30 Days of Harry Potter meme: Days 15-18 (with recs)
I'm going backwards because I can! Also, it's what Luna Lovegood would do.
This is a hard one. The things in canon that I like least - Sirius' death, e.g., or Lupin's - tend to be so important to the practical and emotional narrative that the story would be weaker without them. The fact that I really hate these things, essentially, show that the story is working. Did I think the (Disney) Beauty-and-the-Beast-esque Battle of Hogwarts was kind of lame? Yes, but the kids loved it, and that's who the books are for? Was Voldemort something of a cardboard villain? Yes. But when you get right down to it, large-scale villains always weaken as you know them better. For that matter, in real life, violently zealous ideologues and power-hungry dictators stop acting coherently in respect to their goals (if they still have any after a certain point of insanity). I mean, yes, Voldemort is rather weak sometimes, but beyond cutting some exposition and a few Evil Overlord Checklist violations, I don't really know what I'd do to make it better.
I'll settle for saying that I would have Hedwig survive. Her death was the one thing that struck me as unnecessary and inexcusable.
I tend not to care much about the RL personalities involved - as long as they're not palling around with Michael Vick or Anna Wintour, I'm pretty much indifferent. However, it's always a joy to hear some of the involved greats (e.g., Maggie Smith, Jason Isaacs, Bill Nighy) comment on their roles, and the kids come off very well interviews.
Back in the day, fic reading and writing and canon speculation, plus massive book anticipation. Right now, I'm reading lots of fic again, and working on one.
As we all know, slash tickles my fancy. So, recs. Since this was a question for the Ides - albeit of May and not March - I'll concentrate on relationships that ended unhappily.
Blot Out the Stars by tuesdayfic (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, PG-13, ~2500 words): "After the war, Albus is finding ways to cope." Nicholas Flamel suggests knitting. A melancholy look into the history of Dumbledore, socks, knitting patterns, and Aberforth.
The socks start piling up. He sends some to Aberforth first. Two months later, Aberforth finally replies to Albus's letters and packages with a terse note: "Stop sending me socks." The bottom of the mostly blank page reads, "P.S. Still not speaking to you."
Albus starts giving some to friends for birthdays and Christmas. After a year of this, Flamel gently suggests that maybe Albus might want to branch out into scarves and hats, and might keep a few for himself this time. Albus doesn't mention how they pile up in drawers and crowd his robes out of his closet onto hangers that float around his rooms like perpetually disturbed pigeons. He starts making hats. At least hats do not demand matching pairs, one of which inevitably becomes irrevocably lost in the wash or in the night, mismatched singles huddling together in the corners of drawers like frightened house elves.
Hats aren't the same. They come out lopsided or too large, rendering even the most fashionable wizard ridiculous-looking. The long brims flop over heads and eyes, and their mere appearance antagonizes the sorting hat.
For Blood and Wine are Red by penknife (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, NC-17, 5600 words): That golden summer, by one of the pan-fandom all-stars. Perfectly observed, beautiful, hot, and heartbreaking.
He turned his attention back to poetry with an effort.
Who were your lovers? who were they who wrestled for you in the dust?
There was a tapping at the window, and when Albus opened it, an owl dropped a note into his hand. It's a quest, the note said, and below the words was a circle inscribed inside a triangle by the same neat, strong hand.
Albus picked up a quill, trying to keep his attention on the words rather than the way that hand must have looked writing them, fingers curled around the quill, perhaps licking a smear of ink from a fingertip. Tell me more, he wrote.
The moon was high by the time he finally went upstairs, and when he looked into Ariana's room, he found her sleeping, curled up barefoot on the blankets, her fingers stained red. His breath caught for a moment until he saw on the windowsill the discarded hulls of wild strawberries.
He looked into Aberforth's room as well, wanting to thank him for the strawberries and the brief hours of domestic peace, but Aberforth was asleep, too, with one of the baby goats in his bed, his arm around its flank. Albus wasn't sure what would happen if he woke him -- for one thing, he'd have to say something about the goat -- and so he just let the door shut between them again. His father might have known what to say, but he was in prison, and always would be.
