Living in Hell: Dumbledore's Army
Title: Living in Hell: Dumbledore's Army
Characters: Neville L., Michael C., Ginny W., Luna L., . . . Dumbledore's Army of course! Plus others
Length: 11 of ?
Rating: T for language and possible adult situations
A/N: I own nothing. For Kore-of-Myth's Shuffle Challenge on fanfiction.net's Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenge forum. Each drabble is inspired by whatever song comes on my shuffle; I write as the song plays and finish as the song ends. These are unbeta'd but they are meant to be warts and all, just whatever poured out of me as the song played.
Oh, and . . . weird couple alert at the end. I wasn't expecting to start shipping them, but I totally did.
I.
You Don’t Care About Us
Placebo
Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein
It’s the first time he’s been able to leave St. Mungo’s-
Well, that’s actually a stretch, as Terry and Anthony both managed to sneak him out of his room, under a number of Disillusionment Charms . . . and Michael suspected a little bribery on Terry’s part of a couple of the staff people.
But this was great. He was able to get a pint with his two best mates. The two best wizards that he’d ever know . . . two blokes who taught him the meaning of brotherhood, of fraternity. Who gave him the strength to keep going, even when everything was almost lost.
They take a seat in the middle of The Leaky Cauldron, and Terry, very boisterously orders a round of mead for them. He also spots a table with a couple of dark-haired beauties who have been eyeing them since they walked in.
“Hey, Mike,” he nudges his head at the two witches. “Not bad, eh?”
Anthony snorts. “Are you blind?”
“Huh?”
Anthony rolls his eyes. “Those two over there are Slytherins, you pig taint!”
Michael chokes on his mead. “What? Terry . . . you’re not seriously considering-”
Terry shrugs. “Well, they are fit-”
“They didn’t even bother fighting with us, idiot!” Anthony takes another gulp of his mead. Michael’s about to respond, when-
“What happened to your arm?”
Michael looks down at the little girl, no more than five or six. She’s pointing at the sleeve of his shirt, hanging off his body without form or a hand.
He coughs awkwardly. “Um, I l-lost it . . . i-in the war,” he says shakily, looking over a Terry and Anthony. He’s feeling increasingly uncomfortable and hot.
“Melinda, what are you-” The girl’s mother approaches her and puts an arm protectively around the girl’s chest as she looks at the three wizards. She just stares in silence at them.
Terry looks at her with an annoyed, increasingly angry expression. “Is there something we can help you with, Miss?”
She shakes herself out of her trance. “Come along, Melinda . . .” she pulls the girl towards her, “we don’t talk to strangers, okay. . . .” Her eyes dart back towards them. “We don’t know how they might react around others-”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Terry’s rising in his seat and about to give this woman a piece of his mind, but Michael pushes him back down with his other arm.
“C’mon, Terry. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, okay? I just want to hang out with my mates, all right?”
Terry stares and sneers at the older witch, and he orders another round of drinks.
II.
Find the River
R.E.M.
Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley
She brings him to his dormitory at the very top of Gryffindor Tower. She is relieved to find it empty. His hand falls from hers and he walks to the closest bedpost. He doesn’t manage to sit on it, but rather he slides down, hitting the floor with his rear end rather hard.
“Ron,” Hermione says with a worried voice. She runs by his side, but the impact seems to not have fazed him in the slightest. He’s staring out into space . . . at nothing. At everything in the small space with them.
She sees him shaking his head in little movements, barely discernible if one wasn’t as observant as she. And because she is so observant, she feels his hands shake as she takes both of them in hers.
And she notices the increasing moisture in his eyes.
Hermione swallows and pulls herself together. She knows why he’s about to lose it; Ron hasn’t had a chance to mourn, to release whatever has been building inside of him after the Battle.
He watched his brother die.
How do you go on when you watch your brother die?
She touches his cheek with a shaky hand. Without a sound, a breath, a gasp, he starts crying. Tears run from his clear blue eyes, but Ron still stares at nothing.
“R-Ron,” her voice shakes too. “I’m h-here . . . I’m right here with you. Unless you want me to leave-”
His hands clasp around hers in a quick, desperate fashion. Slowly, so painfully slowly, Ron turns and looks at her face.
“I l-let h-hi-him die-”
She throws herself at him, clutching him and refusing to let him go, even if he demanded it (which he didn’t).
“You did not! Don’t ever think that! You are too good . . . too good . . .” She embraces him, whispering and sobbing, needing him to believe her, almost as much as she needed to breathe.
