Fic: Sleeping Beauty | Horace Slughorn, Lily Evans | R
Title: Sleeping Beauty
Characters: Horace Slughorn, Lily Evans
Word count: 500
Summary: Horace has an eye for talent.
Rating: R
Warnings: Non-con. Student/teacher.
Author's Note: Written for darkarts_ldws' fifth week. The prompts were Horace Slughorn and the draught of the living death. I even creeped myself out with this one. >.<
Horace took a great deal of satisfaction in his work. He had an eye for talent and the means to promote it, and so he did. Every year, he found at least one eleven-year old that was going to grow up to be great. Great and very grateful to his or her mentor, Professor Slughorn.
And then, when they’d reached the apex of their careers, Horace would ever so gently remind them that he was the one that found them, molded them and polished them till they shone.
But sometimes, with the true stars, he collected early.
~*~
The first time, she says the tea tastes off. He apologizes, explains to her that it’s his own special blend to help him sleep, that it’s the only brew the house elves bring him anymore.
She nods, accepting. Nearly seven years of acquaintance has built a trust. He would never steer her wrong.
When the tea cup slides from her hands, his wand is ready to catch it. Not because it would wake her but because he was rather fond of the pattern. The set had been a gift from a former student.
His fingers ghost over her still form, savoring. This girl--woman, nearly--would do amazing things because she had power, talent, and the drive to use them. But in the beginning, before she could become all this, she is one of the Slug Club. One of his.
With a fierce possessiveness, his hand clasps her thigh, brushing the material of her uniform. There is no response.
She's all his. His sleeping beauty.
After, he dabs Wiggenweld Potion on her lips and chuckles with her that the tea certainly is effective.
~*~
The second time, she doesn’t say a thing about the tea, just sips between angry sentences. She won't say names but Horace can hear James Potter in every impassioned word. His gut clenches violently at the thought of the boy with his flower but he soothes her all the same until her words slip away and her breathe is faint enough to think she’d died.
Horace takes heart that, for now, Lily is his, not James’.
~*~
The third time, she asks for a cup. “It’s so soothing. I always feel better after some.”
She’s brought him a gift: a lily in water that transforms in the most exquisite bit of charm and transfiguration work he’s ever seen from a 7th year witch. He’s struck with wonder at this woman he has created, beautiful, kind, and powerful. Perfection.
Horace knows that he’ll never find another student like Lily Evans.
The Draught takes her quickly this time, she doesn’t fight it. For the first time, he wishes she were awake as his lips press against her slack ones.
He wishes he were her prince.
Characters: Horace Slughorn, Lily Evans
Word count: 500
Summary: Horace has an eye for talent.
Rating: R
Warnings: Non-con. Student/teacher.
Author's Note: Written for darkarts_ldws' fifth week. The prompts were Horace Slughorn and the draught of the living death. I even creeped myself out with this one. >.<
Horace took a great deal of satisfaction in his work. He had an eye for talent and the means to promote it, and so he did. Every year, he found at least one eleven-year old that was going to grow up to be great. Great and very grateful to his or her mentor, Professor Slughorn.
And then, when they’d reached the apex of their careers, Horace would ever so gently remind them that he was the one that found them, molded them and polished them till they shone.
But sometimes, with the true stars, he collected early.
~*~
The first time, she says the tea tastes off. He apologizes, explains to her that it’s his own special blend to help him sleep, that it’s the only brew the house elves bring him anymore.
She nods, accepting. Nearly seven years of acquaintance has built a trust. He would never steer her wrong.
When the tea cup slides from her hands, his wand is ready to catch it. Not because it would wake her but because he was rather fond of the pattern. The set had been a gift from a former student.
His fingers ghost over her still form, savoring. This girl--woman, nearly--would do amazing things because she had power, talent, and the drive to use them. But in the beginning, before she could become all this, she is one of the Slug Club. One of his.
With a fierce possessiveness, his hand clasps her thigh, brushing the material of her uniform. There is no response.
She's all his. His sleeping beauty.
After, he dabs Wiggenweld Potion on her lips and chuckles with her that the tea certainly is effective.
~*~
The second time, she doesn’t say a thing about the tea, just sips between angry sentences. She won't say names but Horace can hear James Potter in every impassioned word. His gut clenches violently at the thought of the boy with his flower but he soothes her all the same until her words slip away and her breathe is faint enough to think she’d died.
Horace takes heart that, for now, Lily is his, not James’.
~*~
The third time, she asks for a cup. “It’s so soothing. I always feel better after some.”
She’s brought him a gift: a lily in water that transforms in the most exquisite bit of charm and transfiguration work he’s ever seen from a 7th year witch. He’s struck with wonder at this woman he has created, beautiful, kind, and powerful. Perfection.
Horace knows that he’ll never find another student like Lily Evans.
The Draught takes her quickly this time, she doesn’t fight it. For the first time, he wishes she were awake as his lips press against her slack ones.
He wishes he were her prince.