Four Wishes That Never Came True, and One That Did by stonegrad (Multiple pairings, R, ~2300 words): Deft, economically written glimpses into the minds of characters in their crucible. Featuring Dumbledore and Grindelwald, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Lupin and Black, Draco, and Albus Severus and Scorpius.
He takes two steps forwards, and Albus doesn’t move away - doesn’t move at all, not even when a finger slides under his chin, tilts his head back, Gellert’s thumb sweeping over his lower lip. The same words again, spoken softer than before, becoming more of a plea than a demand: “I want you beside me, Albus. Albus.” A flicker of eyelashes, a tilt of his blond head, and he doesn’t beg, he doesn’t, but he’s getting close to it now. “Stay beside me; we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? We’ve come this far.”
I Remember You in the Height of Summer by grim_lupine (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, PG-13, ~600 words): A stream-of-consciousness reminiscence from an imprisoned Grindelwald, whose feelings for Albus didn't die with Ariana. Check out grim_lupine's tag for this pairing; she's brilliant.
Those were fever days, were they not, my Albus? I remember them now only in lightning flashes, because year after year of this room with its dead solitude would numb even the most brilliant soul; I remember those days in the wet press of your smiling mouth, and in the red shine of your hair as it spilled over my trembling body. I remember the plans we made those days, those days when the future ran hot in our blood and we saw endless possibilities stretching before us.
Men of War by miss_morland (Moody/Scrimgeour, R, 3600 words): Six moments, spread over fifty-plus years, between two brave, complex, driven, and ultimately desolate men. Atmospheric, and with a wonderful insight into Rufus Scrimgeour's character. Check out her AD/GG fic as well.
"God," he panted, his pulse hammering. He pulled out and flipped over on to his side. "Fucking Merlin."
The patterns rearranged themselves: Moody was grinning. "Not quite. But still good." He tugged a little at the ropes that were binding his wrists to the bedstead. "Untie these, will you?"
It was strange, Rufus thought as he reached for his wand, that the very man who'd become famous among the Aurors for his paranoia was willing to let himself be tied up for sex -- that he not only trusted Rufus to do it, but that he'd in fact wanted him to. Rufus wasn't sure what it might mean, nor had he asked. Those eternal questions and answers, they weren't what he came here for. Besides, he supposed it was quite logical -- the tighter you hold on, the more intense the thrill of letting go.
He tapped his wand against Moody's wrists, and the ropes unravelled obediently. Moody rubbed his wrists, a look of grim satisfaction upon his features. "Got the tension out of you, all right."
"Yes." Rufus summoned a pack of cigarettes, and lit one for each of them. "You might say so."
One Night in London by entrenous88 (Charlie/Sirius, NC-17, 3700 words): Set during OotP. Charlie, bearing intelligence for the Order, arrives at Number 12 Grimmauld Place in the dead of night. Sirius is there to greet him. They're both looking for something. Bonus for Sirius talking very, very dirty.
"It seems daft to me, too, having you cooped up here."
Sirius's eyes gleamed as they met Charlie's. "Well, now. Not going to lecture me about how I ought to be grateful I'm safe, and or how I ought to be ecstatic I can give the Order a damn clubhouse for their little meetings?"
Charlie shook his head, keeping his eyes level with Sirius's gaze.
"You're all right, Charlie Weasley."
They watched one another, intent and with growing heat between them.
"Have anything to drink?"
Sirius snorted. "Of course I have something to drink. Let's take this into the other room."
Our Room on the Floor by m_fics (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, R, ~3500 words): A mosaic view of that charmed summer, complete with darkness visible.
The promise Aberforth originally found in their visitor fades as it becomes apparent to everyone that the real kinship lies not with two reluctant schoolboys but between two brilliant wizards. If Aberforth had originally intended to point at Gellert Grindelwald and say, “Look how well he does without school,” he gives it up by the second week of their acquaintance. Their situations are simply too different.
