I love you like a whisper I love you all alone, I love you like a murder babe, I'm burying the bones
So, er, yeah. Last night appeared to be Snape!Het night for me at hpshortfics. Go figure. And JJ and I now have a dare on to write more Snape/Tonks. *eyes flist* Stop looking at me like that. Yes, I appear to have gotten addicted to Snape!Het for some reason. Shut up. *sticks tongue out*
Title: Razor Valentine
Pairing: Snape/Tonks
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 976
Notes: Written for jjtaylor's challenge Snape/Tonks, sight. And this is exactly why I should not be listening to Thea Gilmore while writing. *g* Title comes from Gilmore's song Razor Valentine which is here, if you want it. :)
The hands are on him again, holding him down and he screams, screams for her, and he can hear their whispers rushing over him like the rustle of leaves in a spring wind and he hears the words but he can't understand them, can't understand the language they speak, but he understands the pale hands pressing into his shoulders, his forehead, his legs, his arms, keeping him from thrashing, and the woman-her again with her puzzled frown and her curious blue eyes watching him that are so like her eyes-she presses the needle into his arm and he screams again-
**********************
It's dark when he wakes. Moonlight filters through the narrow window at the end of his room, pale silver through the twisted wire and the bars crossed over the thick, unbreakable glass.
He shifts on the cot and it creaks beneath him as his hipbone presses into the mattress. His fingers slide over the clammy skin on his forearm; he can feel the bones beneath the muscle, can feel the needle marks, can feel the edge of the Mark, still bandaged from the last time he tried to claw at it three days ago.
They now keep his fingernails clipped nearly to the quick.
He pushes at the white gauze, wiggling his fingertips beneath the edge, and he stares at the shadows on the floor, long and grey and black against the smooth concrete. His gaze drifts up to the window, where he can see a fragment of moon up at the very top corner. He clambers out of bed, his legs still shaking from the potion-medication, he corrects himself; won't do to give the Muggles any more reason to prove he is mad-from the medication they gave him earlier.
The moon is full, as it had been on that night, and he stands in its light, his cheek pressed against the cool wall next to the window. He stretches a hand out into the moonlight and he can feel it move against his hobbled magic, an almost imperceptible push of power against power. Dust glimmers in the light, dancing across his skin, and he breathes out slowly, relishing the slow tingle that runs through his blood
"Severus."
He turns at the whisper, with a small smile. She's come again, with the moonlight.
Nymphadora stands in front of him, her skin as pale and as silver as the moon itself, and Severus' breath catches. The shadows from the bars and wires cross her face, and her hair is a filthy snarl of unwashed pink, hanging over her scarred shoulder and Severus can't stop himself from brushing his knuckles against that soft, warm cheek.
"I've missed you," Severus says softly, and she smiles as her hand-soft and smooth--curls around his gaunt wrist, as her fingers slide across his palm and twist through his own.
"Didn't I tell you I'd come back?"
Severus circles her, his bare feet cold on the floor, eyes drinking in the sight of her. His fingertips shake as they run across the blue robe, across the stiff, dried stain on Nymphadora's shoulders, as they brush at the twisted curl of matted, crusted pink hair tucked behind her ear, as they trace the sharp angle of her bruised jaw. He stops in front of her again. "They don't believe you exist," he whispers, and Nymphadora presses her forehead to Severus', her hand first cool on Severus' cheek, then smoothing back his hair, as long and snarled and filthy as her own.
"I'm here," she whispers back, and her mouth brushes the corner of Severus', warm and soft, and he shivers. He remembers that touch, remembers the slide of her body against his, remembers the quiet sigh she made as he pressed inside her.
She believed him when she found him. She believed him and she hadn't let him run.
She'd known him. Wanted him. Protected him.
Lov-he caught himself. Cared for him.
And in return he had-but he hadn't-he wouldn't have, no matter what the damned Muggles thought. No matter what he thought.
He shakes and he grabs at Nymphadora's robe, twisting his fingers in the soft wool, and he can feel her move against him, can feel her body press into his as her arms slip around his neck, holding him tight. "I've told them. I've said you come with the full moon and they think I'm mad." His mouth moves across Nymphadora's, lips barely touching, and then her hand is in his hair, pulling him closer. "Tell me I'm not mad."
