brighten with the faraway cast of dawn, he remembers other things, like the people he's come to love. It is not as helpful as sleep might have been, but it is, at least, not as futile.

greenapricot — Sat, 07 May 2005 00:51:06 GMT

From prurient_badger's prompt: Blaise/Tom Riddle - Quixotic use of time turners. Though I'm not sure I managed to get the quixotic bit in there but there's definitely a time turner. Written in about an hour, unbetaed, title taken from a bit of a Death Cab for Cutie song.

( Like Nothing at All - Blaise/Tom Riddle, PG, 500 words )

The way I figure it there is likely only one person out there who could unsettle Blaise without meaning too. I rather like the idea of that.

greenapricot — Thu, 14 Apr 2005 03:17:51 GMT

Spawned from an ask any of my characters a question meme. The question to Sirius: What does Remus smell like?

( Untitled - Sirius/Remus, PG, 361 words )

maniacalmuse — Fri, 25 Mar 2005 18:54:40 GMT

The characters are unnamed, so I suppose you can interpret as you will. Just a little bit of slightly spicy fluff.

She really didn't have anything to drink, because she knew that she did not hold liquor very well, even though the Oriental plum cordial was said to be delicious.

She should have been cool, since the sun had set hours ago and there was a slight breeze coming through the open window. Furthermore, she was lying on their bed in the nude. Goosebumps were rising in her arms, and they weren't from the chill, and her skin felt too heated and sensitive.

She felt the smooth trickle of liquid from the glass, sliding down between her breasts and onto her stomach, and the temporary chill left in the wake of the cool fluid didn't last as his warm lips traced the path of the plum cordial from her neck to her navel. She moaned slightly and tangled her fingers in his soft, mussed hair, before plucking the glass from his fingers and pulling him up for a heated kiss.

She tasted plum cordial on his lips and feverishly wondered how it could make her drunk even without her drinking any.

lilka — Tue, 08 Mar 2005 15:56:23 GMT

Knockturne

The street is deserted, but you can feel the prickle of eyes on the back of your neck. It’s past three in the morning; you breathe dew instead of air. A slight breeze stirs the velvet drapes that serve as doors as you pass them. Darkness drips from the eves of buildings like moisture from the roof of a cave, leaving long stalagtites of shadow in its wake. The tramp of your boots echoes on the worn cobblestones, rude and out of place, and the fog rushes out and swirls around your feet to muffle them into quietness.

You must be quiet.

The breeze tugs at your sleeve impatiently, motioning you forward. You are at the door; the door you passed without seeing yesterday and many days before. Until a stranger met you at your club, and bought you drinks, and trickled red-tinged dreams of glory into your ear. Lastly, he whispered the name of this place. Where to come, when.

The door opens at your touch. A pale, featureless mask floats in the darkness behind it.

“Ah, you’re right on time.” The masked voice smiles. “Come in.”

The night reaches out a tendril, and pulls you into its heart.

greenapricot — Wed, 13 Oct 2004 07:22:15 GMT

A couple of drabbles spawned from the first lines meme that's been going around. First lines from novembersnow and monochromal respectively.

Almost - Harry/Ron, PG, 329 words

Reflection - Bill gen, PG, 294 words

friends and lovers

squickyclean — Fri, 08 Oct 2004 22:33:01 GMT

Cross-posted to my personal journal. 487 words, het. Bit long for a drabble, I know.

"So, you and Cho. Again."

"Yeah. Me and Cho." He takes a swig of butterbeer, which doesn't have enough alcohol to account for that silly grin on his face.

You want to tell him, aren't there more important things, there's school and Voldemort and by some miraculous happening you're in Snape's N.E.W.T. level Potions class, it's Auror training for you now and Merlin forbid, Voldemort-- but you've learned. Fifth year has made you wise. Tread lightly around Harry, and keep him happy, because his happiness is fleeting. Because he's had enough pain. Because the tiniest thing can set him off. Because the tiniest thing can get him back on track-- and this is no tiny thing, him and Cho.