The second week is when Albus stops even pretending to look after Ariana. He spends his time outside, in the gardens talking with Gellert, or when forced inside by the uncompromising dusk, collecting ink stains and pacing anxiously as he waits for a reply to the urgently penned letters the two of them exchange. Aberforth hears the owls scratching at the window and grits his teeth, until eventually Albus just leaves it open.
Pepper and Plum in the Dead of Winter by mindabbles: (Charlie/Viktor, NC-17, 7900 words): This isn't really a star-crossed fic, but it's melancholy enough to warrant inclusion. mindabbles fleshes out two things we barely glimpse in canon, Charlie's life as a dragon-keeper and Viktor's as a Quidditch star under a great deal of pressure in multiple respects, not least of them political. The result is atmospheric, believable, emotionally honest, and hot.
"Another belt?" Charlie asks, sending the bottle to tip into Viktor's glass before he has a chance to answer. Viktor drains the fiery drink in one gulp. "Why do you not go with the others?"
"I said," Charlie says. He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms across the back, kicking his legs out in front in a stretch. "The men in that village don't interest me."
"And where are the men who interest you?" Viktor asks. Charlie can see from across the table that his breath is coming fast and he looks as if he's about to leap from a cliff.
"You're pissed." Charlie stands. The fire is still blazing and the room is becoming almost too warm. He moves away from the fire, nearer to where Viktor is still sitting, his hands gripping the table as if he is poised to run.
"My father used to say, if two people say you're drunk, go to bed," Viktor says, blinking as he rises to his feet. "I am drunk." He takes a step toward the door and looks almost surprised to find that his path is blocked.
The Years That Walk Between by femmequixotic (Draco/Snape, Draco/Harry, NC-17, 16,000 words): This fic sequentially pairs Draco Malfoy with Severus Snape, which normally makes me squirm in a bad way, and Harry Potter, which normally makes me roll my eyes and fall asleep. Not here. The premise is that DM/SS were an item in the last year of Snape's life (thus, Draco is of age, which is why I was willing to try it out), and the fic doesn't shy away from what a dire situation that was. The narrative begins with the Malfoys learning of Snape's death and continues over the next twenty-five years or so. Draco slowly adjusts to living like a human being, and then adjusts to the fact that his son has made best friends with Harry Potter's. He and Harry move toward tolerating each other at a distance, to tolerating each other at less of a distance, to uneasy friendship, to something more. (Note that this fic is epilogue-compliant, but Harry doesn't cheat on Ginny.) This isn't ultimately a sad fic, but there are tear-jerking moments aplenty (at least if you cry as easily as I do).
The funeral is adequate, though Draco is quite certain his father would have found something to complain about. There are enough friends of the family left that Lucius doesn't have to suffer the indignity of an empty church. Draco sees Potter in the back, for just a moment, and he thinks perhaps he's hallucinating, but his presence is mentioned in the Prophet writeup the next day, and Draco realises the idiot came on purpose. Gave the Malfoys a brush of respectability again. He doesn't know if he should hate him for that or not. Instead, he writes a stiffly worded, terse thank you-as much as he despises the correspondence, he's learned manners are important in reclaiming the Malfoy name in this new world-and Potter responds with an even shorter note that says simply, I did it for Snape.
Draco wads up the note, furious, his throat tight with bitterness, and then he smoothes it back out. He tucks it in the back of his wardrobe and tries again to forget.
Thirty-Five Owls, also here, by wired_lizard (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, R-ish, 9500 words): This is an epistolatory fic encompassing forty-six years' worth of correspondence between Dumbledore and an imprisoned Grindelwald. Dumbledore's humane, inquisitive nature shines through, as do, in appropriate portion, some of his less attractive tendencies (e.g., self-pity). Grindelwald is charming, nasty, angry, vindictive, conniving, and utterly broken. They rehash the past, argue about the present, and try not to think about the future.
