Drabble!
If anyone missed it, I'm offering myself up to do drabbles here. Everyone is welcome to request whatever they want, as I write pretty much anything. I'll be posting finished drabbles as I finish them.
And here's finished drabble number one, only I got a little carried away with the beginning. Hope you don't mind, sandrainthesun!
Transposition
Draco Malfoy confidently swaggered up to the stool, perched the Sorting Hat jauntily on his pale blond head and waited for the inevitable to occur. Instead, the Hat paused, mumbling incoherently to itself, and then whispered, “Trust me on this.”
Draco looked around nervously, wondering what sort of terrible thing was about to occur, as always occurred after someone said those dreaded words. Then, the Hat proclaimed his house.
He was halfway to the Slytherin table before he realized what, precisely, the Hat had uttered.
***
Ron Weasley was in a state of shock. Twenty seconds previously, the hat perched on his head had announced in a painfully clear voice that he was Sorted into Slytherin. He did not move from the stool, did not remove the hat.
“Mr. Weasley,” he heard Professor McGonagall say. “Please move to your House table.”
He shook his head. “I’m waiting on the Hat to change its mind,” he said.
“Mr. Weasley, you’re holding up the line,” said McGonagall in an aggrieved tone. “As well as the Feast. Go to your table.”
Ron started to ask, “What line?” but saw a haughty black boy glaring at him. He waited a few more seconds for the hat to yell, “Gotcha!” and send him to Gryffindor with every other Weasley to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts, but the hat remained silent and the hall was increasingly filled with annoyed whispering to the effect of, “Why’s that kid sitting there like a dope?”
Ron slunk to the Slytherin table, where he met rows of unfriendly eyes. A few seconds later, the boy from line sat down and informed him coldly, “Stop looking as though the world’s come to an end. We’re as unhappy about you being here as you are with being here.”
Ron just shook his head, and stared at the Gryffindor table, where his three brothers were visible, as well as Harry Potter, who was sitting next to Draco Malfoy and not looking too happy about it.
“Malfoy stole my place at Gryffindor,” he muttered. “That’s the only explanation.”
The pretty girl next to him sniffed her nose. “Like Draco wanted to be in Gryffindor. How embarrassing. Malfoys have all been in Slytherin for hundreds of years.”
“There’s never been a Weasley who wasn’t in Gryffindor,” Ron said, still shell shocked. “Never. Mum and Dad are going to be so disappointed.”
“‘Scuse us.”
“Move it over, knuckleheads.”
Ron groaned and hit his head against the table as two familiar voices cut through the din, and then he found himself wedged between his twin older brothers.
“This isn’t going to work,” announced Fred as he grabbed a roll off a nearby girl’s plate.
“Never, though it is a nice attempt,” George countered.
“I’m not trying anything,” grumbled Ron. “Go away.”
Twin snorts and two hands ruffling his hair was the only acknowledgment that he’d spoken.
“It’s going to take a lot more than getting Sorted into Slytherin to break into our level of mischief,” Fred informed him.
George grinned as he surveyed the hateful faces surrounding them as the twins stood to return to Gryffindor table. “Though it was nice of you to sacrifice yourself just so we’d have a man on the inside, so to speak.”
Ron yelled at their retreating backs, “But I didn’t!”
They never turned around.
***
Draco looked at the bench disdainfully before perching on it, glaring at his red and gold tie and trying to imagine how terrible it would look with his pale coloring. Around him, Gryffindors were chatting and laughing and generally ignoring his presence.
He glanced at the table he ought to be sitting at, and felt a stab of anger when he saw a viciously red head sitting next to Pansy and Blaise and Theo. He ought to be there with his friends, rather than surrounded by insipid, dull-witted Gryffindors whose idea of an interesting conversation revolved around Muggles and speculation on classes.
And sitting next to him was Harry bloody Potter, who had snubbed him on the train. Sure, his father had told him to make friends with the boy, but he doubted that he would be happy with this turn of events.
A sick feeling settled in his belly at the thought of his father’s reaction, and consoled himself only with the thought that maybe they would take him out of Hogwarts and send him to Durmstrang, where he could forget about this embarrassment.