Tread lightly around Harry, because seeing him unhappy is the one thing you can't bear.

So you ask the important question, then. "Are you happy?"

"Well." The smile disappears, and is replaced with a thoughtful look. "Yeah. It's a lot of work, though. I mean, you know, I don't understand girls in general very well." A lopsided grin. "Cho most of all. But-- she's like me. All this pain and stuff, weighing her down, I know what it's like. It's tough. But whatever it is, I'll give it a go."

"She's worth it."

"Oh yeah, she's worth it. I didn't think so before, but-- well. Michael didn't understand her. Cedric understood her some, but," he falters a bit, and his next words are awkward and just this much above a whisper. "I'm here now. I understand her. We undertand each other." A thoughtful pause; he's back to the same strident tone. "It just took a little time. A bit of growing-up."

How grown-up can you be at sixteen, you want to say, but you bite your tongue. Instead, you ask, "Everything about last year sorted out, then?"

"No, but you know..." he trails off. "You can't sort that out completely. But things are okay, because--" he flounders for words. So, like always, you supply them.

"Because you keep in mind the happy times. Because you remind yourself why you want her so much in the first place."

"Yeah! That's it!" he exclaims. "Wow, thanks, Hermione. I think I'll tell her that. She likes that sort of thing, you know, talking about feelings and stuff."

So do you.

"I mean, that sort of attitude," he says, face brightening, "it's what always smooths things over when stuff's rocky."

"Are they rocky a lot?"

"Look at her. Look at me." He laughts. "But it's all right. Because of what you said." He looks at you keenly. "How is it that you always know what's going on, and I don't? Even when it's about me?"

Because when it's about you, it's about me too, you think. But you stay silent, because now, like always, you are concentrating on the sound of your heart breaking, and keeping his from doing the same.

fin

retronami — Thu, 07 Oct 2004 01:16:10 GMT

GenFic (Weasley-centric). Character Death. About 206 words. PG
You should read Twincest into it, but it's certainly not overt.
This is the most uncertain I've been of a drabble thus far.

When Fred died, George spent a week curled up against the floor length mirror in the upstairs bathroom with his forehead pressed on its cold surface. The rest of the Weasleys had to use the tiny spare washroom downstairs, until Ginny finally barged in to brush her teeth. Only for a minute, she reasoned. Only because Ron had slammed the door in her face yelling that he needed some privacy in this "godforsaken madhouse."

George didn't look up but just as Ginny pushed the purply pink toothbrush in her mouth, he spoke.

"It never even crossed my mind that we wouldn't die at the same time."

Ginny saw herself in the mirror, toothpaste foaming around her mouth. George was looking at her too, through the mirror. A reflection, of a reflection, of a reflection.

"It's weird, isn't it?" He continued. "Looks like there's so many of us in this room."

Ginny nodded, feeling trapped. George stood up and she couldn't help but notice how strong his arms were when they wrapped around her from behind. For many moments they stood there like that, looking at each other, askance.

"One too few though." She whispered around her toothbrush. George nodded and after a few more minutes, left her with herself.

absolution[dot]com delivers - with a little bit of luck

longsunday — Mon, 04 Oct 2004 11:53:58 GMT

Well. Been a while. *pokes comm* Whee! This is depressing.

Diagon Alley was the first fatality of the second war. When Voldemort's Death Eaters marched through, from Knockturn Alley down to the Leaky Cauldron, every shop-front shuddered as if the air bracketing it had suddenly shoved forward. As if they were being viced together, atom to atom. Flourish and Blotts buckled, coughing quills out from the mouth of the doorway; Ollivanders shivered and shrugged and shook into rubble, raw magic bleeding out between stones. Shoppers spilled out, into the streets, waving their hands and fumbling their spells, unprepared for combat and dying without a curse on their lips. The Death Eaters finished off any in their path with a deft avada kedavra, or else a lingering crucio, but the remnants of buildings still held survivors when the army Apparated to Malfoy Manor and locked Diagon Alley down as a blank zone on the map.

