Drabbles, round # 1
It's been several weeks since these requests were made, I know. Sorry! I hope you still want them. (The rest will be coming very soon.)
Word count: 100 words each, all of them quite G-rated, I think. The HP characters were created by J.K. Rowling. Marx and Engels belong to history.
For aigooism: "Questions" (HP; Neville Longbottom/Teddy Lupin)
"Tell me about my dad," Teddy said, placing his head on Neville's shoulder.
"Your dad."
Neville reached a hand to stroke Teddy's cheek. "He was the best Defence teacher we ever had."
Teddy smiled.
"He understood people."
"Would he understand this?" Teddy asked, a quiver in his voice.
This: the flat, Teddy's head on his shoulder, their shared bed. Gran's silence and Andromeda Tonks's owls to Hogwarts. The rumours, the scandal, Neville quitting his job.
In truth, there were times when he couldn't understand it, either.
But tonight was not one of those times, and he nodded, drawing Teddy close.
For tetleythesecond: "Camouflage" (HP; Olympe Maxime)
Satin and silk, piano and ballet lessons. This is the way she was raised, under her grandmother's gaze. Forget what you are, the gaze said, forget what happened to your mother. You will be a witch, not a monster.
But the satin covers too-large bones, and the feet that move so gracefully will never be wholly human.
Hagrid is everything she has learned to shun, from his coarse appearance to his peasant's speech. His ways are not hers, and yet. And yet.
Opposites attract, she tells herself, although she knows it's a lie: it's the sameness that will undo her.
For zempasuchil: "Exile" (Karl Marx/Friedrich Engels)
He wrote to his friend from London, his thoughts travelling to Brussels, to Cologne, but most of all to Paris and the Café de la Régence. Dearest Friedrich, the letters would begin, or, My dear friend; and there he often had to pause, his hand hovering in mid-air.
The letters would travel to Prussia, traversing the land from which he had been banished. Such able messengers -- were they able to say what he himself could not?
In the end, he'd sigh, allowing the quill to scrape its nondescript words. There were certain things one did not commit to paper.
Word count: 100 words each, all of them quite G-rated, I think. The HP characters were created by J.K. Rowling. Marx and Engels belong to history.
For aigooism: "Questions" (HP; Neville Longbottom/Teddy Lupin)
"Tell me about my dad," Teddy said, placing his head on Neville's shoulder.
"Your dad."
Neville reached a hand to stroke Teddy's cheek. "He was the best Defence teacher we ever had."
Teddy smiled.
"He understood people."
"Would he understand this?" Teddy asked, a quiver in his voice.
This: the flat, Teddy's head on his shoulder, their shared bed. Gran's silence and Andromeda Tonks's owls to Hogwarts. The rumours, the scandal, Neville quitting his job.
In truth, there were times when he couldn't understand it, either.
But tonight was not one of those times, and he nodded, drawing Teddy close.
For tetleythesecond: "Camouflage" (HP; Olympe Maxime)
Satin and silk, piano and ballet lessons. This is the way she was raised, under her grandmother's gaze. Forget what you are, the gaze said, forget what happened to your mother. You will be a witch, not a monster.
But the satin covers too-large bones, and the feet that move so gracefully will never be wholly human.
Hagrid is everything she has learned to shun, from his coarse appearance to his peasant's speech. His ways are not hers, and yet. And yet.
Opposites attract, she tells herself, although she knows it's a lie: it's the sameness that will undo her.
For zempasuchil: "Exile" (Karl Marx/Friedrich Engels)
He wrote to his friend from London, his thoughts travelling to Brussels, to Cologne, but most of all to Paris and the Café de la Régence. Dearest Friedrich, the letters would begin, or, My dear friend; and there he often had to pause, his hand hovering in mid-air.
The letters would travel to Prussia, traversing the land from which he had been banished. Such able messengers -- were they able to say what he himself could not?
In the end, he'd sigh, allowing the quill to scrape its nondescript words. There were certain things one did not commit to paper.