OMFGWTFBBQFIC!!!!!!!
Title: Cells
Rating: +16
Pairing: Ron/Ginny, Remus/Sirius, one-sided Harry/Draco, implied Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Remus/Tonks
A/N: Originally written for harry_holidays (more on that later). Beta-ed by pre_rephaelite1 (who I love!)
Warnings: Dub-con, breathplay, bloodplay. There’s some 2nd person POV, but ONLY in the beginning.
Summary: Christmas time, three houses during the war.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cell
n. 1. A narrow confining room, as in a prison or convent. 2. The smallest structural unit of an organism that is capable of independent functioning, consisting of one or more nuclei, cytoplasm, and various organelles, all surrounded by a semipermeable cell membrane.
The Brother
This is the house of your fathers. The house that has grown with your family, shaped like a reversed pyramid, so unlike the ones your older brother works in. This is the house you were born in, the house that welcomes you every summer after school, the house that has welcomed your friends when they came to visit.
But not two years ago. Two years ago you choose a house just as old and pulsating but that stays the same size, instead of this house that grows, elastic but steady, like a muscle made strong with need. For the sake of your friends.
But now you’re home, at the Burrow, away from there.
Just as the house grows with your family, you have grown with this house. You know every corner; you know every step, every floorboard, every crack on the wall, every sound. You know that in a cold winter night like this one you can't sleep, you can't rest, you can't even stay still. You try to touch yourself, wrap your fingers around your cock, like you first began doing two years ago in the other house, but it's cold, too cold, and the house that grows around you, the house that grows to the sky, is frightening you for the first time. It's too intimate, to touch and the house, and you feel like you're being watched, like you're trying to do something you're not meant to. Like you're not enough to do it.
You go downstairs, because you know it's always warmer there, with the never-ending fire in the kitchen. Maybe you can sleep in the old tattered couch where you and your siblings have fallen asleep so many times.
The lights are out, like they should be, but you realise you're not alone. You hear her before you even see her, an angry sob that's just hers.
‘Ginny?’
She sits straight on the couch, aggressive in her gesture when she wipes a tear and you know she’s furious at you for catching her crying.
‘So.’ You sit down and it’s awkward when you don’t know what to say, when you’re not good at this and when you’re not sure why she’s crying, when it’s not something she usually does.
‘I feel like such damsel in distress, dumped for my own protection, so useless.’
‘It would kill Harry if anything happened to you.’
‘Yeah, bloody martyr.’
The house falls silent again. She hasn’t looked at you yet, but you decide to put an arm around her and pull her close. You really aren’t good at this, but it’s the kind of thing Hermione would like. Your sister is not Hermione and when you accidentally brush your cheek against her hair you can tell she doesn’t smell like Hermione either, but not that differently, either. And only now do you really notice that she is indeed a girl. Not that you didn't know she was a girl. you just didn't notice the lightness of her scent, the softness of her body or the small swell of her breasts.
She wraps herself around you, suddenly too close to comfort and you wish you were children and innocent again.
‘What makes a person a brother? Blood or love? Are you more like me, with the same blood in your veins, or like Harry, because you love him like only a brother can?’
You want to stop her, tell her that they are fighting a war against pureblood maniacs, and it’s not the time to ask what is more worthy. But she’s on top of you now, warm and familiar like yourself, and you curse yourself for being too young and inexperienced to have self-control.
‘You’re going away again tomorrow, Ron, now that Christmas is over.’
When she whimpers at first, you hurt too, and not because she’s tighter than you could imagine. It hurts you that you’re hurting her, even when she decided to do this, began this; and it hurts too that you are somehow hurting Harry, betraying him.
The next day your mother asks, worrying too much as usual, whose blood is it on the couch. You tell her not to worry, it's yours and it's nothing serious, you just bumped a toe against a chair.
At first you're surprised because you lied smoothly, without blushing; you lied just like she would lie, not you. But then you realize it's not exactly a lie, is it? Because you know that deep down, down to the last drop, down to the last infinite unseeing cell, her blood is yours.
The Old Friend
In the winter the house becomes even damper. The mould runs through the walls like wines and wild bushes, making the dank air heavier and the shadowed corners darker.
Two years ago, with his cheerfulness out of place and the need to make a perfect Christmas (his first), Sirius had managed to make 12, Grimmauld Place cosy for a few days.
How ironic is it that Remus should think about Sirius’ greatest achievement as being a nice Christmas party in a confined place. Sirius was meant for so much more. James at least went down in History for fathering the Boy Who Lived, but Sirius?