Muggle Londoners living nearby heard screaming, desperate pleas for help wailing through the night as they tossed and turned and tried to sleep the noises away. Three people called the police, but there was nothing for the force to find. 'Are you sure you heard something real? Not a CD?' We're sure, they said. There is an inimitable quality in a genuine human scream, something visceral that we hear in our guts and the small, dark places of our minds. 'We'll look into it. Be alert.' But there's nothing to look into.

London sleeps with its lights on.

Harry Potter doesn't sleep at all.

greenapricot — Sun, 29 Aug 2004 09:38:59 GMT

Inspired by longsunday’s drabble.

( Wood Smoke - Sirius/Remus, PG, 246 words )

longsunday — Sat, 28 Aug 2004 19:16:19 GMT

I wrote a drabble. I am rather shocked. XD *pokes comm* Worth a try, anyhow.

(Mercy, 231wds. Remus-at-Hogwarts.)

Sirius/Remus/Harry drabbles

lilka — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 14:02:06 GMT

My new OT3. Blame the movie. It did bad things to my brain. These are AU, unless you want them to be far more disturbing than I intended. Treat them as seperate or part of a continuity, whichever you prefer. The idea for 'First and Last' came from a wonderful little drabble I saw here a long time ago; I think it was called 'Kissing Percy Weasley'.

Third Party

Harry's watching them again.

They kiss like it's the only thing they'll ever need to do, like it's food and drink and oxygen all rolled into one. They tangle together in a knot of limbs and too-thin torsos and unkempt hair. But this is organised chaos. After so long touching each other, they know exactly what has to be done. They have their own rhythmn, and they pulse with it.

Harry tries to keep up with their elusive beat, but often it proves too much for him. There's always so much to see. Sirius's face is buried in Remus's neck and Remus's hand is clutching at Sirius's hair as Sirius's hand is working Remus's cock as Remus's leg is twining around Sirius's....

Such a wealth of touches; Harry has only two hands, and he can't hope to imitate them all. For a short while he attempts it, but soon he merely contents himself with stroking his own cock as he tries to take in as much as he possibly can.

And them Sirius rolls over to Harry's side of the bed, and lifts him bodily into the centre, and as two talented mouths and four talented hands go to work on him Harry rolls his eyes back in his head and wonders when, how, he ever got this lucky.

First and Last

The first time Sirius kissed Remus, they were fifteen, giggling, drunk on illicit alcohol and the luxury of private time together. In the morning Remus looked at him, and there was something haunted in his expression; and Sirius hadn't dared to bring the subject up.

The first time Remus kissed Sirius, it was very different; slow and deliberate and full of promise. They were eighteen, newly-graduated, unsure of what they wanted to do with their lives but passionately certain that they wanted to do it together.

The first time Sirius kissed Harry, he barely knew what he was doing. His hands roamed desperately over his body, searching for injury, relieved beyong telling to find nothing but a startling thinness. He had escaped; somehow, miraculously, he was still alive. The kiss was a basic, primal, necessary reminder of all those things.

The first time Harry kissed Remus, Sirius watched, and smiled, and tousled the boy's hair affectionately, keeping his other hand on Remus's knee and thinking he had never seen anything so beautiful.

The last time Remus kissed Sirius, it was domestic and perfunctory, a goodbye kiss born of long habit. Harry wasn't there that week.

The last time Harry kissed Remus, Remus could taste tears in his mouth. They tasted bitterly of their loss, and as they clung to each other neither could pretend that that day would not bring further griefs to them.

And the last time Remus kissed Harry, his lips were cold, and still, and breathless, and it was the end of everything.

Explorations

Harry blinked. Padfoot seemed to have grown a lot. And the grass in the back garden was scraching his nose, making him want to sneeze.

"Oh, bravo!" said Remus. "Very nicely done, Harry!"

His voice seemed louder than usual; almost deafening. Harry pawed at his ear, and nearly fell over.

Remus chucked, and ran a gentle hand over Harry's glossy black fur.

"There there, Harry," he soothed. "I daresay it takes some getting used to."

