Challenge #051: Rare Pairings
Title: The Happiest Ending
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, AU in that pretend this was written before HBP and DH, and that Sirius is still alive.
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Theodore
Summary: He is the pureblooded Slytherin son of a Death Eater, quiet, intelligent, (beautiful), and one day he spies for the Order.
Word Count: 1458
Author's Notes: I once wrote a drabble and I wanted to revisit it, so I did.
Registered purchases?: Both!
i.
Harry doesn't know what to think when he walks into the Order of the Phoenix headquarters and finds himself face to face with Theodore Nott.
"He's a Slytherin!" he yells, protesting and struggling against the hold Remus Lupin has around his arms, his waist, anything to keep him from lunging after the thin, scrawny boy with the dark hair and the quiet, unnerved gaze.
"He's one of us now, Harry," Remus tells him. "He wants to help us."
"And you trust him?" Harry asks, appalled. "He's one of them." He can't take his eyes off his tie, green-and-silver, nor the way he holds himself--distanced, apart from them. There is nothing in his stance that tells him yes, he can trust him, even though he can never once recall Theodore Nott standing among Draco Malfoy's posse, nor can he bring to mind any single instance that Theodore Nott had said anything unkind to Hermione, or any of the Muggleborns, or even to Neville and Luna and Ron, who were pure as they came but were still regarded with jeers even among the others.
"Dumbledore trusts him," is all Remus says, and then Harry knows, yes, that is enough. That is the proof they need. If Dumbledore trusts a man, after all-- if Dumbledore can trust Snape, then what was another one like him? A younger wizard, a quieter one, a young boy who even now had not taken his eyes off Harry.
"I don't," Harry says, even though everyone knows by now the words are more out of stubbornness than belief. He'll keep his eyes on Nott, he decides, even if Dumbledore and the rest of the Order feel comfortable around him.
ii.
Theodore Nott grows up as any other pureblooded boy whose father was under Lord Voldemort's command does, he tells Harry. This confession comes unsolicited--Harry is in the middle of drawing up plans to attack when he hears this from Theodore, and he blinks at him, silent and jaw gaping, before realizing he should probably say something in return.
"Okay," is his brilliant response.
"I'm not surprised Draco's doing all he can to please Him," Theodore says. "And my father thinks I am doing the very same thing."
At those words Harry's blood runs cold. "They know you're here?"
Theodore gives him a queer look. "If they didn't, do you suppose I'd still be alive?"
That much is true, Harry realizes. "Then how do they know which side you're truly on?"
"Professor Snape tells me you didn't take to your Occlumency lessons very well," he says. "I did."
It is not the first time Harry feels dumb around Theodore Nott. He hates to admit it, but Theodore knows more about the Death Eaters than he could ever hope to discover; he understands them on a level that they cannot. Even with Snape the knowledge they have gathered has doubled, with Theodore. There are simply some things that Snape cannot be privy to, but which Theodore can reach, either due to his stealth, or the ability by which he can make himself unseen.
Harry doesn't understand how Theodore does it--since he came to Hogwarts he has found it impossible to be anywhere people won't see him. His life is on spotlight, every movement broadcast to a ravenous public. Even among friends he feels central. With Theodore it is different--he keeps to the shadows, never speaking unless necessary, never revealing his thoughts unless it is to change everyone else's.
They can use a wizard like him in the Order, Harry thinks, and then he smiles ruefully. They are, he realizes.
iii.
The Zabinis are neutral as the grays at dusk and dawn, between day and night. The Malfoys are entrapped and tangled in their own blind lust for power and glory, with Draco caught in a web of his own foolish doing. The Parkinsons are in it for the money. The Greengrasses are involved without their knowledge.
This Theodore tells the Order before he furnishes them with proof of his claim. There, an Italian document sealed with the Zabini name detailing the business dealings of Mrs Zabini with both Death Eaters and Order members. She sells to the highest bidder, Theodore says, and as soon as trouble arrives she'll make for the nearest sanctuary. Greece, he ventures, as the family has a villa there. From another scroll he unravels the details of the Malfoys' involvement. They are housing the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters in the Manor. Lucius has given up his wand, Narcissa her gardens. That's where Charity Burbage disappeared into. I am sorry, Theodore says, but there was nothing could be done. She is gone, and they are moving into Hogwarts next.
Pius Thicknesse, he points out, is under the Imperius Curse. He is not one of them but he very well may be regardless. They are colluding with Dolores Umbridge; whatever Dumbledore does the wheels are already in motion. They will place Death Eaters in the school or face attack.
"There's no way we'll get out of this one way or another," Harry argues long before everyone else has already left. "You can't imagine they won't do anything once they're inside Hogwarts."
"No, that is exactly as they want," Theodore agrees. "But what do you propose we do? Resist and fight when our own numbers are as pathetic as they are? When does Hagrid return? In a fortnight? In a month? Will he ever?"