You're no doubt staring down your nose at this, letter and bedraggled owl both. She likes white mice. Are you really surprised, old friend, that I'd have the guts to write to you, even after everything that happened? You shouldn't be. This is dear old Gellert, you should say. Never leaves me alone, now that he's sitting in prison all day with nothing better to do. My much-lauded gold is going grey, Albus, imagine. Still, I must say, the stonework is exquisite. Enjoy the irony. Old. Friend. Locked in my own prison.
You still at that school of yours? Enjoying teaching, I hope?
Taking good care of It? You'd better be.
Give my regards to that bird of yours. Hope I didn't kill him too much.
Listen to me. Hope. Hope. With the mold gathering on the walls of my cell. Laugh, Albus. Enjoy yourself.
Non-slash:
Cruciatus by avendya (PG-ish and gen/het, ~1500 words): A remix fic that fleshes out how Bellatrix Black the schoolgirl evolved into Voldemort's lovesick and sadistic right hand.
If she could keep the Dementors away for long enough to think... But she would need the Patronus charm to do that, and she has failed twice now. It had to be her memories that were weak, because she was not. Perhaps another memory, a stronger one...
When had she been happiest? She knew what made her happiest, a common thread through her whole life: the Cruciatus. It might be unforgivable to some namby-pamby do-gooders, but she knew better. It had changed her life, and it had given her everything - her husband, her power, and Voldemort.
Cruciatus. Cruciatus. Cruciatus. She tapped her fingers against the stone floor in an unconscious syllable count.
Five Portraits of Walburga Black by sciathan_file (PG-rated gen, ~2000 words): A rich and very believable look into the profoundly disturbed head of Sirius' mother, from her formative years to how she coped in the final, disappointing years of her life. The author creates little scraps of sympathy for Walburga, which throw into sharper relief just how profoundly perverse she, her life, and her world are.
She finds in the morning that he has left.
It takes her four days to know that he has been found two days ago by the blood-traitor Potters. They are keeping him.
It takes her three hours after that to legally declare that she has only one son.
Eradicating him from her mind is not as simple a task. For a month after, she thinks that he might return and declare he has seen the error of his ways.
But she would hex him thoroughly if Sirius were ever to do that. There is no pride in someone who comes groveling back or running away. A Black has pride if nothing else - even the good for nothings and squibs.
Source by holyfant (PG-13 Arthur Weasley/Rita Skeeter, ~1100 words): An exploration into Rita Skeeter's motivations and modus operandi, by way of one particular source she's pumped. Rita comes off at her self-justifying, Machiavellian best/worst, and Arthur is sympathetic even as he makes decisions with which it's difficult to sympathize.
He liked to take her out for coffee. This surprised her, because during the sex he made her feel so nameless, so small, something to be quickly enjoyed and then thrown away. He usually did make sure she had one orgasm before he started to fuck her, as if he knew very well that he couldn’t do it slowly so she’d actually enjoy it. It was fast and hard and usually painful. It left her trembling and cold. But then he took her out for coffee afterward and asked her how many sugars she wanted. His eyes were soft then.
It confused her thoroughly, although she pretended not to care.
Chapter Nine: What If My Baby Is A Squib? by nineveh_uk (PG-rated gen; 1900 words): This fic resulted from a conversation about family practices and what parenting advice books might be like in the wizarding world, as opposed to Muggle Britain. The fic is written as "an extract from The Witch's Guide to Pregnancy, Birth, and Baby Care, by Alarica Rosier." The perspective of assumed magical superiority, with its attendant shortcomings in consideration, is pitch-perfect. What's truly chilling is that if you're not reading carefully, it almost seems to pass for insensitive but genuine advice.
It is not your fault, and you must put the thought out of your mind. The birth of a defective child is always a matter of great sadness, and it is only natural to wonder if you might have done anything to prevent it, but you must not reproach yourself. You have not caused this fault in your child by drinking farpleweed for morning sickness, by apparating soon after conception, or through excessive exposure to Electricity. One day Natural Philosophers may be able to identify witches at risk of giving birth to Squibs, but the main concern for a new mother should be to ensure an appropriate solution for her family.