Harry purred, and attempted a few steps. It was odd, walking on four legs, but not especially difficult.

Padfoot nudged Harry along with his nose, and then, growing impatient, carefully picked him up in his mouth. Harry yowled but didn't attempt to struggle. Padfoot's rough tongue rasped along his belly.

Remus smiled. "C'mon, kitten," he said. "I'm sure Padfoot has a lot of things he'd like you to help him explore."

Picnic

Sirius likes it under the sky. He says he feels more alive outside, that even the air tastes better. Harry giggles and agrees with him; he loves the tickle of the grass on his bare skin. Remus rolls his eyes and says he'll know who to blame if they're arrested for public indecency; but he only smiles indulgently when Harry straddles Sirius's hips, and squirms up his chest to give him one of his messy, enthusiastic kisses.

The late afternoon sun warms them as they sprawl together, exchanging lazy touches on naked, slightly reddened skin. They all of them spend too much time hiding, Remus thinks. The light is probably good for them.

Spaces In Between

There's a gap where he used to sit. It yawns between Harry and Remus like a chasm, and neither is sure that they would want to close it, even if they knew how to do it. It would mean admitting, really admitting, that he wasn't going to come back; neither of them is ready for that. The silence is dull and heavy, like an overcast summer's day.

"I'm going to bed," Harry says at last. His voice is flat. But he looks an entreaty at Remus before he leaves the room, and Remus stirs.

"May I join you?"

Always, before, Sirius had given his permission, had sanctified their union. Tacitly, with his smiles and his encouraging hands and the little noises he made in the back of his throat, he had told his two lovers that they could touch each other.

Harry can't find the words to give that kind of permission. But he nods, and Remus follows him upstairs.

They use the spare bedroom, despite, or perhaps because of, the bed being smaller.

Remus's hands and mouth, the solid reality of his body, his scent, carry with them the blessed relief of the familiar. And yet it isn't quite right. The embrace isn't all-encompassing enough. It's too cold.

No energy for spectacular bedroom gymnastics; too much desperation, too much need, to prolong the act. Soon they're stripped, kissing so quickly and fiercely their teeth clash, just enough space left between their clinging bodies for their hands to work.

Remus is making it hard for Harry to concentrate; the speed and pressure of his hand are just right. But he's together enough to run his thumb around the head of Remus's cock, to twist his hand slightly as he strokes up and down the shaft. He can almost feel Sirius's hand over his own, the way it was the first time, feel Sirius's hot breath on his ear as he whispered just what to do. Hungrily, he claims another kiss as they hurtle towards the edge and over it. They're soaked through with him, the pair of them; maybe this is the easiest way to keep him upmost in their memories.

If either of them called his name at the climax, they're both too sensitive to mention it.

retronami — Fri, 16 Jul 2004 17:39:31 GMT

Inspired by a lack of lunch today. ^^

Harry/Ron implied. About 212 words.

Summer. Harry Potter was starving again, hunger-sculpted arms drawn up over his head, grass sticking to his back.

"You should eat." The shadow blocking the sun spoke and when Harry opened his eyes he was confronted with Ron's silhouette, long, looming. He'd been saying that all summer. In fact, Harry was convinced that was all he'd been saying. Lips forming a tight line, Harry rolled onto his side.

"You can't just stop eating!" Ron's concern was annoying. Harry planned with determination to make all of the holes in his life match.

He could hear Ron's feet shift against the ground, a dry swish. He could feel Ron's fingers brush blades of grass from his back and he shivered despite the heat.

"Mum's worried..." Harry refused to be deterred by the Molly Plea, and yanked his shoulder forward so that the sweatiness of Ron's hands slipped off of him. Stillness followed and he thought Ron had left without making a sound. But a slapping cracked the silence as the heels of Ron's palms collided sharply with Harry's skin.

"Sirius wasn't the only person who ever loved you!"