Harry snarls, tells him not to say that--truth is they haven't heard from Hagrid since they sent him to the giants, and the worry that he won't return is there, niggling at the back of their minds and settling in the pit of their stomachs, sickening and churning. Theodore doesn't even blink. He never seems caught off-guard by anything Harry ever does, never even seems threatened when he brandishes his wand, or curls his fists against his robes, or pins him to the wall. "Take it back," Harry demands. "Take it back."
"I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking," Theodore says, his eyes glimmering with a hint of something that catches Harry by surprise. It is the first time he sees Theodore express emotion, and if he isn't mistaken it looks a lot like--
When he kisses Theodore it is only because it seems to him the most natural thing in the world, to press lips upon his as his body is already against Theodore's. Theodore doesn't move back, doesn't jerk away; he only moves his hands up to hold Harry by his arms and kisses him back.
iv.
Theodore Nott spies for the Order, Harry realizes, because he is smarter than his peers. He knows what they cannot see, blinded as they are by years of purist propaganda and Muggle prejudice. He comes to spy for the Order because he is sickened by the hatred, the lemming-like echoing of sentiment, even as he is forced to spew the same drivel anytime he is with his father or his Lord or his peers.
"How do you stand it?" he asks Theodore, late one night while they are tangled in bed, the sheets snaking around their legs.
"It's easy to lie if you can see a grain of truth behind it," Theodore says, and at Harry's confused sound he adds: "There is a grain of truth behind everything. Those are the best lies."
v.
Harry doesn't understand what Theodore means until the day in battle, when they find they do have the numbers but that the Death Eaters have turned all of Hogwarts against them with well-placed Imperius Curses. He is grappling for something to hold, struggling to get back on his feet, desperate to find help, friends, Theodore.
"Harry!"
He tips forward, but he is held upright by a strong pair of arms around him. "Remus, Sirius--" he gasps, smoke and debris and despair filling his lungs with a throbbing, itchy sort of ache. "We have to--"
"It's all right," Theodore whispers, smoothing back his hair, murmuring in his ear as he sets Harry down.
"Don't-- I have to--"
"You have to stay here," Theodore tells him. "I'm sorry," he whispers in his ear.
"About what?" Harry wants to know, grabbing the front of Theodore's robes and curling his fingers tight so he doesn't leave. "Theodore--"
Theodore's lips are upon him in the next instant, and for a moment Harry lets himself forget, lets himself take whatever comfort he can get from the warmth of his mouth, the heat of his skin.
He never considers that maybe, just maybe, Theodore actually believed Voldemort's cause, so when Theodore begs his forgiveness another time, whispers Avada Kedavra before he can stop him, it is already too late.
Harry dies kissing Theodore.
Word count points: 1458/30 = 48.6 49 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Title: Black
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, infidelity
Characters/Pairing: Justin/Terry
Summary: It is late.
Word Count: 982
Author's Notes: Obviously today's theme is remixing drabbles. This one is based off another drabble of the same title. :)
Registered purchases?: Both!
When they ask, Terry is the happiest he's ever been. His eyes light up, he finds it hard to resist the tugging of a devoted smile on the corner of his lips, and his tone turns shy.
Lisa laughs, pinches his cheeks. How in love you are, she says, before dropping some self-deprecating comment about her own search for love.
I'm really happy for you, Mandy tells him, smiling wistfully herself as she looks into the eyes of her fiance.
Glad it's working out, mate, Michael says, when they are alone for a moment and the others are busy talking about the good old days and where they are and what they're up to these days. For a moment, Michael says, and here his voice trails off, hesitation sneaks into his tone, and that's when Terry will smile ever brighter, ever happier.
I'm happy, he says, and he means it then.
*
When Justin asks, Terry is fine the way things are. He's open-minded, he knows that he cannot have it the way most others have it. Justin does adore him, he says so himself, when he comes home feeling playful and tugging Terry into the bathtub or the shower or the kitchen table or--heaven forbid, but it really did happen that one time and he'll never be able to admit it to anyone else, not even on pain of death, his parents' bedroom when he and Justin were house-sitting that one time.
It's just the way Justin is, though, and it's one of the reasons Terry loves him so much. Somehow he is able to bring out the best in Terry. He can draw Terry out like no one can, coax him to do things he otherwise wouldn't even want to do, because Justin loves life and lives it the way Terry can only read about most other days, on Justin-less moments, and for that he is grateful.
And he appreciates Terry, he says so himself. What did I ever do to get as lucky as I did, Justin wonders out loud many times, when Terry makes him breakfast in bed or cooks him up his favorite meal or takes him on an impromptu trip to Ibiza (because, as Terry explains, it seemed like something you would do, and don't you want to go?). Terry only laughs, because Justin didn't do anything and he isn't that lucky, so he should stop trying to flatter Terry as if that will get him anywhere because it won't--and then Terry gives up, because at this point Justin is already nuzzling at his neck, his hand is already wandering into places it shouldn't go (not when they're out in public, at least).
