drabbles: various
These are for incredibly old requests I am not sure the people in question even remember making: myxginxblossoms for Brienne/Sansa, sakru_909 for Sandor, and dreams_of_all for Draco, "and everything went onward."
I like the last one best.
They said things.
Of course they did. People always said things. They were never apart, after all, and even years after it would have been politically wise, Sansa Stark had never married. Would never marry, the whispers went. After all, she had all the husband she needed in her bodyguard.
Brienne the Beauty, they called her mockingly. The Maid of Tarth. “Is she still a maid if…” some prurient rumormonger would ask, and people would snicker.
Behind locked doors, she leaned up on tiptoes, and kissed Brienne’s forehead. “Always,” she whispered, and their lips met for a moment, nothing more.
-----------
Back when he’d still lived at the Clegane holdings, Sandor remembered, he always knew when Gregor was fucking one of his wives, because the screams would carry all the way across the courtyard. He could never sleep those nights, and sat at the window and listened until it was over.
He could hear screaming now. Not women, though; men, burning. The green light flickered behind his back and he flinched.
The game’s up now. They all know what you are.
Bugger them.
He stood up and paced around the room again, his head pounding. Why was he here? What the hell did he think he was waiting for?
The fire outside continued to burn. He returned to the bed and stretched out on it. Turning his head, he bunched the blankets in his fist and brought them up to his nose, breathed deeply. They smelled like soap. But mostly like blood. He wiped his fingers on his white cloak and tried again. Soap and flowers and maybe a hint of feminine hair.
He closed his eyes and kept the blanket held to his nose so he couldn’t smell the fire and the smoke. The screams always stopped sooner or later.
-----------------
And everything went onward.
It was not the same as it had been, of course; not at all. Nothing would ever be the same as it had been. His father had no job, and stayed at home, sitting with his hands shaking like a very old man, jumping at small noises. His mother was strong enough to hold her head up when she went out, but pride could not disguise the increasing shabbiness of her once fine clothes, or the graying of her pale blonde hair.
Their house was strange and quiet and empty, now, too large. Draco sat watching his father stare emptily at nothing, and did not hear his mother come in.
“Draco, darling,” she asked. “Do you need to see someone, talk to…”
“No,” he said, at once, flushing with embarrassment.
His father died in St. Mungo’s three years later. A few came to the funeral, and some of them murmured hollow words, I'm sorry for your loss, but most of them, he felt, came to gloat at their fall from grace.
And everything went onward.
The wizarding world did not forget them, of course. He never saw his mother cry when she came home from her forays out of their sanctuary, but sometimes the red streaks remained even after she came home, and she went out less and less frequently. He himself attempted to look for a job, but they had only to glance at his name to tell him coolly that they did not require help for the moment, thank you. When the letters started arriving, Draco drew himself up and went to the Ministry to ask for some kind of protection, but even when he came in person, he was shunted into side departments, given excuses about understaffing, or sometimes the high cost of repairs after the war, and he had no choice but to leave.
And everything went onward.
He consoled himself with the fact that they would all forget eventually. Sooner or later, there would be someone new to rail at. After all, he was lucky; there had been no arrest, no publicized trial to drag their name further through the mud.
His mother took to sitting quietly in front of a cold fire, staring into the ashes. He put his arm around her thin shoulder. “Mother, would you like anything?” He asked.
She shook her head. Her voice was faint and wispy, her hair thin and gray. Her beauty was only a memory now. “No, Draco, there is nothing I want.”
In the end, there was nothing he could do for her. Three years after his father, she was gone as well, her pride crushed under the weight of the world’s derision.
And everything went onward.
He stood in the hotel bathroom, left sleeve rolled up. His jacket hung on the corner of the bed, and he held out his arm and looked at the mark, still stark against his skin seven years after it was branded there, and felt a little like crying. “I still have the house,” he said to his reflection, “And the name.”