"You're not mad," she whispers softly into his neck and for one moment he believes her until he remembers that she only comes to him in the moonlight.
Severus breathes out, a warm huff against the soft brush of her hair on his mouth, and he can smell the blood still matting it.
Can still see her lying in their bed and the pestle , Merlin, his pestle next to her temple, and he can still hear the footsteps of the Muggles in the hallway and the empty potions bottle rolling across the floor as he stumbled next to the bed, the bottle with the Malfoy crest and the smell of roses and his magic-he can't Apparate, his body is too heavy and thick to push through the air and as the Muggles burst into the flat, he sees the word written in blood-her blood-on the wall just before the familiar, boyish handwriting vanishes, sinking into the peeling plaster, and it's only here in the moonlight he can remember it now.
Squib.
He tightens his grip on her and his hands tremble. "I didn't-" he begins and she presses a finger to his lips, stepping away with a small smile.
And he stands alone.
He holds his hands into the moonlight, waiting. Wishing for the twist of magic that she brings.
The shadows are cold as they stretch across his skin.
Title: Rough God Goes Riding
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: PG
Word count: 676
Notes: Written for arsenicjade's challenge Hermione/anyone, taste. (And dude. Yes. I picked Snape/Hermione.)
Hermione smiled at the Ministry guard as he closed the door behind her, and she gripped the handle of her satchel tightly.
He was sitting next to the window, like he always did each Thursday when she saw him, staring into the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the dirty glass. The Cauldron wasn't known for its cleanliness, but she supposed that he wouldn't complain. At least not about this. House arrest here while he awaited trial was better than Azkaban; the Ministry had agreed to that particular concession based upon his work for the Order.
She coughed softly and he sighed, motioning towards the chair across from him. "Sit, Granger." He didn't bother to look at her; he never did.
She sat, setting the satchel on the table between them. She still didn't understand why he'd asked for her representation. She was only an assistant in the criminal defence solicitor's office in the MLE, after all. Although his case-his very high-profile case-could be what made her career.
Or destroyed it.
Hermione pulled out her folders, each one neatly labeled with a colour-coded tab that corresponded to the chart in her office of witnesses and testimony and Ministry documents.
He rolled his eyes and reached for his cup of tea. Earl Grey, she knew. It was all he ever drank. She'd tried to pour him Darjeeling once, when they had first met in the office. He'd spit it out and binned the entire cup, all while informing her in quite emphatic terms never to serve him that cack ever again.
She hadn't.
She set the top folder-the one whose code matched the segment on her chart referencing Death Eater testimony-in front of him. "Nott appeared before the Wizengamot yesterday. I need you to go over his testimony and tell me where he's lying."
He shrugged, ignoring the file and watched a ladybird crawl across the outside of the windowpane. His dark eyes were inscrutable.
Hermione sighed. "You could try making this a bit easier for me. I am attempting to save your life, you realise."
That earned her a black glare, as expected, but he flipped open the folder and scowled down into it, tapping one long finger down the parchment. "Most certainly untrue." He snorted and flicked at another paragraph. "Quite far from the truth of the matter, do believe me. And Nott is an utter imbecile." He shoved the folder back towards her and stared back out the window.
They were silent for a moment. He picked up his teacup and sipped from it. His hand barely shook as he set it down.
"I intend to win," Hermione said softly. "You should know that."
"Perhaps."
"You wouldn't have asked me if you didn't think I could." She closed the folder, ignoring his disdainful raised eyebrow, and reached for another file, setting it in front of him. "Harry's statement."
"And what charming anecdotes does Potter have to tell in my defence?" he asked, mouth twisting as he shoved the file back at her, unopened. "How I tormented him? How I murdered his mentor? Certainly not how I saved his miserable arse time after time after time again."
"Severus."
He met her gaze then, and his eyes flashed in irritation at her familiarity. She lifted her chin, mouth tight. He looked away, raising his teacup. "Just see that you do not allow me to die, Granger."
She nodded.
She wondered if his mouth would taste like bergamot.
She handed him Harry's file again.
He opened it slowly; she sighed. She was quite certain he was going to destroy her.
He set his teacup aside and flipped the page, his teeth catching his bottom lip as he read.
She looked away then, and she let her hair tumble into her face, obscuring her eyes. She reached for the second teacup and poured, and her hand was surprisingly steady.
