FIC: [Untitled] (HP, G -- Yes, that's right, Harry freakin' Potter. I'm scared too.)
It's official. I've entirely lost my mind.
While talking to vileseagulls a week or so ago, I displayed my total ignorance of Harry Potter fandom. (Snape's part of one of the bigger pairings, eh? Huh. How about that?) Naturally, this could lead nowhere but to an assesment of Alan Rickman's Snape's charms. After all, he can have chemistry with anything anyone, right?
Anyway, about a day later, vileseagulls posted, recalling our conversation. ^_^ After a lot of thinking, I answered her post with a fic.
A fic which I'm posting here as proof of my one and only foray into HP fandom. O_o
Currently, it has no title (and no headers, because that might make it too real). I didn't think that far in advance while writing it. So, you know, I'm more than happy to entertain suggestions from those that are brave enough to actually read the thing. Eeek. All I ask is that you remember this is NOT my fandom. *runs back to the safety of LotR*
So, even though you've seen it already, Madame Francesca Potter-Snape, this one is for you. ^_^
The usual bits: G-rated, and of course Harry Potter does not belong to me (thank goodness).
Snape stalked past the building site, barely pausing to acknowledge the students that toiled on the brick house they were so carefully constructing. He nodded approvingly; getting them involved in Habitat for Hobgoblins certainly kept them all out of trouble.
A bright flash from high up in the house frame -- presumably from a hammer or nail or something equally blue-collar, Snape thought as his world tilted sideways -- caught his attention long enough for him to miss the object on the ground in front of him, stumble and end up on his back.
The students who saw his inglorious spill very wisely and studiously ignored the results, managing, on the whole, not to snigger too much.
Snape took a moment to appraise the sky as his breathing returned to normal. It was, after all, an irritatingly cheerful day, blue and clear, with plenty of those disgustingly joyful birds singing their fool heads off. He sat up and glared over his shoulder, expecting to see some sort of nervous student at fault for tripping his or her professor.
Instead, he saw a brick.
It was rectangular, as these things tend to be, and reddish brown, also as these things tend to be, and it sat in the middle of the grass, looking impassive.
Snape glared at it; a full-on, I've Caught You With Your Hand In The Potions Cupboard, And You Are Most Certainly Not Going To Enjoy This -- I, On The Other Hand, Will Take Great Glee From The Moments To Come. Secretly, he was always quite pleased with the way his lip curled and his eyes narrowed when he glared. Sometimes he'd practise it in the mirror, just to keep it up to snuff.
The brick was unmoved.
Snape scowled. It had all the force of his You Call This An Essay Answer, Mister Potter? The raised eyebrow was always the best part of the scowl, as he'd confirmed at breakfast this morning when he scowled at the back of an especially shiny spoon.
The brick didn't even bat a non-existent eyelid.
Snape began to wonder about this mysterious, enticingly solid brick. It appeared to be more than capable of standing up to anything he could throw at it. He reached out a hand, ran his fingers along the top. It was cool to the touch.
He picked it up, brought it closer so he could examine it. The edges were so sharp, and the planes so very smooth. As he held it, it grew warmer in his hands.
"Oh, is that how we're going to play it?" he murmured against its surface. The brick was gritty and dusty under his lips, but it stayed silent.
Snape caressed it in a completely invasive manner, the pads of his fingers skidding across the brick, cupping, weighing it. When it didn't pull away, Snape knew it wanted what he wanted, and his tripping hadn't been accidental at all.
He stood up, dusted off his robes, all the while cradling the brick close.
As he stalked off, taking the brick to his quarters in order to begin building something new out of this budding relationship, one or two of the students shook their heads and looked at each other in confusion. Had they heard? No, it couldn't be. Professor Snape would never be caught dead muttering nursery rhymes, and he certainly didn't know the words to The House That Jack Built.
THE SAD, SAD END
(May 12, 2004)
While talking to vileseagulls a week or so ago, I displayed my total ignorance of Harry Potter fandom. (Snape's part of one of the bigger pairings, eh? Huh. How about that?) Naturally, this could lead nowhere but to an assesment of Alan Rickman's Snape's charms. After all, he can have chemistry with anything anyone, right?
Anyway, about a day later, vileseagulls posted, recalling our conversation. ^_^ After a lot of thinking, I answered her post with a fic.
A fic which I'm posting here as proof of my one and only foray into HP fandom. O_o
Currently, it has no title (and no headers, because that might make it too real). I didn't think that far in advance while writing it. So, you know, I'm more than happy to entertain suggestions from those that are brave enough to actually read the thing. Eeek. All I ask is that you remember this is NOT my fandom. *runs back to the safety of LotR*
So, even though you've seen it already, Madame Francesca Potter-Snape, this one is for you. ^_^
The usual bits: G-rated, and of course Harry Potter does not belong to me (thank goodness).
Snape stalked past the building site, barely pausing to acknowledge the students that toiled on the brick house they were so carefully constructing. He nodded approvingly; getting them involved in Habitat for Hobgoblins certainly kept them all out of trouble.
A bright flash from high up in the house frame -- presumably from a hammer or nail or something equally blue-collar, Snape thought as his world tilted sideways -- caught his attention long enough for him to miss the object on the ground in front of him, stumble and end up on his back.
The students who saw his inglorious spill very wisely and studiously ignored the results, managing, on the whole, not to snigger too much.
Snape took a moment to appraise the sky as his breathing returned to normal. It was, after all, an irritatingly cheerful day, blue and clear, with plenty of those disgustingly joyful birds singing their fool heads off. He sat up and glared over his shoulder, expecting to see some sort of nervous student at fault for tripping his or her professor.
Instead, he saw a brick.
It was rectangular, as these things tend to be, and reddish brown, also as these things tend to be, and it sat in the middle of the grass, looking impassive.
Snape glared at it; a full-on, I've Caught You With Your Hand In The Potions Cupboard, And You Are Most Certainly Not Going To Enjoy This -- I, On The Other Hand, Will Take Great Glee From The Moments To Come. Secretly, he was always quite pleased with the way his lip curled and his eyes narrowed when he glared. Sometimes he'd practise it in the mirror, just to keep it up to snuff.
The brick was unmoved.
Snape scowled. It had all the force of his You Call This An Essay Answer, Mister Potter? The raised eyebrow was always the best part of the scowl, as he'd confirmed at breakfast this morning when he scowled at the back of an especially shiny spoon.
The brick didn't even bat a non-existent eyelid.
Snape began to wonder about this mysterious, enticingly solid brick. It appeared to be more than capable of standing up to anything he could throw at it. He reached out a hand, ran his fingers along the top. It was cool to the touch.
He picked it up, brought it closer so he could examine it. The edges were so sharp, and the planes so very smooth. As he held it, it grew warmer in his hands.
"Oh, is that how we're going to play it?" he murmured against its surface. The brick was gritty and dusty under his lips, but it stayed silent.
Snape caressed it in a completely invasive manner, the pads of his fingers skidding across the brick, cupping, weighing it. When it didn't pull away, Snape knew it wanted what he wanted, and his tripping hadn't been accidental at all.
He stood up, dusted off his robes, all the while cradling the brick close.
As he stalked off, taking the brick to his quarters in order to begin building something new out of this budding relationship, one or two of the students shook their heads and looked at each other in confusion. Had they heard? No, it couldn't be. Professor Snape would never be caught dead muttering nursery rhymes, and he certainly didn't know the words to The House That Jack Built.
THE SAD, SAD END
(May 12, 2004)