Draco turned his back on the mirror and closed the bathroom door behind him. He picked up his jacket and rolled down his sleeves.
And everything went onward.
I like the last one best.
They said things.
Of course they did. People always said things. They were never apart, after all, and even years after it would have been politically wise, Sansa Stark had never married. Would never marry, the whispers went. After all, she had all the husband she needed in her bodyguard.
Brienne the Beauty, they called her mockingly. The Maid of Tarth. “Is she still a maid if…” some prurient rumormonger would ask, and people would snicker.
Behind locked doors, she leaned up on tiptoes, and kissed Brienne’s forehead. “Always,” she whispered, and their lips met for a moment, nothing more.
-----------
Back when he’d still lived at the Clegane holdings, Sandor remembered, he always knew when Gregor was fucking one of his wives, because the screams would carry all the way across the courtyard. He could never sleep those nights, and sat at the window and listened until it was over.
He could hear screaming now. Not women, though; men, burning. The green light flickered behind his back and he flinched.
The game’s up now. They all know what you are.
Bugger them.
He stood up and paced around the room again, his head pounding. Why was he here? What the hell did he think he was waiting for?
The fire outside continued to burn. He returned to the bed and stretched out on it. Turning his head, he bunched the blankets in his fist and brought them up to his nose, breathed deeply. They smelled like soap. But mostly like blood. He wiped his fingers on his white cloak and tried again. Soap and flowers and maybe a hint of feminine hair.
He closed his eyes and kept the blanket held to his nose so he couldn’t smell the fire and the smoke. The screams always stopped sooner or later.
-----------------
And everything went onward.
It was not the same as it had been, of course; not at all. Nothing would ever be the same as it had been. His father had no job, and stayed at home, sitting with his hands shaking like a very old man, jumping at small noises. His mother was strong enough to hold her head up when she went out, but pride could not disguise the increasing shabbiness of her once fine clothes, or the graying of her pale blonde hair.
Their house was strange and quiet and empty, now, too large. Draco sat watching his father stare emptily at nothing, and did not hear his mother come in.
“Draco, darling,” she asked. “Do you need to see someone, talk to…”
“No,” he said, at once, flushing with embarrassment.
His father died in St. Mungo’s three years later. A few came to the funeral, and some of them murmured hollow words, I'm sorry for your loss, but most of them, he felt, came to gloat at their fall from grace.
And everything went onward.
The wizarding world did not forget them, of course. He never saw his mother cry when she came home from her forays out of their sanctuary, but sometimes the red streaks remained even after she came home, and she went out less and less frequently. He himself attempted to look for a job, but they had only to glance at his name to tell him coolly that they did not require help for the moment, thank you. When the letters started arriving, Draco drew himself up and went to the Ministry to ask for some kind of protection, but even when he came in person, he was shunted into side departments, given excuses about understaffing, or sometimes the high cost of repairs after the war, and he had no choice but to leave.
And everything went onward.
He consoled himself with the fact that they would all forget eventually. Sooner or later, there would be someone new to rail at. After all, he was lucky; there had been no arrest, no publicized trial to drag their name further through the mud.
His mother took to sitting quietly in front of a cold fire, staring into the ashes. He put his arm around her thin shoulder. “Mother, would you like anything?” He asked.
She shook her head. Her voice was faint and wispy, her hair thin and gray. Her beauty was only a memory now. “No, Draco, there is nothing I want.”
In the end, there was nothing he could do for her. Three years after his father, she was gone as well, her pride crushed under the weight of the world’s derision.
And everything went onward.
He stood in the hotel bathroom, left sleeve rolled up. His jacket hung on the corner of the bed, and he held out his arm and looked at the mark, still stark against his skin seven years after it was branded there, and felt a little like crying. “I still have the house,” he said to his reflection, “And the name.”
Draco turned his back on the mirror and closed the bathroom door behind him. He picked up his jacket and rolled down his sleeves.
And everything went onward.