But before Harry could turn, the coolness of Ron's shadow had been replaced by the blotted white glare of the sun in Harry's eyes.

tilney — Mon, 12 Jul 2004 07:57:47 GMT

I feel a bit like talking to nobody:), but maybe someone's still here? In any case. This was written entirely for my pleasure, is unbetaed and has a dumb pun of a title, but I think I like it.

They were lying on top of the Astronomy Tower with absolutely nothing to do. Harry felt as if the sunshine was turning anything resembling serious thoughts into hot air; it was fantastic. The sun was resting heavily on his forehead and belly, he was breathing deeply through his nose and wondering whether he could get paid to do that for a living, instead of going for that bloody Auror Training. He scratched one of his bare feet with the other one and idly thought about cold pumpkin juice; but it could wait. He felt far too drowsy to do anything at all. Beside him Ron was breathing so evenly it sounded like he was asleep; still, after an uncertain amount of time, Harry felt Ron stirring a bit and heard, "Harry. D’you reckon I should make an arse out of myself and try out for Keeper for the Cannons?"

Being Keeper was not about finesse. It was about being reliable and getting people out of tight places. It were the Seekers who were supposed to be 'sensational' and 'outstanding'. Keepers had to be 'good'. Once Ron grew into his gangliness and gained enough confidence to concentrate on what he was doing, he became a good Keeper, eager to prove himself and unswervingly loyal.

"Are you kidding? Of course I think you should. You’re brilliant at Keeping." Harry heard Ron snort good-humouredly, and a rustle of fabric as he shifted a bit. Harry pressed his eyelids with his fingers, and saw dark circles floating among the sunlit red. He reached down to his pockets, put his glasses on and shaded his eyes with a hand to look at Ron beside him. Ron was lying on his back, head resting on crossed arms, hair crackling with sunlight, eyelashes transparent. He straightened his arms back and stretched out the sun-induced daze they were both in. Harry watched him do that, imagining long, pale, freckled back arching off the stone flagons in a taut curve. He blinked and looked Ron in the face, which was turned towards him, cheek resting on an arm, fingertips touching the temple for a bit of shade, pupils dilated in the blinding sun nonetheless. Ron was squinting at him, expectant, and Harry realized he must have been looking as though he wanted to say something. He did want to say something, and he said it without thinking, a bit scared of how his life was bound to be changed now, after all of this, scared of change and newness and desperate to be able to preserve something familiar, something warm:
"Would you consider keeping me around?"
Ron looked at him with pale green eyes, smiling a little.
"Yeah, Harry," he said. "Yeah."

greenapricot — Tue, 22 Jun 2004 10:54:23 GMT

Hmm, it's been a while... *pokes community*

A couple of things I've written over the last few days:

Challenge from longsunday: language, bait, chance. And Sirius Black.
( Epitaph - Sirius/Remus, PG, 210 words )

Challenge from lunicanca: glue, bouquet, and ankle.
( Foil - Tom Riddle gen, PG, 378 words )

Harry had the snowball ready long before he lobbed it at Malfoy.

bellsforme — Fri, 11 Jun 2004 22:19:57 GMT

Wow, is anybody still here? Hello?

Well, I'm still here, and I wrote something. So I'm posting it. Hopefully there are still some of you out there who watch the community...

Anyway, this is what I'd like to call movie-canon. Because it's definitely not like this in the book, but I got the plot bunny and wrote it anyway.

Snowball

Harry had the snowball ready long before he lobbed it at Malfoy.

He’d packed it together between his gloved palms without ever recognizing what he was doing – just using nervous energy, kneading his fingers together, venting frustration, trying to keep quiet. When he finally noticed the hard little knot of snow that seemed to float in mid-air where he knew his hands were, he intended it for an entirely different purpose than what it came down to.

“If he touches her,” he seethed under his breath, not knowing until he spoke he was even thinking it, “I think I’ll die.”

greenapricot — Wed, 21 Apr 2004 15:45:53 GMT

Based on the drabblesmith word of the day from March 30th and featuring a Blaise who has gone completely over the edge. A bit dark.

Resistentialism

resistentialism (ri-zis-TEN-shul-iz-um) n. The theory that inanimate objects demonstrate hostile behavior against us.