“Please, Ron . . . don’t believe that,” she whispers over and over again, letting him sob as long as he needs to.
III.
Smile Like You Mean It
The Killers
Dean Thomas and Pansy Parkinson
They really should stop meeting like this.
Flooing or Apparating to either flat.
Some drinks.
Some insults.
Lots of shouting.
And fucking. Always with the fucking.
Their sex is rough, damn near violent. It’s never on the bed, never as two individuals uniting in love or intimacy.
Hell, Pansy rarely ever takes off her damn top; Dean only pulls it down enough to get to her chest. It’s understood that they are both in it to satisfy their own carnal needs.
Unspoken in their arrangement is just how empty Dean feels. He suspects Pansy feels the same, but to say anything would mean he understands, and he just can’t go there with a Slytherin right now.
They slam each other against walls, toppling furniture and tearing apart beddings. Pansy’s never on her back with Dean; she keeps her legs wrapped around his stomach as she pushes down on him. He thrusts back into her angrily, greedily and she howls, hurting but satiated.
Several times, Dean feels her hand wrap around his throat. He growls and slams her arms above her head, pinning them against the wall as he finishes.
On this particular night, Pansy’s sleeping, lying on her front. Dean’s at the window of her bedroom, staring out into the night, into a full moon that shines its light through the window and on Pansy’s slumbering form. His eyes catch numerous parchments that they had brushed off her desk so Dean could fuck her on it. He picks one up.
“Draco,” it says, “I’m not going to keep writing to you like some desperate Hufflepuff, but please . . . just write me back. Just once-”
Dean looks around him. The other parchments all have Malfoy’s name, and are in various states of progress. Some have marks indicating that they’ve been returned.
His eyes move from the one he’s holding in his hands over to Pansy’s sleeping body, dreading that feeling creep over him, realizing that he’s understanding her more than he ever wanted to.
IV.
You Make Loving Fun
Fleetwood Mac
Luna Lovegood
Luna is glad that she is possessed with a mind that can translate the horrible to some unique state of existence, where she can think about things before she allows herself to succumb to too much emotion.
It isn’t that she doesn’t feel. She feels a lot and she feels acutely. But she simply has a different way of looking at the world. Luna lets things happen, understanding that somehow, some way, things shall work out for the best.
So, although she was disappointed and sad that she didn’t work out with Dean, she has to think that their conversations together, that the time they spent with each other had meant something to him, and someday, when he’s ready, he’ll hear what she said and get the help he needs to deal with the darkness.
However, it is not encouraging to her when she Apparates to his flat one afternoon and sees him entangled with Pansy.
Luna stands at the window for a couple of minutes, blinking in disbelief at the sight of them together. She doesn't have to hear anything to know that it is angry, violent, and destructive.
She wipes away her tears -- only a couple -- and realizes that Dean is simply not ready to move on. She cannot guarantee she’ll be there for him as his girlfriend when he is, but she’ll be there as a friend.
V.
Easy Silence
Dixie Chicks
Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein
“Terry!” Michael says warningly, slamming his mead on the tabletop. “Quit your huffing. Don’t let one idiot ruin a fine evening. My first one out of Fake-kaban.” Michael snickers at his little joke. He’s recently been teasing his Healers, calling them Dementors.
Terry shakes his head. “Mike, you don’t get it.” He and Anthony look at each other.
“What?”
“It’s not the first time this has happened.”
Michael looks at Anthony, confused. “What do you mean?”
“There are some out there that . . .” Anthony thinks about his words, “that have heard about some of ours who’ve, er-”
“There are some that are scared of us. That think we’re unstable and volatile.” Michael gapes at this. “Because of the war.” Terry finishes bluntly.
“Why?” Michael looks at both his friends, who can only shrug with a heavy hopelessness.
“People are still scared.” Anthony offers. “Shacklebolt’s done a good job, but there’s so much uncertainty in the air. How are we going to finish rebuilding? How are we going to overcome decades, centuries, of prejudice?” He leans forward, “How do we make sure this never happens again.”
Anthony sighs. “Unfortunately, there’s a lot of misinformation out there about veterans who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts, and some people believe it.”
Michael looks at him, disgusted. “Like what?”
“They think we’re crazy, liable to start hexing people at a moment’s notice, to fall off the deep end.”
Michael looks at Terry with a despondent expression.
Anthony nudges the other wizard, and both lift their tankards in a more solemn toast than before. “Cheers, mate.”
