Harry Potter fic!
Excuse me while I spam you like a spam-y thing which spams.
(Actually this is...only two posts in one day, so. I don't think it qualifies as spam-y spam! But whatever, I'M GOING TO APOLOGIZE ANYWAY, you just try and stop me.)
Anywho, here is some more fic that I wrote for the Shiny, Happy Comment Ficathon. Harry Potter this time around, since I thought it was a good time for it! YAY, MOVIE. BOO, I HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET, OH GOD WHAT WILL I DO.
Title: The Old Fablemakers
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Remus/Sirius
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no.
Summary: The cottage, Sirius is overwhelmingly, gapingly happy to discover, is wonderful. It is full of windows, and soft yellows, and the smell of old books.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: Title is from a poem by Eavan Boland.
The cottage, Sirius is overwhelmingly, gapingly happy to discover, is wonderful. It is full of windows, and soft yellows, and the smell of old books. It is the sort of place he can imagine Remus spending years and years and so he spins himself the comforting fiction as he waits to be summoned back into the middle of a war. Moony has been here since 1981, doing consulting work for the Ministry in magilinguistics and keeping the local bookstore in business with his compulsory need to read Muggle murder mysteries, he thinks at the clinging darkness of his bedroom one night. I have been on a very long, relaxing, and entirely voluntary holiday.
It's ridiculous, of course-- nothing about it more so than the very idea that he would've left Remus voluntarily. "It strains credulity in the worst way," he murmurs to the ceiling, and fights the urge to leap out of bed and explain this to Moony directly.
"I was talking to the ceiling last night," Sirius announces at breakfast the next morning, and promptly sets to work ignoring the fear that flashes in Remus' eyes before he replies, "Were you?"
You never used to think I was mad just because I said mad things, Sirius does not say. Being a bit mad used to be part of my charm.
"Mmhmm," he says. "Terrifyingly awful conversationalist. My mother would've had a fit. Have you not been socializing it properly? You've got to teach it to make terrible small talk at all hours-- keep it informed about the weather and so on. You never know when someone important might want to drone at your ceiling about how much rain we've had lately."
"An excellent point," Remus says. "I see now the error of my ways."
"I should bloody well think you do," Sirius says. "It's a good thing you have me here to set you back on the straight and narrow. What kind of trouble would you get into without me, Moony?"
"The worst sort, I'm sure," Remus says dryly.
Sirius comes across him chatting companionably with the kitchen sink some time later and is so overcome with stupid joy that he could almost cry.
"Are you teaching it about the price of Fire Whiskey in China?" He says. "People will want to know."
"I'm starting small," Remus says. "The weather, Quidditch scores, that sort of thing. Perhaps you'd like to assist me? Today's Prophet is still on the table, I think."
Which is how Sirius Black, Slightly Mental Escaped Convict Extraordinaire, comes to dedicate an entire afternoon to the solemn and oratorical reading of horoscopes and crossword clues to a kitchen sink (accompanied by Remus Lupin, A Werewolf And Rather More Importantly A Moony, who specializes in bemused asides, fond smiles, and knowing the answers to the crossword).
Title: all is loneliness before me
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Tom Riddle/Bellatrix Lestrange
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no.
Summary: For the prompt, "Harry Potter, Tom Riddle/Bellatrix Lestrange, hundreds of dreams taking place around you."
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: Title is from a Janis Joplin song. Also, as was noted at the time, "shiny," "happy," and "Voldemort" are not always words which you see together. But, you know.
Bellatrix's earliest memory is of her mother, pale skin and wide, dark eyes, cooing over her darling firstborn girl.
"You will be beautiful, my love," her mother said. "Beautiful and powerful, of course. They will all be so proud of you. So proud."
Bellatrix's father never called her "darling," but on her eleventh birthday, when she returned home from a day of shopping with the finest Slytherin green robes money could buy, he called her "the pride of the House of Black," which was infinitely better.
Bellatrix grew up in a mansion, a stately, twisted old place with centuries of portraits on the walls: the entire family staring down their noses at her with a regal, cold air. Her mother always stopped to smile quiveringly at them when she walked down the hall, grateful for her inclusion in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
"We are so lucky, darling," she murmured one night after dinner. "So lucky to be a part of a family with so much to be proud of. Such pure blood. I had to marry for it but you, my beautiful Bella, you have been born into it. Someday you will understand what that means."
Bellatrix understands what it means the moment she sets foot within the walls of Hogwarts. Half of the students aren't even of pure blood, she can tell that much immediately. She curls into herself on the first night, the curtains of her four-poster providing flimsy protection against the mercilessly gray stone walls. She can feel this place trying to dilute her magic, trying to seep into her veins and make her something ordinary.
"Seven years," she whispers into the stifling air. "Seven years and you can leave. You'll never come back again."
But seven years is a long time to spend being dragged down, weighed on by students and professors and ideas that are so dull, so common. There are so few people in this school who know what it means to feel centuries of magic humming through them. Seven years is a long time to spend being hemmed in. Being flattened. So at the end of seven years Bellatrix bursts out into the real world in a panic, desperate to be among people who at the very least know when to bow down.
Tom will make the world bow down, she knows. Tom will be "my Lord" when all is said and done, and he will make everyone-- even those hopeless Mudbloods who crowd the halls of Hogwarts-- understand what it is to be worthy. Tom reminds her of the simple elegance in a well-cast spell and of the sheer, raw joy in performing the ancient magic. The promises he whispers while the rest of the world waits, unaware, are grand and sweeping and wonderful, and after seven years of dull terror the world bursts back into color before her eyes.