*
When he asks himself, Terry is content. He will hum through life as he is and take things as they are. He lives in a decent two-bedroom, has enough galleons in savings, has a boyfriend who adores him.
He spends his time doing spontaneous things that are often Justin's ideas, gardens in his free time even though he has whatever the opposite of green thumbs is, and reads whatever books are on sale at Flourish and whatever catches his eyes whenever he wanders about the city.
Some days he will wake up to an empty bed, some days he will sleep by himself, but that's just par for the course and whoever said fairy tales had to be the exact same happily-ever-after ending for everyone didn't really know what they were talking about.
He flips the page of his current read and contemplates turning the light off for the night and working by the glow of his wand instead. The ink is beginning to bleed through the pages and blur into mumbo-jumbo that his brain is having a hard time processing so he sets his book down for a little bit, rubs his temples and squints. There is a dull throbbing in his head and the bitter aftertaste of an argument at the back of his throat, neither of which he can will away or cure with any one of the potions in the bathroom cabinet. He sighs and slips out of bed, tying his robes around his waist as he pads through the bedroom to look out the window.
He doesn't know what time Justin comes back home tonight. He doesn't know if he plans to.
What Terry knows is this: that when Justin comes home later, or at all, he will reek of alcohol and cigarette smoke, words slurring with apologies and babble while he stumbles into the room, stubs his toe against the dresser, kicking it and cursing it for being there despite it never having moved from its spot since they moved in over a year ago. He will fill the heavy silence with his voice, lilting and giggly, and when he realizes Terry is not talking he will look to him with wide, sorry eyes.
He will apologize to Terry, wrap his arms around Terry's shoulders and attempt to placate him with the smell of other men clinging to his clothes and his lips and his skin, pleading his case and throwing himself at Terry's mercy.
He is sorry, Terry knows that for sure. He always is, and this is why he finds it difficult not to forgive him. Because what is he supposed to do? Justin is the love of his life and loving Justin means loving every part of him, even the ones that Terry wishes desperately he didn't have to have.
Doesn't it?
From down the street he can see a lamp light flickering as a figure stumbles down the concrete. Despite himself Terry does feel that little flutter of affection, along with a pang of anger. He moves back to the bed and crawls beneath the sheets. Justin will be coming in any second.
It is late, and Terry is as blind as the night.
Word count points: 982/30 = 33 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Title: Vases of Vanity
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, warning for infidelity
Characters/Pairing: Pansy/Ginny, Pansy/OC, Harry/Ginny
Summary: Pansy and Ginny meet at a benefit.
Word Count: 1379
Author's Notes: Yep, based off another drabble. Whee!
Registered purchases?: Both!
i. Pansy
She double-checks that her glamor charms are perfect, looks at the mirror and stares intently to make sure not a stray lock of hair is out of place, and the one that is, is there to artistically frame her face. She smiles, pouts, puckers apple-red lips and casts the softest of blushes on her cheeks. Her skin is porcelain-smooth, her neck heavy with a large emerald set in white gold and hanging by a thin sliver of a chain, her ears peeking from behind a curtain of soft black curls only to showcase matching emerald drops. Her eyes are a deep-set hazel, her smile a gorgeous hello, here I am to the world at large. Her breasts are tight, against the corset, her waist tiny and negligible. Her dress is full and lush and she is the picture of elegance, of perfection, of beauty.
"Ready to go?" her husband asks, poking his head from the door.
"In a while," she says with a smile, serene and never hurrying. (Ladies don't hurry.) She is lucky, she thinks, for she married a rich man, a good man, a man her family believes is spotless in reputation and whose name isn't marred by war or ugliness or prejudice. He is a kindly man, a smiling man, a doting man. He showers her with pearls even when she doesn't ask, takes her on trips even when she doesn't say anything, and goes above and beyond to treat her like a queen.
As she is.
With delicate fingers she takes her laced gloves and slips them up her smooth skin. Her fingernail catches upon the fabric and she frowns. (That will not do, there is no room for tears and imperfections here.)
"Darling?" he calls again.
"Coming," she says.
ii. Ginny
There is no girl as lucky as she is in the entirety of the world, this Ginny Weasley-Potter knows for certain. She has a loving family, supportive friends, and an adoring husband she met at school and who would give the world for her.
"You look beautiful," Harry tells her and she blushes accordingly. He always sounds as though she takes his breath away, but that's silly, because it's only her, it's only Ginny. She's got too many freckles dotting her bare shoulders and her arms, her hair is a wild red that can usually be tamed, but which frays around her regardless. She isn't much, she doesn't have much, but Harry does seem to love her, and she does love him in return. That's all there is to it, isn't it? That's all that's needed to be happy, isn't it? Sweet kisses in the morning, comfortable sex once a week, kind eyes and gentle touches and Harry, adoring and devoted and gentle, sweet, Harry.