They lurk in the dark and the shadows beneath the bed curtains, quills on the floor with bent tips, sharp ends pointing up into soft flesh as he makes his way to bed. A sharp sting just on the upcurve of the arch. /he should have checked the bed, he should have checked, he must always check the corners/ Then; drops of red, bright on grey stone, as he hobble-walks gingerly toward the bathroom, and one drop of startling crimson on white tile before he reaches the sink and brings his foot up and over, and a sharp pain in his ankle as the creamy porcelain tries to stop him on the way by.

The knobs don’t turn in the right direction, and the water is too cold and too hot and his foot comes away red of a different sort. The towel is not there, it is avoiding his touch, hiding in the corner behind the toilet. Wet feet slide on smooth tile and he grasps at the mirror for support.

The face that gazes back at him is not familiar. The eyes are wild and too dark, iris obscured by pupil. The hair like briars, like the wind, curls spiralling around ears and nose and mouth; tickling and teasing and choking, lips bitten redder than red, and dry. His throat is dry.

The hand on the mirror is alien, spider white against dark reflection but it moves when he thinks it should. The cup on the vanity is already edging away as wet fingers brush the lip and it shatters on impact with the tile floor, a shower of sparks, shards thrown in all directions, before he can get out of the way. The shards glitter, deadly and inviting. /and he must pick them up, he must check under the sink/

They are pretty in his hand, they wink and taunt until he closes his hand to shut them up, to stop them looking.

Crimson flows slowly down his wrist.

girlchild — Sat, 17 Apr 2004 16:08:07 GMT

Summertime Girls; Padma/Parvati, 222 words. Rated G.

( During the days when the heat rose up from the summer’s sun-saving streets in shimmering waves, scorching the soles of fool-hardy children, Parvati and Padma stayed in bed. )

The Lovegoods, gen, 474 words

squickyclean — Wed, 31 Mar 2004 04:10:40 GMT

Haven't posted here in ages. Hello again.

I'm calling Mr. Lovegood "Laguna" just 'cause I feel like it. Haha.

Loony Lovegood. He knew that was what his neighbours called him, but Laguna Lovegood was still blissfully unaware of the fact that the moniker was how he was known by anyone remotely connected to wizarding journalism. And even if he had known, he didn't care. As long as he had the respect and love of his wife, and the adoration of his daughter, he was a happy man.

Unfortunately, he had none of those things. His wife, beautiful and smart as a whip, knew how to lash like one too. Nothing major, just tiny little digs at him, every single day.

"Nargles, indeed," she'd sniffed in disdain one day, as he showed his daughter Luna a sprig of mistletoe. "Quit filling the child's head with nonsense, Laguna."

"Utter rubbish," she would sigh, whenever he would show her the latest edition of The Quibbler. "In this business, people want facts, darling, not fairy tales."

And she would turn her back on him, forsaking him for her attempts at another highly experimental charm or volatile potion, taking their daughter in hand as she did so. More than magic, though, Luna learned the ways of her mother.

"Daddy, really," she had said haughtily, when he had tried to engage her with a tale of Crumple-Horned Snorcacks. "Only babies believe that sort of thing."

"Heliopaths?" she had shrieked with what he first thought was childish glee, only to be let down by, "Silly Daddy, making jokes like that. Mummy says they're all lies."

And so it went, day in and day out, wife and daughter and peers laughing at him. No-one believed his stories; no-one would give him any credibility. It was a wonder his little publication managed to stay afloat.

Everyday, he went home hoping that this time, this time his wife and daughter wouldn't laugh at him. This time he wouldn't hear comments ringing derisively in his ears.

It was a shock to him when one day, that finally happened.

He opened the door to his house, the latest edition of The Quibbler in hand, steeling himself for the ridicule that was sure to follow. Instead, he saw his wife, sprawled on the living room floor, blood pooling underneath her, staining the carpet crimson.

Then he saw Luna, crouched on the window seat looking out into the empty fields surrounding their house. In her hand she clutched her mother's broken wand, half of it dangling, threatening to completely separate from the other.