She sipped and pointedly didn't think of the tins of Earl Grey in her cupboard at home, of the Darjeeling they had replaced.
Yes. Her destruction was quite certain.
Title: Razor Valentine
Pairing: Snape/Tonks
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 976
Notes: Written for jjtaylor's challenge Snape/Tonks, sight. And this is exactly why I should not be listening to Thea Gilmore while writing. *g* Title comes from Gilmore's song Razor Valentine which is here, if you want it. :)
The hands are on him again, holding him down and he screams, screams for her, and he can hear their whispers rushing over him like the rustle of leaves in a spring wind and he hears the words but he can't understand them, can't understand the language they speak, but he understands the pale hands pressing into his shoulders, his forehead, his legs, his arms, keeping him from thrashing, and the woman-her again with her puzzled frown and her curious blue eyes watching him that are so like her eyes-she presses the needle into his arm and he screams again-
**********************
It's dark when he wakes. Moonlight filters through the narrow window at the end of his room, pale silver through the twisted wire and the bars crossed over the thick, unbreakable glass.
He shifts on the cot and it creaks beneath him as his hipbone presses into the mattress. His fingers slide over the clammy skin on his forearm; he can feel the bones beneath the muscle, can feel the needle marks, can feel the edge of the Mark, still bandaged from the last time he tried to claw at it three days ago.
They now keep his fingernails clipped nearly to the quick.
He pushes at the white gauze, wiggling his fingertips beneath the edge, and he stares at the shadows on the floor, long and grey and black against the smooth concrete. His gaze drifts up to the window, where he can see a fragment of moon up at the very top corner. He clambers out of bed, his legs still shaking from the potion-medication, he corrects himself; won't do to give the Muggles any more reason to prove he is mad-from the medication they gave him earlier.
The moon is full, as it had been on that night, and he stands in its light, his cheek pressed against the cool wall next to the window. He stretches a hand out into the moonlight and he can feel it move against his hobbled magic, an almost imperceptible push of power against power. Dust glimmers in the light, dancing across his skin, and he breathes out slowly, relishing the slow tingle that runs through his blood
"Severus."
He turns at the whisper, with a small smile. She's come again, with the moonlight.
Nymphadora stands in front of him, her skin as pale and as silver as the moon itself, and Severus' breath catches. The shadows from the bars and wires cross her face, and her hair is a filthy snarl of unwashed pink, hanging over her scarred shoulder and Severus can't stop himself from brushing his knuckles against that soft, warm cheek.
"I've missed you," Severus says softly, and she smiles as her hand-soft and smooth--curls around his gaunt wrist, as her fingers slide across his palm and twist through his own.
"Didn't I tell you I'd come back?"
Severus circles her, his bare feet cold on the floor, eyes drinking in the sight of her. His fingertips shake as they run across the blue robe, across the stiff, dried stain on Nymphadora's shoulders, as they brush at the twisted curl of matted, crusted pink hair tucked behind her ear, as they trace the sharp angle of her bruised jaw. He stops in front of her again. "They don't believe you exist," he whispers, and Nymphadora presses her forehead to Severus', her hand first cool on Severus' cheek, then smoothing back his hair, as long and snarled and filthy as her own.
"I'm here," she whispers back, and her mouth brushes the corner of Severus', warm and soft, and he shivers. He remembers that touch, remembers the slide of her body against his, remembers the quiet sigh she made as he pressed inside her.
She believed him when she found him. She believed him and she hadn't let him run.
She'd known him. Wanted him. Protected him.
Lov-he caught himself. Cared for him.
And in return he had-but he hadn't-he wouldn't have, no matter what the damned Muggles thought. No matter what he thought.
He shakes and he grabs at Nymphadora's robe, twisting his fingers in the soft wool, and he can feel her move against him, can feel her body press into his as her arms slip around his neck, holding him tight. "I've told them. I've said you come with the full moon and they think I'm mad." His mouth moves across Nymphadora's, lips barely touching, and then her hand is in his hair, pulling him closer. "Tell me I'm not mad."
"You're not mad," she whispers softly into his neck and for one moment he believes her until he remembers that she only comes to him in the moonlight.
Severus breathes out, a warm huff against the soft brush of her hair on his mouth, and he can smell the blood still matting it.