And to lighten the mood:
Famous Author Kills Beloved Characters in Outing Tragedy by lolaraincoat.
This is a hard one. The things in canon that I like least - Sirius' death, e.g., or Lupin's - tend to be so important to the practical and emotional narrative that the story would be weaker without them. The fact that I really hate these things, essentially, show that the story is working. Did I think the (Disney) Beauty-and-the-Beast-esque Battle of Hogwarts was kind of lame? Yes, but the kids loved it, and that's who the books are for? Was Voldemort something of a cardboard villain? Yes. But when you get right down to it, large-scale villains always weaken as you know them better. For that matter, in real life, violently zealous ideologues and power-hungry dictators stop acting coherently in respect to their goals (if they still have any after a certain point of insanity). I mean, yes, Voldemort is rather weak sometimes, but beyond cutting some exposition and a few Evil Overlord Checklist violations, I don't really know what I'd do to make it better.
I'll settle for saying that I would have Hedwig survive. Her death was the one thing that struck me as unnecessary and inexcusable.
I tend not to care much about the RL personalities involved - as long as they're not palling around with Michael Vick or Anna Wintour, I'm pretty much indifferent. However, it's always a joy to hear some of the involved greats (e.g., Maggie Smith, Jason Isaacs, Bill Nighy) comment on their roles, and the kids come off very well interviews.
Back in the day, fic reading and writing and canon speculation, plus massive book anticipation. Right now, I'm reading lots of fic again, and working on one.
As we all know, slash tickles my fancy. So, recs. Since this was a question for the Ides - albeit of May and not March - I'll concentrate on relationships that ended unhappily.
Blot Out the Stars by tuesdayfic (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, PG-13, ~2500 words): "After the war, Albus is finding ways to cope." Nicholas Flamel suggests knitting. A melancholy look into the history of Dumbledore, socks, knitting patterns, and Aberforth.
The socks start piling up. He sends some to Aberforth first. Two months later, Aberforth finally replies to Albus's letters and packages with a terse note: "Stop sending me socks." The bottom of the mostly blank page reads, "P.S. Still not speaking to you."
Albus starts giving some to friends for birthdays and Christmas. After a year of this, Flamel gently suggests that maybe Albus might want to branch out into scarves and hats, and might keep a few for himself this time. Albus doesn't mention how they pile up in drawers and crowd his robes out of his closet onto hangers that float around his rooms like perpetually disturbed pigeons. He starts making hats. At least hats do not demand matching pairs, one of which inevitably becomes irrevocably lost in the wash or in the night, mismatched singles huddling together in the corners of drawers like frightened house elves.
Hats aren't the same. They come out lopsided or too large, rendering even the most fashionable wizard ridiculous-looking. The long brims flop over heads and eyes, and their mere appearance antagonizes the sorting hat.
For Blood and Wine are Red by penknife (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, NC-17, 5600 words): That golden summer, by one of the pan-fandom all-stars. Perfectly observed, beautiful, hot, and heartbreaking.
He turned his attention back to poetry with an effort.
Who were your lovers? who were they who wrestled for you in the dust?
There was a tapping at the window, and when Albus opened it, an owl dropped a note into his hand. It's a quest, the note said, and below the words was a circle inscribed inside a triangle by the same neat, strong hand.
Albus picked up a quill, trying to keep his attention on the words rather than the way that hand must have looked writing them, fingers curled around the quill, perhaps licking a smear of ink from a fingertip. Tell me more, he wrote.
The moon was high by the time he finally went upstairs, and when he looked into Ariana's room, he found her sleeping, curled up barefoot on the blankets, her fingers stained red. His breath caught for a moment until he saw on the windowsill the discarded hulls of wild strawberries.
He looked into Aberforth's room as well, wanting to thank him for the strawberries and the brief hours of domestic peace, but Aberforth was asleep, too, with one of the baby goats in his bed, his arm around its flank. Albus wasn't sure what would happen if he woke him -- for one thing, he'd have to say something about the goat -- and so he just let the door shut between them again. His father might have known what to say, but he was in prison, and always would be.