"I'm not," she denies, laughing as she turns to face the mirror. Her nose is pert, a little upturned, defiant as she is growing up in a house of six brothers. Her glamor charms are a bit off--it has been a while since she's done anything with them--and her dress is a little too loose in the torso, a little too snug around the hips. There is not much she can do about that, it's the curse of being an athlete for a living-- her arms are a bit too toned, her shoulders too broad-- but Harry puts his arms around her and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her head.
"Yes you are," he says, always with the right thing whenever she needs it. "Stop worrying, you're fine."
She doubts him regardless but figures perhaps it is not the time to argue, they do have somewhere to be. She grabs the last of her accessories--diamond earrings, matching the stone that graces her finger--and puts them on. "All right," she says. "I'm ready."
iii. The Benefit
Ginny clings to his arm, brushes away the fraying strands of hair around her face. They whip around her, wild and unruly, but she doubts anyone minds. She doubts anyone sees. They are surrounded by a flurry of jewel-colored gowns, elegant robes and painstakingly charmed curls, buns, wavy hair. There are smiles, too, and she forces herself to smile in return, because they came here for her--well, for Harry--and she needs to play her part.
They whisper around her, and she does not need to listen close to know what it is they are talking about. It's the Boy Who Lived, it's the Savior of the Wizarding World, what cause has he to preach about tonight? Since Harry defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, got accepted into the Auror ranks, settled into the more mundane task of everyday justice, they've found his voice still can be useful for bringing to light many other causes. It's the reason he started his foundation, the reason he is this much in-demand and this much still in the limelight.
Ginny doesn't mind, really, considering it means that the cause of the week (Squibs, this time, and opportunities for them in light of their plight) gets the galleons it deserves in order to be fixed, but sometimes, like tonight, the attention (and lack thereof) can be suffocating. Gently, politely, she extracts herself from his arm, slips out of the throng of people who can never get enough of Harry Potter (unless they live with him almost 24/7) and look for fresh air. It should not be hard to find, she thinks.
It's everywhere Harry isn't.
iv. By Chance They Meet
She doesn't expect to find Pansy Parkinson taking a deep drag of her cigarette when finally she manages to find the gardens, but there she is, merely moving away to give her space when she asks if there is enough room.
"Weasley," Pansy says, voice cool as ever, surprising only because Ginny had expected more heat, more anger. But years do heal, she supposes, and there is nothing in her heart left for Pansy Parkinson but the small amount of gratitude that she did not decide to make a big deal of her arrival.
"Weasley-Potter, actually," she says, eyeing Pansy's cigarette for a moment. "Do you have any more?"
Pansy gives her a curious expression, and it looks like she swallows a question she means to ask. Instead she reaches into her slim purse and takes out another stick to hand to her. Ginny takes it gratefully, lets Pansy light it with the tip of her wand, and draws a deep hit. "Ah, I forget. Wedding of the Century, was it not? First time I've seen more coverage for the groom than the bride, though," she says with a sharp laugh. "Did I even see the gown?"
"It was my mother's," Ginny says, coloring because her mother, well-intentioned as she was, had wanted her to wear her own wedding dress, which had been handed down from the maternal side of the family. Tradition, Molly Weasley had said, and Ginny would have been proud had she not felt embarrassed knowing the question on everyone else's minds would have been whether or not she wore the dress because her family couldn't afford much more. She adds, after coughing: "All the better, I suppose."
At this Pansy only raises an eyebrow. "Do you even know how to smoke?" is her challenge.
Ginny shrugs. "Well enough."
Pansy laughs. "If you came here for fresh air this isn't the best idea for you," she tells her, taking the stick from between her fingers and brandishing it with the ease of a smoker. "See?"
Ginny rolls her eyes at the condescension, but grabs it all the same. "Like this?" she asks, but Pansy shakes her head and guides her fingers so she is holding her stick correctly.
"Do I have to show you how to smoke it too?" Pansy asks.
v. Later
She shows her how to do other things as well. Later, they find themselves alone, or hidden, Ginny with her back to the wall, Pansy's sleeves falling down her bare shoulder, covered by the black of the night and the foliage of the gardens.
"Yes, like this," Ginny says, as Pansy worships each freckle with a peppered, feathery kiss.
Pansy's make-up is smudged, and Ginny's dress is dirtied. Pansy is no longer perfect, Ginny not as pure.
It is not what matters.
Word count points: 1379/30 = 46 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Total word count points: 49 + 33 + 46 = 128 125 points
Bonus points: 10 + 10 + 10 = 30
Total points: 155 pts for Ravenclaw!