Remus remembers when they were young, how there was something oddly romantic about Sirius. One would look at him and picture extraordinary deeds, maddening love stories, an exciting life.
But there’s no place for romance in the middle of war. Just friends helping friends with one hand down the other’s pants, knees scraping the dirty floor in some loo or other.
The first time was no blasphemy on an altar for some dead god, or a final ‘fuck off’ to a family lost in time.
It was right after their last year at Hogwarts, right after their last year at Hogwarts, right after one of their first missions to the Order. Sirius had all but followed Remus back to his building. There was need in his eyes. Not to love, not to get some release, but the need to feel alive after everything, the need just to feel.
They didn’t finished climbing up the stairs to his shabby studio. Sirius just kicked of his shoes and one leg of his trousers. Remus clamped one hand over Sirius’ mouth, because it was all too quick, with no proper preparation, and it just wouldn’t do to wake up the neighbourhood.
Sirius bit the palm of Remus’ hand, eyes screwed shut, groaning with the first thrusts, but as Remus pace increased, his hand moved until it was also covering Sirius’ nose and he couldn’t breathe. Sirius came right away.
Two days later, this time in Sirius’ flat, Remus could still see the lines of the stairs marking his skin.
They would have time, Remus had thought, for a proper bed one day, for proper time for the right words, but not now, with James and his family hiding, with war calling them outside.
Until the final ‘fuck off’ did come, but it was not to his family, but to all of them, and James and Lily stopped existing.
Remus went away, with no war calling him, seeing one hundred and thirty four full moons through the eyes of the wolf from several places of the planet.
All the full moons Sirius saw were from the same barred window, locked away.
Until he ran away, like he always did, and Remus learned the truth.
And then one day Sirius was back at this house, locked again in this house he ran away from. He started by being locked here, then in school (albeit happily, then), in war when everybody is locked inside the primordial need to see the next day, in Azkaban and here again. Sirius went full-circle, in some sort of cosmic irony that Remus is too human, despite everything, to understand (Dumbledore probably did, and Remus can’t help but wonder if that night on the tower he found it ironic, too). But it was all right, because they’d have time later and Sirius wasn’t going anywhere. Remus would have time later to start romancing and Sirius to start living.
Until the end, with no blaze of glory, no nothing, just a single moment in time, he was simply gone.
Gone, and it’s not a euphemism.
The sound of something falling followed by screams and curses from two women calls Remus back to the present.
The coat hanger is lying on the floor again, and the portrait of Walburga (she has long stopped being Mrs. Black for any of them) is screaming at Tonks.
‘Shut up, you old hag!’ she screams back.
The portrait is stunned silent long enough for Remus to close its curtains, and one look at Tonks makes him start laughing, startling himself.
‘And what are you laughing about?’
‘’Nothing.’ A shrug and a smile. ‘You reminded me of something.’
The Boy
He should be at home. He should be in his room, trying on new clothes, while guest piled up in the halls of the manor, waiting for Mother to show them to the dinning room. Instead he’s at Spinner’s End at the end of world in the middle of the war, with school robes too small, because he is still a growing boy.
At least it’s warm inside, enough for him to take of his jumper, while outside the white world looks like one of the Christmas postcards he saw once in Muggle (fools) Studies.
Dumbledore is dead, but it was not his doing, and the Dark Lord is after him. Not even Pettigrew knows where he is, and they’re only some rooms apart.
He can stand naked in his room facing a mirror at will, because Severus will only bring him food much later.
His chest is scared and it shouldn’t be. They’re not even war wounds, dignifying, just the outcome of a stupid school duel, stupid Potter who didn’t even know what the hex was supposed to do.
Maybe Potter will indeed save them and save the world in the end, but as Draco traces one of the scars with one pale finger, he wishes he could be seeing them on Potter’s chest instead.
Stupid Potter, his parents were already dead, he didn’t have to save them, like Draco needed to save his.
The dead cells marring his skin are soft, almost slippery, ugly when there should be smooth healthy skin. Nothing to show around, like that fool shows his forehead.
Draco dreams of sliding a knife through Potter’s chest, a simple knife, pathetic knife, waiting to see blood pooling in the edges of the broken skin. It doesn’t matter that he’ll probably save the world and all of them, those would be scars Potter won’t want to show.
He dreams of intricate, obscene red patterns on Potter’s skin, again and again, until the image stops being ugly and insulting and Draco can see the beauty of it. Too beautiful and perfect, until his petty dreams of petty vengeance turn into wishful thinking.
Draco lets his hand fall, looking at the mirror and the scars the stupid Boy Who Lived gave him once, by mistake, before all of this happened, before this house, and he decides never to dream again.