Four Wishes That Never Came True, and One That Did by stonegrad (Multiple pairings, R, ~2300 words): Deft, economically written glimpses into the minds of characters in their crucible. Featuring Dumbledore and Grindelwald, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Lupin and Black, Draco, and Albus Severus and Scorpius.
He takes two steps forwards, and Albus doesn’t move away - doesn’t move at all, not even when a finger slides under his chin, tilts his head back, Gellert’s thumb sweeping over his lower lip. The same words again, spoken softer than before, becoming more of a plea than a demand: “I want you beside me, Albus. Albus.” A flicker of eyelashes, a tilt of his blond head, and he doesn’t beg, he doesn’t, but he’s getting close to it now. “Stay beside me; we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? We’ve come this far.”
I Remember You in the Height of Summer by grim_lupine (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, PG-13, ~600 words): A stream-of-consciousness reminiscence from an imprisoned Grindelwald, whose feelings for Albus didn't die with Ariana. Check out grim_lupine's tag for this pairing; she's brilliant.
Those were fever days, were they not, my Albus? I remember them now only in lightning flashes, because year after year of this room with its dead solitude would numb even the most brilliant soul; I remember those days in the wet press of your smiling mouth, and in the red shine of your hair as it spilled over my trembling body. I remember the plans we made those days, those days when the future ran hot in our blood and we saw endless possibilities stretching before us.
Men of War by miss_morland (Moody/Scrimgeour, R, 3600 words): Six moments, spread over fifty-plus years, between two brave, complex, driven, and ultimately desolate men. Atmospheric, and with a wonderful insight into Rufus Scrimgeour's character. Check out her AD/GG fic as well.
"God," he panted, his pulse hammering. He pulled out and flipped over on to his side. "Fucking Merlin."
The patterns rearranged themselves: Moody was grinning. "Not quite. But still good." He tugged a little at the ropes that were binding his wrists to the bedstead. "Untie these, will you?"
It was strange, Rufus thought as he reached for his wand, that the very man who'd become famous among the Aurors for his paranoia was willing to let himself be tied up for sex -- that he not only trusted Rufus to do it, but that he'd in fact wanted him to. Rufus wasn't sure what it might mean, nor had he asked. Those eternal questions and answers, they weren't what he came here for. Besides, he supposed it was quite logical -- the tighter you hold on, the more intense the thrill of letting go.
He tapped his wand against Moody's wrists, and the ropes unravelled obediently. Moody rubbed his wrists, a look of grim satisfaction upon his features. "Got the tension out of you, all right."
"Yes." Rufus summoned a pack of cigarettes, and lit one for each of them. "You might say so."
One Night in London by entrenous88 (Charlie/Sirius, NC-17, 3700 words): Set during OotP. Charlie, bearing intelligence for the Order, arrives at Number 12 Grimmauld Place in the dead of night. Sirius is there to greet him. They're both looking for something. Bonus for Sirius talking very, very dirty.
"It seems daft to me, too, having you cooped up here."
Sirius's eyes gleamed as they met Charlie's. "Well, now. Not going to lecture me about how I ought to be grateful I'm safe, and or how I ought to be ecstatic I can give the Order a damn clubhouse for their little meetings?"
Charlie shook his head, keeping his eyes level with Sirius's gaze.
"You're all right, Charlie Weasley."
They watched one another, intent and with growing heat between them.
"Have anything to drink?"
Sirius snorted. "Of course I have something to drink. Let's take this into the other room."
Our Room on the Floor by m_fics (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, R, ~3500 words): A mosaic view of that charmed summer, complete with darkness visible.
The promise Aberforth originally found in their visitor fades as it becomes apparent to everyone that the real kinship lies not with two reluctant schoolboys but between two brilliant wizards. If Aberforth had originally intended to point at Gellert Grindelwald and say, “Look how well he does without school,” he gives it up by the second week of their acquaintance. Their situations are simply too different.