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, AU in that pretend this was written before HBP and DH, and that Sirius is still alive.
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Theodore
Summary: He is the pureblooded Slytherin son of a Death Eater, quiet, intelligent, (beautiful), and one day he spies for the Order.
Word Count: 1458
Author's Notes: I once wrote a drabble and I wanted to revisit it, so I did.
Registered purchases?: Both!
i.
Harry doesn't know what to think when he walks into the Order of the Phoenix headquarters and finds himself face to face with Theodore Nott.
"He's a Slytherin!" he yells, protesting and struggling against the hold Remus Lupin has around his arms, his waist, anything to keep him from lunging after the thin, scrawny boy with the dark hair and the quiet, unnerved gaze.
"He's one of us now, Harry," Remus tells him. "He wants to help us."
"And you trust him?" Harry asks, appalled. "He's one of them." He can't take his eyes off his tie, green-and-silver, nor the way he holds himself--distanced, apart from them. There is nothing in his stance that tells him yes, he can trust him, even though he can never once recall Theodore Nott standing among Draco Malfoy's posse, nor can he bring to mind any single instance that Theodore Nott had said anything unkind to Hermione, or any of the Muggleborns, or even to Neville and Luna and Ron, who were pure as they came but were still regarded with jeers even among the others.
"Dumbledore trusts him," is all Remus says, and then Harry knows, yes, that is enough. That is the proof they need. If Dumbledore trusts a man, after all-- if Dumbledore can trust Snape, then what was another one like him? A younger wizard, a quieter one, a young boy who even now had not taken his eyes off Harry.
"I don't," Harry says, even though everyone knows by now the words are more out of stubbornness than belief. He'll keep his eyes on Nott, he decides, even if Dumbledore and the rest of the Order feel comfortable around him.
ii.
Theodore Nott grows up as any other pureblooded boy whose father was under Lord Voldemort's command does, he tells Harry. This confession comes unsolicited--Harry is in the middle of drawing up plans to attack when he hears this from Theodore, and he blinks at him, silent and jaw gaping, before realizing he should probably say something in return.
"Okay," is his brilliant response.
"I'm not surprised Draco's doing all he can to please Him," Theodore says. "And my father thinks I am doing the very same thing."
At those words Harry's blood runs cold. "They know you're here?"
Theodore gives him a queer look. "If they didn't, do you suppose I'd still be alive?"
That much is true, Harry realizes. "Then how do they know which side you're truly on?"
"Professor Snape tells me you didn't take to your Occlumency lessons very well," he says. "I did."
It is not the first time Harry feels dumb around Theodore Nott. He hates to admit it, but Theodore knows more about the Death Eaters than he could ever hope to discover; he understands them on a level that they cannot. Even with Snape the knowledge they have gathered has doubled, with Theodore. There are simply some things that Snape cannot be privy to, but which Theodore can reach, either due to his stealth, or the ability by which he can make himself unseen.
Harry doesn't understand how Theodore does it--since he came to Hogwarts he has found it impossible to be anywhere people won't see him. His life is on spotlight, every movement broadcast to a ravenous public. Even among friends he feels central. With Theodore it is different--he keeps to the shadows, never speaking unless necessary, never revealing his thoughts unless it is to change everyone else's.
They can use a wizard like him in the Order, Harry thinks, and then he smiles ruefully. They are, he realizes.
iii.
The Zabinis are neutral as the grays at dusk and dawn, between day and night. The Malfoys are entrapped and tangled in their own blind lust for power and glory, with Draco caught in a web of his own foolish doing. The Parkinsons are in it for the money. The Greengrasses are involved without their knowledge.
This Theodore tells the Order before he furnishes them with proof of his claim. There, an Italian document sealed with the Zabini name detailing the business dealings of Mrs Zabini with both Death Eaters and Order members. She sells to the highest bidder, Theodore says, and as soon as trouble arrives she'll make for the nearest sanctuary. Greece, he ventures, as the family has a villa there. From another scroll he unravels the details of the Malfoys' involvement. They are housing the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters in the Manor. Lucius has given up his wand, Narcissa her gardens. That's where Charity Burbage disappeared into. I am sorry, Theodore says, but there was nothing could be done. She is gone, and they are moving into Hogwarts next.
Pius Thicknesse, he points out, is under the Imperius Curse. He is not one of them but he very well may be regardless. They are colluding with Dolores Umbridge; whatever Dumbledore does the wheels are already in motion. They will place Death Eaters in the school or face attack.
"There's no way we'll get out of this one way or another," Harry argues long before everyone else has already left. "You can't imagine they won't do anything once they're inside Hogwarts."
"No, that is exactly as they want," Theodore agrees. "But what do you propose we do? Resist and fight when our own numbers are as pathetic as they are? When does Hagrid return? In a fortnight? In a month? Will he ever?"