Characters: Neville L., Michael C., Ginny W., Luna L., . . . Dumbledore's Army of course! Plus others
Length: 11 of ?
Rating: T for language and possible adult situations
A/N: I own nothing. For Kore-of-Myth's Shuffle Challenge on fanfiction.net's Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenge forum. Each drabble is inspired by whatever song comes on my shuffle; I write as the song plays and finish as the song ends. These are unbeta'd but they are meant to be warts and all, just whatever poured out of me as the song played.
Oh, and . . . weird couple alert at the end. I wasn't expecting to start shipping them, but I totally did.
I.
You Don’t Care About Us
Placebo
Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein
It’s the first time he’s been able to leave St. Mungo’s-
Well, that’s actually a stretch, as Terry and Anthony both managed to sneak him out of his room, under a number of Disillusionment Charms . . . and Michael suspected a little bribery on Terry’s part of a couple of the staff people.
But this was great. He was able to get a pint with his two best mates. The two best wizards that he’d ever know . . . two blokes who taught him the meaning of brotherhood, of fraternity. Who gave him the strength to keep going, even when everything was almost lost.
They take a seat in the middle of The Leaky Cauldron, and Terry, very boisterously orders a round of mead for them. He also spots a table with a couple of dark-haired beauties who have been eyeing them since they walked in.
“Hey, Mike,” he nudges his head at the two witches. “Not bad, eh?”
Anthony snorts. “Are you blind?”
“Huh?”
Anthony rolls his eyes. “Those two over there are Slytherins, you pig taint!”
Michael chokes on his mead. “What? Terry . . . you’re not seriously considering-”
Terry shrugs. “Well, they are fit-”
“They didn’t even bother fighting with us, idiot!” Anthony takes another gulp of his mead. Michael’s about to respond, when-
“What happened to your arm?”
Michael looks down at the little girl, no more than five or six. She’s pointing at the sleeve of his shirt, hanging off his body without form or a hand.
He coughs awkwardly. “Um, I l-lost it . . . i-in the war,” he says shakily, looking over a Terry and Anthony. He’s feeling increasingly uncomfortable and hot.
“Melinda, what are you-” The girl’s mother approaches her and puts an arm protectively around the girl’s chest as she looks at the three wizards. She just stares in silence at them.
Terry looks at her with an annoyed, increasingly angry expression. “Is there something we can help you with, Miss?”
She shakes herself out of her trance. “Come along, Melinda . . .” she pulls the girl towards her, “we don’t talk to strangers, okay. . . .” Her eyes dart back towards them. “We don’t know how they might react around others-”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Terry’s rising in his seat and about to give this woman a piece of his mind, but Michael pushes him back down with his other arm.
“C’mon, Terry. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, okay? I just want to hang out with my mates, all right?”
Terry stares and sneers at the older witch, and he orders another round of drinks.
II.
Find the River
R.E.M.
Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley
She brings him to his dormitory at the very top of Gryffindor Tower. She is relieved to find it empty. His hand falls from hers and he walks to the closest bedpost. He doesn’t manage to sit on it, but rather he slides down, hitting the floor with his rear end rather hard.
“Ron,” Hermione says with a worried voice. She runs by his side, but the impact seems to not have fazed him in the slightest. He’s staring out into space . . . at nothing. At everything in the small space with them.
She sees him shaking his head in little movements, barely discernible if one wasn’t as observant as she. And because she is so observant, she feels his hands shake as she takes both of them in hers.
And she notices the increasing moisture in his eyes.
Hermione swallows and pulls herself together. She knows why he’s about to lose it; Ron hasn’t had a chance to mourn, to release whatever has been building inside of him after the Battle.
He watched his brother die.
How do you go on when you watch your brother die?
She touches his cheek with a shaky hand. Without a sound, a breath, a gasp, he starts crying. Tears run from his clear blue eyes, but Ron still stares at nothing.
“R-Ron,” her voice shakes too. “I’m h-here . . . I’m right here with you. Unless you want me to leave-”
His hands clasp around hers in a quick, desperate fashion. Slowly, so painfully slowly, Ron turns and looks at her face.
“I l-let h-hi-him die-”
She throws herself at him, clutching him and refusing to let him go, even if he demanded it (which he didn’t).
“You did not! Don’t ever think that! You are too good . . . too good . . .” She embraces him, whispering and sobbing, needing him to believe her, almost as much as she needed to breathe.