The second week is when Albus stops even pretending to look after Ariana. He spends his time outside, in the gardens talking with Gellert, or when forced inside by the uncompromising dusk, collecting ink stains and pacing anxiously as he waits for a reply to the urgently penned letters the two of them exchange. Aberforth hears the owls scratching at the window and grits his teeth, until eventually Albus just leaves it open.
Pepper and Plum in the Dead of Winter by mindabbles: (Charlie/Viktor, NC-17, 7900 words): This isn't really a star-crossed fic, but it's melancholy enough to warrant inclusion. mindabbles fleshes out two things we barely glimpse in canon, Charlie's life as a dragon-keeper and Viktor's as a Quidditch star under a great deal of pressure in multiple respects, not least of them political. The result is atmospheric, believable, emotionally honest, and hot.
"Another belt?" Charlie asks, sending the bottle to tip into Viktor's glass before he has a chance to answer. Viktor drains the fiery drink in one gulp. "Why do you not go with the others?"
"I said," Charlie says. He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms across the back, kicking his legs out in front in a stretch. "The men in that village don't interest me."
"And where are the men who interest you?" Viktor asks. Charlie can see from across the table that his breath is coming fast and he looks as if he's about to leap from a cliff.
"You're pissed." Charlie stands. The fire is still blazing and the room is becoming almost too warm. He moves away from the fire, nearer to where Viktor is still sitting, his hands gripping the table as if he is poised to run.
"My father used to say, if two people say you're drunk, go to bed," Viktor says, blinking as he rises to his feet. "I am drunk." He takes a step toward the door and looks almost surprised to find that his path is blocked.
The Years That Walk Between by femmequixotic (Draco/Snape, Draco/Harry, NC-17, 16,000 words): This fic sequentially pairs Draco Malfoy with Severus Snape, which normally makes me squirm in a bad way, and Harry Potter, which normally makes me roll my eyes and fall asleep. Not here. The premise is that DM/SS were an item in the last year of Snape's life (thus, Draco is of age, which is why I was willing to try it out), and the fic doesn't shy away from what a dire situation that was. The narrative begins with the Malfoys learning of Snape's death and continues over the next twenty-five years or so. Draco slowly adjusts to living like a human being, and then adjusts to the fact that his son has made best friends with Harry Potter's. He and Harry move toward tolerating each other at a distance, to tolerating each other at less of a distance, to uneasy friendship, to something more. (Note that this fic is epilogue-compliant, but Harry doesn't cheat on Ginny.) This isn't ultimately a sad fic, but there are tear-jerking moments aplenty (at least if you cry as easily as I do).
The funeral is adequate, though Draco is quite certain his father would have found something to complain about. There are enough friends of the family left that Lucius doesn't have to suffer the indignity of an empty church. Draco sees Potter in the back, for just a moment, and he thinks perhaps he's hallucinating, but his presence is mentioned in the Prophet writeup the next day, and Draco realises the idiot came on purpose. Gave the Malfoys a brush of respectability again. He doesn't know if he should hate him for that or not. Instead, he writes a stiffly worded, terse thank you-as much as he despises the correspondence, he's learned manners are important in reclaiming the Malfoy name in this new world-and Potter responds with an even shorter note that says simply, I did it for Snape.
Draco wads up the note, furious, his throat tight with bitterness, and then he smoothes it back out. He tucks it in the back of his wardrobe and tries again to forget.
Thirty-Five Owls, also here, by wired_lizard (Dumbledore/Grindelwald, R-ish, 9500 words): This is an epistolatory fic encompassing forty-six years' worth of correspondence between Dumbledore and an imprisoned Grindelwald. Dumbledore's humane, inquisitive nature shines through, as do, in appropriate portion, some of his less attractive tendencies (e.g., self-pity). Grindelwald is charming, nasty, angry, vindictive, conniving, and utterly broken. They rehash the past, argue about the present, and try not to think about the future.