Harry snarls, tells him not to say that--truth is they haven't heard from Hagrid since they sent him to the giants, and the worry that he won't return is there, niggling at the back of their minds and settling in the pit of their stomachs, sickening and churning. Theodore doesn't even blink. He never seems caught off-guard by anything Harry ever does, never even seems threatened when he brandishes his wand, or curls his fists against his robes, or pins him to the wall. "Take it back," Harry demands. "Take it back."
"I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking," Theodore says, his eyes glimmering with a hint of something that catches Harry by surprise. It is the first time he sees Theodore express emotion, and if he isn't mistaken it looks a lot like--
When he kisses Theodore it is only because it seems to him the most natural thing in the world, to press lips upon his as his body is already against Theodore's. Theodore doesn't move back, doesn't jerk away; he only moves his hands up to hold Harry by his arms and kisses him back.
iv.
Theodore Nott spies for the Order, Harry realizes, because he is smarter than his peers. He knows what they cannot see, blinded as they are by years of purist propaganda and Muggle prejudice. He comes to spy for the Order because he is sickened by the hatred, the lemming-like echoing of sentiment, even as he is forced to spew the same drivel anytime he is with his father or his Lord or his peers.
"How do you stand it?" he asks Theodore, late one night while they are tangled in bed, the sheets snaking around their legs.
"It's easy to lie if you can see a grain of truth behind it," Theodore says, and at Harry's confused sound he adds: "There is a grain of truth behind everything. Those are the best lies."
v.
Harry doesn't understand what Theodore means until the day in battle, when they find they do have the numbers but that the Death Eaters have turned all of Hogwarts against them with well-placed Imperius Curses. He is grappling for something to hold, struggling to get back on his feet, desperate to find help, friends, Theodore.
"Harry!"
He tips forward, but he is held upright by a strong pair of arms around him. "Remus, Sirius--" he gasps, smoke and debris and despair filling his lungs with a throbbing, itchy sort of ache. "We have to--"
"It's all right," Theodore whispers, smoothing back his hair, murmuring in his ear as he sets Harry down.
"Don't-- I have to--"
"You have to stay here," Theodore tells him. "I'm sorry," he whispers in his ear.
"About what?" Harry wants to know, grabbing the front of Theodore's robes and curling his fingers tight so he doesn't leave. "Theodore--"
Theodore's lips are upon him in the next instant, and for a moment Harry lets himself forget, lets himself take whatever comfort he can get from the warmth of his mouth, the heat of his skin.
He never considers that maybe, just maybe, Theodore actually believed Voldemort's cause, so when Theodore begs his forgiveness another time, whispers Avada Kedavra before he can stop him, it is already too late.
Harry dies kissing Theodore.
Word count points: 1458/30 = 48.6 49 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Title: Black
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, infidelity
Characters/Pairing: Justin/Terry
Summary: It is late.
Word Count: 982
Author's Notes: Obviously today's theme is remixing drabbles. This one is based off another drabble of the same title. :)
Registered purchases?: Both!
When they ask, Terry is the happiest he's ever been. His eyes light up, he finds it hard to resist the tugging of a devoted smile on the corner of his lips, and his tone turns shy.
Lisa laughs, pinches his cheeks. How in love you are, she says, before dropping some self-deprecating comment about her own search for love.
I'm really happy for you, Mandy tells him, smiling wistfully herself as she looks into the eyes of her fiance.
Glad it's working out, mate, Michael says, when they are alone for a moment and the others are busy talking about the good old days and where they are and what they're up to these days. For a moment, Michael says, and here his voice trails off, hesitation sneaks into his tone, and that's when Terry will smile ever brighter, ever happier.
I'm happy, he says, and he means it then.
*
When Justin asks, Terry is fine the way things are. He's open-minded, he knows that he cannot have it the way most others have it. Justin does adore him, he says so himself, when he comes home feeling playful and tugging Terry into the bathtub or the shower or the kitchen table or--heaven forbid, but it really did happen that one time and he'll never be able to admit it to anyone else, not even on pain of death, his parents' bedroom when he and Justin were house-sitting that one time.
It's just the way Justin is, though, and it's one of the reasons Terry loves him so much. Somehow he is able to bring out the best in Terry. He can draw Terry out like no one can, coax him to do things he otherwise wouldn't even want to do, because Justin loves life and lives it the way Terry can only read about most other days, on Justin-less moments, and for that he is grateful.
And he appreciates Terry, he says so himself. What did I ever do to get as lucky as I did, Justin wonders out loud many times, when Terry makes him breakfast in bed or cooks him up his favorite meal or takes him on an impromptu trip to Ibiza (because, as Terry explains, it seemed like something you would do, and don't you want to go?). Terry only laughs, because Justin didn't do anything and he isn't that lucky, so he should stop trying to flatter Terry as if that will get him anywhere because it won't--and then Terry gives up, because at this point Justin is already nuzzling at his neck, his hand is already wandering into places it shouldn't go (not when they're out in public, at least).