The End
Rating: +16
Pairing: Ron/Ginny, Remus/Sirius, one-sided Harry/Draco, implied Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Remus/Tonks
A/N: Originally written for harry_holidays (more on that later). Beta-ed by pre_rephaelite1 (who I love!)
Warnings: Dub-con, breathplay, bloodplay. There’s some 2nd person POV, but ONLY in the beginning.
Summary: Christmas time, three houses during the war.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cell
n. 1. A narrow confining room, as in a prison or convent. 2. The smallest structural unit of an organism that is capable of independent functioning, consisting of one or more nuclei, cytoplasm, and various organelles, all surrounded by a semipermeable cell membrane.
The Brother
This is the house of your fathers. The house that has grown with your family, shaped like a reversed pyramid, so unlike the ones your older brother works in. This is the house you were born in, the house that welcomes you every summer after school, the house that has welcomed your friends when they came to visit.
But not two years ago. Two years ago you choose a house just as old and pulsating but that stays the same size, instead of this house that grows, elastic but steady, like a muscle made strong with need. For the sake of your friends.
But now you’re home, at the Burrow, away from there.
Just as the house grows with your family, you have grown with this house. You know every corner; you know every step, every floorboard, every crack on the wall, every sound. You know that in a cold winter night like this one you can't sleep, you can't rest, you can't even stay still. You try to touch yourself, wrap your fingers around your cock, like you first began doing two years ago in the other house, but it's cold, too cold, and the house that grows around you, the house that grows to the sky, is frightening you for the first time. It's too intimate, to touch and the house, and you feel like you're being watched, like you're trying to do something you're not meant to. Like you're not enough to do it.
You go downstairs, because you know it's always warmer there, with the never-ending fire in the kitchen. Maybe you can sleep in the old tattered couch where you and your siblings have fallen asleep so many times.
The lights are out, like they should be, but you realise you're not alone. You hear her before you even see her, an angry sob that's just hers.
‘Ginny?’
She sits straight on the couch, aggressive in her gesture when she wipes a tear and you know she’s furious at you for catching her crying.
‘So.’ You sit down and it’s awkward when you don’t know what to say, when you’re not good at this and when you’re not sure why she’s crying, when it’s not something she usually does.
‘I feel like such damsel in distress, dumped for my own protection, so useless.’
‘It would kill Harry if anything happened to you.’
‘Yeah, bloody martyr.’
The house falls silent again. She hasn’t looked at you yet, but you decide to put an arm around her and pull her close. You really aren’t good at this, but it’s the kind of thing Hermione would like. Your sister is not Hermione and when you accidentally brush your cheek against her hair you can tell she doesn’t smell like Hermione either, but not that differently, either. And only now do you really notice that she is indeed a girl. Not that you didn't know she was a girl. you just didn't notice the lightness of her scent, the softness of her body or the small swell of her breasts.
She wraps herself around you, suddenly too close to comfort and you wish you were children and innocent again.
‘What makes a person a brother? Blood or love? Are you more like me, with the same blood in your veins, or like Harry, because you love him like only a brother can?’
You want to stop her, tell her that they are fighting a war against pureblood maniacs, and it’s not the time to ask what is more worthy. But she’s on top of you now, warm and familiar like yourself, and you curse yourself for being too young and inexperienced to have self-control.
‘You’re going away again tomorrow, Ron, now that Christmas is over.’
When she whimpers at first, you hurt too, and not because she’s tighter than you could imagine. It hurts you that you’re hurting her, even when she decided to do this, began this; and it hurts too that you are somehow hurting Harry, betraying him.
The next day your mother asks, worrying too much as usual, whose blood is it on the couch. You tell her not to worry, it's yours and it's nothing serious, you just bumped a toe against a chair.
At first you're surprised because you lied smoothly, without blushing; you lied just like she would lie, not you. But then you realize it's not exactly a lie, is it? Because you know that deep down, down to the last drop, down to the last infinite unseeing cell, her blood is yours.
The Old Friend
In the winter the house becomes even damper. The mould runs through the walls like wines and wild bushes, making the dank air heavier and the shadowed corners darker.
Two years ago, with his cheerfulness out of place and the need to make a perfect Christmas (his first), Sirius had managed to make 12, Grimmauld Place cosy for a few days.
How ironic is it that Remus should think about Sirius’ greatest achievement as being a nice Christmas party in a confined place. Sirius was meant for so much more. James at least went down in History for fathering the Boy Who Lived, but Sirius?
Remus remembers when they were young, how there was something oddly romantic about Sirius. One would look at him and picture extraordinary deeds, maddening love stories, an exciting life.