“Please, Ron . . . don’t believe that,” she whispers over and over again, letting him sob as long as he needs to.
III.
Smile Like You Mean It
The Killers
Dean Thomas and Pansy Parkinson
They really should stop meeting like this.
Flooing or Apparating to either flat.
Some drinks.
Some insults.
Lots of shouting.
And fucking. Always with the fucking.
Their sex is rough, damn near violent. It’s never on the bed, never as two individuals uniting in love or intimacy.
Hell, Pansy rarely ever takes off her damn top; Dean only pulls it down enough to get to her chest. It’s understood that they are both in it to satisfy their own carnal needs.
Unspoken in their arrangement is just how empty Dean feels. He suspects Pansy feels the same, but to say anything would mean he understands, and he just can’t go there with a Slytherin right now.
They slam each other against walls, toppling furniture and tearing apart beddings. Pansy’s never on her back with Dean; she keeps her legs wrapped around his stomach as she pushes down on him. He thrusts back into her angrily, greedily and she howls, hurting but satiated.
Several times, Dean feels her hand wrap around his throat. He growls and slams her arms above her head, pinning them against the wall as he finishes.
On this particular night, Pansy’s sleeping, lying on her front. Dean’s at the window of her bedroom, staring out into the night, into a full moon that shines its light through the window and on Pansy’s slumbering form. His eyes catch numerous parchments that they had brushed off her desk so Dean could fuck her on it. He picks one up.
“Draco,” it says, “I’m not going to keep writing to you like some desperate Hufflepuff, but please . . . just write me back. Just once-”
Dean looks around him. The other parchments all have Malfoy’s name, and are in various states of progress. Some have marks indicating that they’ve been returned.
His eyes move from the one he’s holding in his hands over to Pansy’s sleeping body, dreading that feeling creep over him, realizing that he’s understanding her more than he ever wanted to.
IV.
You Make Loving Fun
Fleetwood Mac
Luna Lovegood
Luna is glad that she is possessed with a mind that can translate the horrible to some unique state of existence, where she can think about things before she allows herself to succumb to too much emotion.
It isn’t that she doesn’t feel. She feels a lot and she feels acutely. But she simply has a different way of looking at the world. Luna lets things happen, understanding that somehow, some way, things shall work out for the best.
So, although she was disappointed and sad that she didn’t work out with Dean, she has to think that their conversations together, that the time they spent with each other had meant something to him, and someday, when he’s ready, he’ll hear what she said and get the help he needs to deal with the darkness.
However, it is not encouraging to her when she Apparates to his flat one afternoon and sees him entangled with Pansy.
Luna stands at the window for a couple of minutes, blinking in disbelief at the sight of them together. She doesn't have to hear anything to know that it is angry, violent, and destructive.
She wipes away her tears -- only a couple -- and realizes that Dean is simply not ready to move on. She cannot guarantee she’ll be there for him as his girlfriend when he is, but she’ll be there as a friend.
V.
Easy Silence
Dixie Chicks
Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein
“Terry!” Michael says warningly, slamming his mead on the tabletop. “Quit your huffing. Don’t let one idiot ruin a fine evening. My first one out of Fake-kaban.” Michael snickers at his little joke. He’s recently been teasing his Healers, calling them Dementors.
Terry shakes his head. “Mike, you don’t get it.” He and Anthony look at each other.
“What?”
“It’s not the first time this has happened.”
Michael looks at Anthony, confused. “What do you mean?”
“There are some out there that . . .” Anthony thinks about his words, “that have heard about some of ours who’ve, er-”
“There are some that are scared of us. That think we’re unstable and volatile.” Michael gapes at this. “Because of the war.” Terry finishes bluntly.
“Why?” Michael looks at both his friends, who can only shrug with a heavy hopelessness.
“People are still scared.” Anthony offers. “Shacklebolt’s done a good job, but there’s so much uncertainty in the air. How are we going to finish rebuilding? How are we going to overcome decades, centuries, of prejudice?” He leans forward, “How do we make sure this never happens again.”
Anthony sighs. “Unfortunately, there’s a lot of misinformation out there about veterans who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts, and some people believe it.”
Michael looks at him, disgusted. “Like what?”
“They think we’re crazy, liable to start hexing people at a moment’s notice, to fall off the deep end.”
Michael looks at Terry with a despondent expression.
Anthony nudges the other wizard, and both lift their tankards in a more solemn toast than before. “Cheers, mate.”