(Actually this is...only two posts in one day, so. I don't think it qualifies as spam-y spam! But whatever, I'M GOING TO APOLOGIZE ANYWAY, you just try and stop me.)
Anywho, here is some more fic that I wrote for the Shiny, Happy Comment Ficathon. Harry Potter this time around, since I thought it was a good time for it! YAY, MOVIE. BOO, I HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET, OH GOD WHAT WILL I DO.
Title: The Old Fablemakers
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Remus/Sirius
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no.
Summary: The cottage, Sirius is overwhelmingly, gapingly happy to discover, is wonderful. It is full of windows, and soft yellows, and the smell of old books.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: Title is from a poem by Eavan Boland.
The cottage, Sirius is overwhelmingly, gapingly happy to discover, is wonderful. It is full of windows, and soft yellows, and the smell of old books. It is the sort of place he can imagine Remus spending years and years and so he spins himself the comforting fiction as he waits to be summoned back into the middle of a war. Moony has been here since 1981, doing consulting work for the Ministry in magilinguistics and keeping the local bookstore in business with his compulsory need to read Muggle murder mysteries, he thinks at the clinging darkness of his bedroom one night. I have been on a very long, relaxing, and entirely voluntary holiday.
It's ridiculous, of course-- nothing about it more so than the very idea that he would've left Remus voluntarily. "It strains credulity in the worst way," he murmurs to the ceiling, and fights the urge to leap out of bed and explain this to Moony directly.
"I was talking to the ceiling last night," Sirius announces at breakfast the next morning, and promptly sets to work ignoring the fear that flashes in Remus' eyes before he replies, "Were you?"
You never used to think I was mad just because I said mad things, Sirius does not say. Being a bit mad used to be part of my charm.
"Mmhmm," he says. "Terrifyingly awful conversationalist. My mother would've had a fit. Have you not been socializing it properly? You've got to teach it to make terrible small talk at all hours-- keep it informed about the weather and so on. You never know when someone important might want to drone at your ceiling about how much rain we've had lately."
"An excellent point," Remus says. "I see now the error of my ways."
"I should bloody well think you do," Sirius says. "It's a good thing you have me here to set you back on the straight and narrow. What kind of trouble would you get into without me, Moony?"
"The worst sort, I'm sure," Remus says dryly.
Sirius comes across him chatting companionably with the kitchen sink some time later and is so overcome with stupid joy that he could almost cry.
"Are you teaching it about the price of Fire Whiskey in China?" He says. "People will want to know."
"I'm starting small," Remus says. "The weather, Quidditch scores, that sort of thing. Perhaps you'd like to assist me? Today's Prophet is still on the table, I think."
Which is how Sirius Black, Slightly Mental Escaped Convict Extraordinaire, comes to dedicate an entire afternoon to the solemn and oratorical reading of horoscopes and crossword clues to a kitchen sink (accompanied by Remus Lupin, A Werewolf And Rather More Importantly A Moony, who specializes in bemused asides, fond smiles, and knowing the answers to the crossword).
Title: all is loneliness before me
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Tom Riddle/Bellatrix Lestrange
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no.
Summary: For the prompt, "Harry Potter, Tom Riddle/Bellatrix Lestrange, hundreds of dreams taking place around you."
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: Title is from a Janis Joplin song. Also, as was noted at the time, "shiny," "happy," and "Voldemort" are not always words which you see together. But, you know.
Bellatrix's earliest memory is of her mother, pale skin and wide, dark eyes, cooing over her darling firstborn girl.
"You will be beautiful, my love," her mother said. "Beautiful and powerful, of course. They will all be so proud of you. So proud."
Bellatrix's father never called her "darling," but on her eleventh birthday, when she returned home from a day of shopping with the finest Slytherin green robes money could buy, he called her "the pride of the House of Black," which was infinitely better.
Bellatrix grew up in a mansion, a stately, twisted old place with centuries of portraits on the walls: the entire family staring down their noses at her with a regal, cold air. Her mother always stopped to smile quiveringly at them when she walked down the hall, grateful for her inclusion in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
"We are so lucky, darling," she murmured one night after dinner. "So lucky to be a part of a family with so much to be proud of. Such pure blood. I had to marry for it but you, my beautiful Bella, you have been born into it. Someday you will understand what that means."
Bellatrix understands what it means the moment she sets foot within the walls of Hogwarts. Half of the students aren't even of pure blood, she can tell that much immediately. She curls into herself on the first night, the curtains of her four-poster providing flimsy protection against the mercilessly gray stone walls. She can feel this place trying to dilute her magic, trying to seep into her veins and make her something ordinary.
"Seven years," she whispers into the stifling air. "Seven years and you can leave. You'll never come back again."
But seven years is a long time to spend being dragged down, weighed on by students and professors and ideas that are so dull, so common. There are so few people in this school who know what it means to feel centuries of magic humming through them. Seven years is a long time to spend being hemmed in. Being flattened. So at the end of seven years Bellatrix bursts out into the real world in a panic, desperate to be among people who at the very least know when to bow down.
Tom will make the world bow down, she knows. Tom will be "my Lord" when all is said and done, and he will make everyone-- even those hopeless Mudbloods who crowd the halls of Hogwarts-- understand what it is to be worthy. Tom reminds her of the simple elegance in a well-cast spell and of the sheer, raw joy in performing the ancient magic. The promises he whispers while the rest of the world waits, unaware, are grand and sweeping and wonderful, and after seven years of dull terror the world bursts back into color before her eyes.