Before he could say anything, Luna turned around, eyes bugged out and wide open, as if whatever had surprised her, whatever had happened here just occurred a few moments previously. Blood and tears streaked her face. She smiled.

"Oh, daddy, you're home," she said. Luna pointed to the window. "Look outside, daddy. I've never seen them before. Look at all the pretty little horses."

Bellatrix drabble, gen/angst, PG-13, 390 words

maniacalmuse — Tue, 30 Mar 2004 23:25:08 GMT

Written as a response to a prompt on the writing community _blank_pages_.

Regret is slimy rags and gray cells and never-ending coldness, where even hatred is sucked out dry, because hatred and pain are happy memories in the dark hell of her subconscious. Regret is the chill seeping into withered arms and legs that used to be smooth and supple, the dust and grime matting into formerly glossy raven hair.

She's not sorry for what she did, or for the pathetic Muggle-loving filth with the empty eyes and the pain-rent souls that now lie in St. Mungo's. That is accomplishment-- different, opposite. She's not sorry for the skull and serpent branding her arm, visible even in the dim light. She's not sorry for waiting.

Regret is being leered at by those filthy young Aurors who tour the place every now and then, and Bellatrix knows that in their minds, they have a very different sort of imprisonment that they'd wish to try with her, her shackled legs forced apart, her eyes blazing with the forbidden as they took what they'd never dare seek in a fair contest. Regret is drinking tepid, murky water and remembering the wineglasses she shattered on hard, polished floors. Regret is tearing out strands of her own hair as thread to patch the thin and dirty rags that she wears, and remembering countless gowns of crimson silk.

But most of all, regret is that terrible, nasty feeling that lingers in her throat like bile, a feeling that by all rights should be foreign and incomprehensible to this "ruthless, merciless Death Eater". It is the memory of a sister with a rounded belly and a set face, swiping only for a moment at the tears in her eyes before moving inexorably away from them all, dark hair so much like her own flouncing behind her in unforgiving permanence. It is a twisted, breathless enthrallment with a tall, dark man with passionate eyes, whom she KNOWS to be close but is forbidden to see, to hate, or to love. Andromeda was the name of the chained maiden in the tales of old, and yet she got her happy ending, and the warrior star remained in the darkness, as time passes in dreary inattention, and her mind drifts to the kisses she'd never fight and the children that she'd never hold. It was really irony in its worst and darkest form.

hijack — Wed, 24 Mar 2004 05:04:40 GMT

For immortalis.

Now

It had always been him. It felt so right that his mind just accepted it as truth. Cedric had always been there. There had never been anyone else.

He sat beside the bed and remembered. Stolen moments in the deserted locker room, silent kisses in the dark of the dormitories. Whoever thought Hufflepuffs couldn't be sexy was dead, dead wrong. He would've smiled to himself with the memories if he thought he was still capable of the act.

It was dark in the room and becoming increasingly hard to stave off the memories that trickled through him like rainwater. Cedric's eyes when he'd told him he loved him, his hands upon him, how warm his flesh was and... Oh God, how cold he was now was inhuman. He couldn't stand it, kicked back from his chair and turned his back on the body, unable to equate its lifelessness with the boy he'd adored.

It'd always been him, Cedric had always been there. Now he was gone.

[...your motives are flawed...]

0100111 — Mon, 22 Mar 2004 01:22:49 GMT

Good Intentions by Lassiter
Implied Draco/Harry. Strength vs. weakness. Pansy knows better.

This is not so much about hurting Harry Potter as it is about owning him. Wanting to hurt someone, Draco had heard, implied weakness. To own someone, however, to have them eat out of your palm, was a veritable sign of power.

"But you are weak," laughed Pansy. "You are. You go looking for your victims as if you're the one who can't live without them."

There's a difference between wanting to push others down and wanting to push yourself up.

"Your motives are flawed," said Pansy. "You want the wrong thing."

Draco asked, "Power? Potter?"

"Yes," Pansy replied. "Exactly."