*
When he asks himself, Terry is content. He will hum through life as he is and take things as they are. He lives in a decent two-bedroom, has enough galleons in savings, has a boyfriend who adores him.
He spends his time doing spontaneous things that are often Justin's ideas, gardens in his free time even though he has whatever the opposite of green thumbs is, and reads whatever books are on sale at Flourish and whatever catches his eyes whenever he wanders about the city.
Some days he will wake up to an empty bed, some days he will sleep by himself, but that's just par for the course and whoever said fairy tales had to be the exact same happily-ever-after ending for everyone didn't really know what they were talking about.
He flips the page of his current read and contemplates turning the light off for the night and working by the glow of his wand instead. The ink is beginning to bleed through the pages and blur into mumbo-jumbo that his brain is having a hard time processing so he sets his book down for a little bit, rubs his temples and squints. There is a dull throbbing in his head and the bitter aftertaste of an argument at the back of his throat, neither of which he can will away or cure with any one of the potions in the bathroom cabinet. He sighs and slips out of bed, tying his robes around his waist as he pads through the bedroom to look out the window.
He doesn't know what time Justin comes back home tonight. He doesn't know if he plans to.
What Terry knows is this: that when Justin comes home later, or at all, he will reek of alcohol and cigarette smoke, words slurring with apologies and babble while he stumbles into the room, stubs his toe against the dresser, kicking it and cursing it for being there despite it never having moved from its spot since they moved in over a year ago. He will fill the heavy silence with his voice, lilting and giggly, and when he realizes Terry is not talking he will look to him with wide, sorry eyes.
He will apologize to Terry, wrap his arms around Terry's shoulders and attempt to placate him with the smell of other men clinging to his clothes and his lips and his skin, pleading his case and throwing himself at Terry's mercy.
He is sorry, Terry knows that for sure. He always is, and this is why he finds it difficult not to forgive him. Because what is he supposed to do? Justin is the love of his life and loving Justin means loving every part of him, even the ones that Terry wishes desperately he didn't have to have.
Doesn't it?
From down the street he can see a lamp light flickering as a figure stumbles down the concrete. Despite himself Terry does feel that little flutter of affection, along with a pang of anger. He moves back to the bed and crawls beneath the sheets. Justin will be coming in any second.
It is late, and Terry is as blind as the night.
Word count points: 982/30 = 33 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Title: Vases of Vanity
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, warning for infidelity
Characters/Pairing: Pansy/Ginny, Pansy/OC, Harry/Ginny
Summary: Pansy and Ginny meet at a benefit.
Word Count: 1379
Author's Notes: Yep, based off another drabble. Whee!
Registered purchases?: Both!
i. Pansy
She double-checks that her glamor charms are perfect, looks at the mirror and stares intently to make sure not a stray lock of hair is out of place, and the one that is, is there to artistically frame her face. She smiles, pouts, puckers apple-red lips and casts the softest of blushes on her cheeks. Her skin is porcelain-smooth, her neck heavy with a large emerald set in white gold and hanging by a thin sliver of a chain, her ears peeking from behind a curtain of soft black curls only to showcase matching emerald drops. Her eyes are a deep-set hazel, her smile a gorgeous hello, here I am to the world at large. Her breasts are tight, against the corset, her waist tiny and negligible. Her dress is full and lush and she is the picture of elegance, of perfection, of beauty.
"Ready to go?" her husband asks, poking his head from the door.
"In a while," she says with a smile, serene and never hurrying. (Ladies don't hurry.) She is lucky, she thinks, for she married a rich man, a good man, a man her family believes is spotless in reputation and whose name isn't marred by war or ugliness or prejudice. He is a kindly man, a smiling man, a doting man. He showers her with pearls even when she doesn't ask, takes her on trips even when she doesn't say anything, and goes above and beyond to treat her like a queen.
As she is.
With delicate fingers she takes her laced gloves and slips them up her smooth skin. Her fingernail catches upon the fabric and she frowns. (That will not do, there is no room for tears and imperfections here.)
"Darling?" he calls again.
"Coming," she says.
ii. Ginny
There is no girl as lucky as she is in the entirety of the world, this Ginny Weasley-Potter knows for certain. She has a loving family, supportive friends, and an adoring husband she met at school and who would give the world for her.
"You look beautiful," Harry tells her and she blushes accordingly. He always sounds as though she takes his breath away, but that's silly, because it's only her, it's only Ginny. She's got too many freckles dotting her bare shoulders and her arms, her hair is a wild red that can usually be tamed, but which frays around her regardless. She isn't much, she doesn't have much, but Harry does seem to love her, and she does love him in return. That's all there is to it, isn't it? That's all that's needed to be happy, isn't it? Sweet kisses in the morning, comfortable sex once a week, kind eyes and gentle touches and Harry, adoring and devoted and gentle, sweet, Harry.