But there’s no place for romance in the middle of war. Just friends helping friends with one hand down the other’s pants, knees scraping the dirty floor in some loo or other.
The first time was no blasphemy on an altar for some dead god, or a final ‘fuck off’ to a family lost in time.
It was right after their last year at Hogwarts, right after their last year at Hogwarts, right after one of their first missions to the Order. Sirius had all but followed Remus back to his building. There was need in his eyes. Not to love, not to get some release, but the need to feel alive after everything, the need just to feel.
They didn’t finished climbing up the stairs to his shabby studio. Sirius just kicked of his shoes and one leg of his trousers. Remus clamped one hand over Sirius’ mouth, because it was all too quick, with no proper preparation, and it just wouldn’t do to wake up the neighbourhood.
Sirius bit the palm of Remus’ hand, eyes screwed shut, groaning with the first thrusts, but as Remus pace increased, his hand moved until it was also covering Sirius’ nose and he couldn’t breathe. Sirius came right away.
Two days later, this time in Sirius’ flat, Remus could still see the lines of the stairs marking his skin.
They would have time, Remus had thought, for a proper bed one day, for proper time for the right words, but not now, with James and his family hiding, with war calling them outside.
Until the final ‘fuck off’ did come, but it was not to his family, but to all of them, and James and Lily stopped existing.
Remus went away, with no war calling him, seeing one hundred and thirty four full moons through the eyes of the wolf from several places of the planet.
All the full moons Sirius saw were from the same barred window, locked away.
Until he ran away, like he always did, and Remus learned the truth.
And then one day Sirius was back at this house, locked again in this house he ran away from. He started by being locked here, then in school (albeit happily, then), in war when everybody is locked inside the primordial need to see the next day, in Azkaban and here again. Sirius went full-circle, in some sort of cosmic irony that Remus is too human, despite everything, to understand (Dumbledore probably did, and Remus can’t help but wonder if that night on the tower he found it ironic, too). But it was all right, because they’d have time later and Sirius wasn’t going anywhere. Remus would have time later to start romancing and Sirius to start living.
Until the end, with no blaze of glory, no nothing, just a single moment in time, he was simply gone.
Gone, and it’s not a euphemism.
The sound of something falling followed by screams and curses from two women calls Remus back to the present.
The coat hanger is lying on the floor again, and the portrait of Walburga (she has long stopped being Mrs. Black for any of them) is screaming at Tonks.
‘Shut up, you old hag!’ she screams back.
The portrait is stunned silent long enough for Remus to close its curtains, and one look at Tonks makes him start laughing, startling himself.
‘And what are you laughing about?’
‘’Nothing.’ A shrug and a smile. ‘You reminded me of something.’
The Boy
He should be at home. He should be in his room, trying on new clothes, while guest piled up in the halls of the manor, waiting for Mother to show them to the dinning room. Instead he’s at Spinner’s End at the end of world in the middle of the war, with school robes too small, because he is still a growing boy.
At least it’s warm inside, enough for him to take of his jumper, while outside the white world looks like one of the Christmas postcards he saw once in Muggle (fools) Studies.
Dumbledore is dead, but it was not his doing, and the Dark Lord is after him. Not even Pettigrew knows where he is, and they’re only some rooms apart.
He can stand naked in his room facing a mirror at will, because Severus will only bring him food much later.
His chest is scared and it shouldn’t be. They’re not even war wounds, dignifying, just the outcome of a stupid school duel, stupid Potter who didn’t even know what the hex was supposed to do.
Maybe Potter will indeed save them and save the world in the end, but as Draco traces one of the scars with one pale finger, he wishes he could be seeing them on Potter’s chest instead.
Stupid Potter, his parents were already dead, he didn’t have to save them, like Draco needed to save his.
The dead cells marring his skin are soft, almost slippery, ugly when there should be smooth healthy skin. Nothing to show around, like that fool shows his forehead.
Draco dreams of sliding a knife through Potter’s chest, a simple knife, pathetic knife, waiting to see blood pooling in the edges of the broken skin. It doesn’t matter that he’ll probably save the world and all of them, those would be scars Potter won’t want to show.
He dreams of intricate, obscene red patterns on Potter’s skin, again and again, until the image stops being ugly and insulting and Draco can see the beauty of it. Too beautiful and perfect, until his petty dreams of petty vengeance turn into wishful thinking.
Draco lets his hand fall, looking at the mirror and the scars the stupid Boy Who Lived gave him once, by mistake, before all of this happened, before this house, and he decides never to dream again.
The End