***
Four years later, and Draco was wishing more fervently than ever that he had been sent to Durmstrang. The students who had stepped off the boat had been everything he could dream to be, rather than the misfit of Gryffindor house.
After four long years, he had managed to forge very few friendships within the house of lions, and stayed away as often as he could, spending time with his Slytherin friends who had very reluctantly accepted the fact that he had no clue who the damned Hat had sorted him wrong. When he approached the other fourth years, he would glare at the Weasley who had taken his place- taken his birthright! The Weasley would glare back with the same level of hatred, and scurry off to chat with the Gryffindors who accepted him less easily than the Slytherins accepted Draco.
One evening, Draco found himself lurking around the Slytherin common room waiting for someone to let him in, since the password had been changed and no one had thought to inform him.
When the entrance finally scraped open, Draco stepped forward confidently, but plowed straight into Ron Weasley, who was storming out with an expression of pure rage.
“Get the hell out of my way,” he growled, shoving Draco roughly to the side.
“I’m the one who belongs here, Weasley,” Draco snapped.
“Don’t you think I know that, Malfoy?” Ron put as much venom in the name as Draco had put in his own. He grabbed the red and gold tie neatly knotted around Draco’s neck and hissed, “This makes me sick. That’s my place.”
Draco, filled with an anger he couldn’t contain, shoved Ron against the wall and grabbed the loosely knotted green and silver tie. “This is my birthright,” he snapped, twining his fingers in the coveted colors. “I was born for this house.”
“Just like I was born for this,” Ron whispered, jerking the tie in his grasp even harder and bringing their faces within inches of each other. Draco could feel the hot breath of the taller boy, and felt the hot urge to punch, smash, destroy the boy who had what he most desired but couldn’t grasp.
He just wanted to hurt him, just wanted to take his own place in the order of things.
He didn’t want to be the outsider, the freak at the edge of the table looking wistfully at what had never been and what would never be, but knowing that was what should have been.
And suddenly his tie was jerked even harder, and he stumbled forward, pressing his entire weight against the lean, tall boy he hated so much, and with an unthinking tilt of his head he found their lips pressed against each other. He snarled and bit and ripped gently, ferociously, passionately at the very soul of Ron Weasley, fighting a battle he could, in the end, only lose.
And here's finished drabble number one, only I got a little carried away with the beginning. Hope you don't mind, sandrainthesun!
Transposition
Draco Malfoy confidently swaggered up to the stool, perched the Sorting Hat jauntily on his pale blond head and waited for the inevitable to occur. Instead, the Hat paused, mumbling incoherently to itself, and then whispered, “Trust me on this.”
Draco looked around nervously, wondering what sort of terrible thing was about to occur, as always occurred after someone said those dreaded words. Then, the Hat proclaimed his house.
He was halfway to the Slytherin table before he realized what, precisely, the Hat had uttered.
***
Ron Weasley was in a state of shock. Twenty seconds previously, the hat perched on his head had announced in a painfully clear voice that he was Sorted into Slytherin. He did not move from the stool, did not remove the hat.
“Mr. Weasley,” he heard Professor McGonagall say. “Please move to your House table.”
He shook his head. “I’m waiting on the Hat to change its mind,” he said.
“Mr. Weasley, you’re holding up the line,” said McGonagall in an aggrieved tone. “As well as the Feast. Go to your table.”
Ron started to ask, “What line?” but saw a haughty black boy glaring at him. He waited a few more seconds for the hat to yell, “Gotcha!” and send him to Gryffindor with every other Weasley to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts, but the hat remained silent and the hall was increasingly filled with annoyed whispering to the effect of, “Why’s that kid sitting there like a dope?”
Ron slunk to the Slytherin table, where he met rows of unfriendly eyes. A few seconds later, the boy from line sat down and informed him coldly, “Stop looking as though the world’s come to an end. We’re as unhappy about you being here as you are with being here.”
Ron just shook his head, and stared at the Gryffindor table, where his three brothers were visible, as well as Harry Potter, who was sitting next to Draco Malfoy and not looking too happy about it.
“Malfoy stole my place at Gryffindor,” he muttered. “That’s the only explanation.”
The pretty girl next to him sniffed her nose. “Like Draco wanted to be in Gryffindor. How embarrassing. Malfoys have all been in Slytherin for hundreds of years.”