"I'm not," she denies, laughing as she turns to face the mirror. Her nose is pert, a little upturned, defiant as she is growing up in a house of six brothers. Her glamor charms are a bit off--it has been a while since she's done anything with them--and her dress is a little too loose in the torso, a little too snug around the hips. There is not much she can do about that, it's the curse of being an athlete for a living-- her arms are a bit too toned, her shoulders too broad-- but Harry puts his arms around her and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her head.
"Yes you are," he says, always with the right thing whenever she needs it. "Stop worrying, you're fine."
She doubts him regardless but figures perhaps it is not the time to argue, they do have somewhere to be. She grabs the last of her accessories--diamond earrings, matching the stone that graces her finger--and puts them on. "All right," she says. "I'm ready."
iii. The Benefit
Ginny clings to his arm, brushes away the fraying strands of hair around her face. They whip around her, wild and unruly, but she doubts anyone minds. She doubts anyone sees. They are surrounded by a flurry of jewel-colored gowns, elegant robes and painstakingly charmed curls, buns, wavy hair. There are smiles, too, and she forces herself to smile in return, because they came here for her--well, for Harry--and she needs to play her part.
They whisper around her, and she does not need to listen close to know what it is they are talking about. It's the Boy Who Lived, it's the Savior of the Wizarding World, what cause has he to preach about tonight? Since Harry defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, got accepted into the Auror ranks, settled into the more mundane task of everyday justice, they've found his voice still can be useful for bringing to light many other causes. It's the reason he started his foundation, the reason he is this much in-demand and this much still in the limelight.
Ginny doesn't mind, really, considering it means that the cause of the week (Squibs, this time, and opportunities for them in light of their plight) gets the galleons it deserves in order to be fixed, but sometimes, like tonight, the attention (and lack thereof) can be suffocating. Gently, politely, she extracts herself from his arm, slips out of the throng of people who can never get enough of Harry Potter (unless they live with him almost 24/7) and look for fresh air. It should not be hard to find, she thinks.
It's everywhere Harry isn't.
iv. By Chance They Meet
She doesn't expect to find Pansy Parkinson taking a deep drag of her cigarette when finally she manages to find the gardens, but there she is, merely moving away to give her space when she asks if there is enough room.
"Weasley," Pansy says, voice cool as ever, surprising only because Ginny had expected more heat, more anger. But years do heal, she supposes, and there is nothing in her heart left for Pansy Parkinson but the small amount of gratitude that she did not decide to make a big deal of her arrival.
"Weasley-Potter, actually," she says, eyeing Pansy's cigarette for a moment. "Do you have any more?"
Pansy gives her a curious expression, and it looks like she swallows a question she means to ask. Instead she reaches into her slim purse and takes out another stick to hand to her. Ginny takes it gratefully, lets Pansy light it with the tip of her wand, and draws a deep hit. "Ah, I forget. Wedding of the Century, was it not? First time I've seen more coverage for the groom than the bride, though," she says with a sharp laugh. "Did I even see the gown?"
"It was my mother's," Ginny says, coloring because her mother, well-intentioned as she was, had wanted her to wear her own wedding dress, which had been handed down from the maternal side of the family. Tradition, Molly Weasley had said, and Ginny would have been proud had she not felt embarrassed knowing the question on everyone else's minds would have been whether or not she wore the dress because her family couldn't afford much more. She adds, after coughing: "All the better, I suppose."
At this Pansy only raises an eyebrow. "Do you even know how to smoke?" is her challenge.
Ginny shrugs. "Well enough."
Pansy laughs. "If you came here for fresh air this isn't the best idea for you," she tells her, taking the stick from between her fingers and brandishing it with the ease of a smoker. "See?"
Ginny rolls her eyes at the condescension, but grabs it all the same. "Like this?" she asks, but Pansy shakes her head and guides her fingers so she is holding her stick correctly.
"Do I have to show you how to smoke it too?" Pansy asks.
v. Later
She shows her how to do other things as well. Later, they find themselves alone, or hidden, Ginny with her back to the wall, Pansy's sleeves falling down her bare shoulder, covered by the black of the night and the foliage of the gardens.
"Yes, like this," Ginny says, as Pansy worships each freckle with a peppered, feathery kiss.
Pansy's make-up is smudged, and Ginny's dress is dirtied. Pansy is no longer perfect, Ginny not as pure.
It is not what matters.
Word count points: 1379/30 = 46 pts
Bonus points: 10 pts
Total word count points: 49 + 33 + 46 = 128 125 points
Bonus points: 10 + 10 + 10 = 30
Total points: 155 pts for Ravenclaw!