Can still see her lying in their bed and the pestle , Merlin, his pestle next to her temple, and he can still hear the footsteps of the Muggles in the hallway and the empty potions bottle rolling across the floor as he stumbled next to the bed, the bottle with the Malfoy crest and the smell of roses and his magic-he can't Apparate, his body is too heavy and thick to push through the air and as the Muggles burst into the flat, he sees the word written in blood-her blood-on the wall just before the familiar, boyish handwriting vanishes, sinking into the peeling plaster, and it's only here in the moonlight he can remember it now.
Squib.
He tightens his grip on her and his hands tremble. "I didn't-" he begins and she presses a finger to his lips, stepping away with a small smile.
And he stands alone.
He holds his hands into the moonlight, waiting. Wishing for the twist of magic that she brings.
The shadows are cold as they stretch across his skin.
Title: Rough God Goes Riding
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: PG
Word count: 676
Notes: Written for arsenicjade's challenge Hermione/anyone, taste. (And dude. Yes. I picked Snape/Hermione.)
Hermione smiled at the Ministry guard as he closed the door behind her, and she gripped the handle of her satchel tightly.
He was sitting next to the window, like he always did each Thursday when she saw him, staring into the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the dirty glass. The Cauldron wasn't known for its cleanliness, but she supposed that he wouldn't complain. At least not about this. House arrest here while he awaited trial was better than Azkaban; the Ministry had agreed to that particular concession based upon his work for the Order.
She coughed softly and he sighed, motioning towards the chair across from him. "Sit, Granger." He didn't bother to look at her; he never did.
She sat, setting the satchel on the table between them. She still didn't understand why he'd asked for her representation. She was only an assistant in the criminal defence solicitor's office in the MLE, after all. Although his case-his very high-profile case-could be what made her career.
Or destroyed it.
Hermione pulled out her folders, each one neatly labeled with a colour-coded tab that corresponded to the chart in her office of witnesses and testimony and Ministry documents.
He rolled his eyes and reached for his cup of tea. Earl Grey, she knew. It was all he ever drank. She'd tried to pour him Darjeeling once, when they had first met in the office. He'd spit it out and binned the entire cup, all while informing her in quite emphatic terms never to serve him that cack ever again.
She hadn't.
She set the top folder-the one whose code matched the segment on her chart referencing Death Eater testimony-in front of him. "Nott appeared before the Wizengamot yesterday. I need you to go over his testimony and tell me where he's lying."
He shrugged, ignoring the file and watched a ladybird crawl across the outside of the windowpane. His dark eyes were inscrutable.
Hermione sighed. "You could try making this a bit easier for me. I am attempting to save your life, you realise."
That earned her a black glare, as expected, but he flipped open the folder and scowled down into it, tapping one long finger down the parchment. "Most certainly untrue." He snorted and flicked at another paragraph. "Quite far from the truth of the matter, do believe me. And Nott is an utter imbecile." He shoved the folder back towards her and stared back out the window.
They were silent for a moment. He picked up his teacup and sipped from it. His hand barely shook as he set it down.
"I intend to win," Hermione said softly. "You should know that."
"Perhaps."
"You wouldn't have asked me if you didn't think I could." She closed the folder, ignoring his disdainful raised eyebrow, and reached for another file, setting it in front of him. "Harry's statement."
"And what charming anecdotes does Potter have to tell in my defence?" he asked, mouth twisting as he shoved the file back at her, unopened. "How I tormented him? How I murdered his mentor? Certainly not how I saved his miserable arse time after time after time again."
"Severus."
He met her gaze then, and his eyes flashed in irritation at her familiarity. She lifted her chin, mouth tight. He looked away, raising his teacup. "Just see that you do not allow me to die, Granger."
She nodded.
She wondered if his mouth would taste like bergamot.
She handed him Harry's file again.
He opened it slowly; she sighed. She was quite certain he was going to destroy her.
He set his teacup aside and flipped the page, his teeth catching his bottom lip as he read.
She looked away then, and she let her hair tumble into her face, obscuring her eyes. She reached for the second teacup and poured, and her hand was surprisingly steady.
She sipped and pointedly didn't think of the tins of Earl Grey in her cupboard at home, of the Darjeeling they had replaced.
Yes. Her destruction was quite certain.