“There’s never been a Weasley who wasn’t in Gryffindor,” Ron said, still shell shocked. “Never. Mum and Dad are going to be so disappointed.”
“‘Scuse us.”
“Move it over, knuckleheads.”
Ron groaned and hit his head against the table as two familiar voices cut through the din, and then he found himself wedged between his twin older brothers.
“This isn’t going to work,” announced Fred as he grabbed a roll off a nearby girl’s plate.
“Never, though it is a nice attempt,” George countered.
“I’m not trying anything,” grumbled Ron. “Go away.”
Twin snorts and two hands ruffling his hair was the only acknowledgment that he’d spoken.
“It’s going to take a lot more than getting Sorted into Slytherin to break into our level of mischief,” Fred informed him.
George grinned as he surveyed the hateful faces surrounding them as the twins stood to return to Gryffindor table. “Though it was nice of you to sacrifice yourself just so we’d have a man on the inside, so to speak.”
Ron yelled at their retreating backs, “But I didn’t!”
They never turned around.
***
Draco looked at the bench disdainfully before perching on it, glaring at his red and gold tie and trying to imagine how terrible it would look with his pale coloring. Around him, Gryffindors were chatting and laughing and generally ignoring his presence.
He glanced at the table he ought to be sitting at, and felt a stab of anger when he saw a viciously red head sitting next to Pansy and Blaise and Theo. He ought to be there with his friends, rather than surrounded by insipid, dull-witted Gryffindors whose idea of an interesting conversation revolved around Muggles and speculation on classes.
And sitting next to him was Harry bloody Potter, who had snubbed him on the train. Sure, his father had told him to make friends with the boy, but he doubted that he would be happy with this turn of events.
A sick feeling settled in his belly at the thought of his father’s reaction, and consoled himself only with the thought that maybe they would take him out of Hogwarts and send him to Durmstrang, where he could forget about this embarrassment.
***
Four years later, and Draco was wishing more fervently than ever that he had been sent to Durmstrang. The students who had stepped off the boat had been everything he could dream to be, rather than the misfit of Gryffindor house.
After four long years, he had managed to forge very few friendships within the house of lions, and stayed away as often as he could, spending time with his Slytherin friends who had very reluctantly accepted the fact that he had no clue who the damned Hat had sorted him wrong. When he approached the other fourth years, he would glare at the Weasley who had taken his place- taken his birthright! The Weasley would glare back with the same level of hatred, and scurry off to chat with the Gryffindors who accepted him less easily than the Slytherins accepted Draco.
One evening, Draco found himself lurking around the Slytherin common room waiting for someone to let him in, since the password had been changed and no one had thought to inform him.
When the entrance finally scraped open, Draco stepped forward confidently, but plowed straight into Ron Weasley, who was storming out with an expression of pure rage.
“Get the hell out of my way,” he growled, shoving Draco roughly to the side.
“I’m the one who belongs here, Weasley,” Draco snapped.
“Don’t you think I know that, Malfoy?” Ron put as much venom in the name as Draco had put in his own. He grabbed the red and gold tie neatly knotted around Draco’s neck and hissed, “This makes me sick. That’s my place.”
Draco, filled with an anger he couldn’t contain, shoved Ron against the wall and grabbed the loosely knotted green and silver tie. “This is my birthright,” he snapped, twining his fingers in the coveted colors. “I was born for this house.”
“Just like I was born for this,” Ron whispered, jerking the tie in his grasp even harder and bringing their faces within inches of each other. Draco could feel the hot breath of the taller boy, and felt the hot urge to punch, smash, destroy the boy who had what he most desired but couldn’t grasp.
He just wanted to hurt him, just wanted to take his own place in the order of things.
He didn’t want to be the outsider, the freak at the edge of the table looking wistfully at what had never been and what would never be, but knowing that was what should have been.
And suddenly his tie was jerked even harder, and he stumbled forward, pressing his entire weight against the lean, tall boy he hated so much, and with an unthinking tilt of his head he found their lips pressed against each other. He snarled and bit and ripped gently, ferociously, passionately at the very soul of Ron Weasley, fighting a battle he could, in the end, only lose.