You're no doubt staring down your nose at this, letter and bedraggled owl both. She likes white mice. Are you really surprised, old friend, that I'd have the guts to write to you, even after everything that happened? You shouldn't be. This is dear old Gellert, you should say. Never leaves me alone, now that he's sitting in prison all day with nothing better to do. My much-lauded gold is going grey, Albus, imagine. Still, I must say, the stonework is exquisite. Enjoy the irony. Old. Friend. Locked in my own prison.
You still at that school of yours? Enjoying teaching, I hope?
Taking good care of It? You'd better be.
Give my regards to that bird of yours. Hope I didn't kill him too much.
Listen to me. Hope. Hope. With the mold gathering on the walls of my cell. Laugh, Albus. Enjoy yourself.
Non-slash:
Cruciatus by avendya (PG-ish and gen/het, ~1500 words): A remix fic that fleshes out how Bellatrix Black the schoolgirl evolved into Voldemort's lovesick and sadistic right hand.
If she could keep the Dementors away for long enough to think... But she would need the Patronus charm to do that, and she has failed twice now. It had to be her memories that were weak, because she was not. Perhaps another memory, a stronger one...
When had she been happiest? She knew what made her happiest, a common thread through her whole life: the Cruciatus. It might be unforgivable to some namby-pamby do-gooders, but she knew better. It had changed her life, and it had given her everything - her husband, her power, and Voldemort.
Cruciatus. Cruciatus. Cruciatus. She tapped her fingers against the stone floor in an unconscious syllable count.
Five Portraits of Walburga Black by sciathan_file (PG-rated gen, ~2000 words): A rich and very believable look into the profoundly disturbed head of Sirius' mother, from her formative years to how she coped in the final, disappointing years of her life. The author creates little scraps of sympathy for Walburga, which throw into sharper relief just how profoundly perverse she, her life, and her world are.
She finds in the morning that he has left.
It takes her four days to know that he has been found two days ago by the blood-traitor Potters. They are keeping him.
It takes her three hours after that to legally declare that she has only one son.
Eradicating him from her mind is not as simple a task. For a month after, she thinks that he might return and declare he has seen the error of his ways.
But she would hex him thoroughly if Sirius were ever to do that. There is no pride in someone who comes groveling back or running away. A Black has pride if nothing else - even the good for nothings and squibs.
Source by holyfant (PG-13 Arthur Weasley/Rita Skeeter, ~1100 words): An exploration into Rita Skeeter's motivations and modus operandi, by way of one particular source she's pumped. Rita comes off at her self-justifying, Machiavellian best/worst, and Arthur is sympathetic even as he makes decisions with which it's difficult to sympathize.
He liked to take her out for coffee. This surprised her, because during the sex he made her feel so nameless, so small, something to be quickly enjoyed and then thrown away. He usually did make sure she had one orgasm before he started to fuck her, as if he knew very well that he couldn’t do it slowly so she’d actually enjoy it. It was fast and hard and usually painful. It left her trembling and cold. But then he took her out for coffee afterward and asked her how many sugars she wanted. His eyes were soft then.
It confused her thoroughly, although she pretended not to care.
Chapter Nine: What If My Baby Is A Squib? by nineveh_uk (PG-rated gen; 1900 words): This fic resulted from a conversation about family practices and what parenting advice books might be like in the wizarding world, as opposed to Muggle Britain. The fic is written as "an extract from The Witch's Guide to Pregnancy, Birth, and Baby Care, by Alarica Rosier." The perspective of assumed magical superiority, with its attendant shortcomings in consideration, is pitch-perfect. What's truly chilling is that if you're not reading carefully, it almost seems to pass for insensitive but genuine advice.
It is not your fault, and you must put the thought out of your mind. The birth of a defective child is always a matter of great sadness, and it is only natural to wonder if you might have done anything to prevent it, but you must not reproach yourself. You have not caused this fault in your child by drinking farpleweed for morning sickness, by apparating soon after conception, or through excessive exposure to Electricity. One day Natural Philosophers may be able to identify witches at risk of giving birth to Squibs, but the main concern for a new mother should be to ensure an appropriate solution for her family.
And to lighten the mood:
Famous Author Kills Beloved Characters in Outing Tragedy by lolaraincoat.