Has there ever been a girl so lucky? - A gift for dexstarr!
Title: Has there ever been a girl so lucky?
Author: thusspakekate
Recipient: dexstarr
Pairing(s): Pansy/Rose
Word Count: 2k
Rating: R for themes
Warnings: Minors in sexual situations (Rose is 16).
Summary: She cares for her mistress, just as her mistress cares for her.
Author's Notes: dexstarr mentioned that she'd prefer a fic without a lot of sex, which was actually a pretty fun challenge for me, since I default to smut. I feel as though everything here is subtle enough to go without warning. Sex is mentioned, but it's not explicit, and is more of a contributing factor than a central theme. I was intrigued by this pairing and tried to imagine a world in where it could exist, taking into account a few of the other prompts. I had a great time writing it, experimenting with style and atmosphere, and am pleased with the result. I only hope that dexstarr is too! Thanks to her for her wonderful prompts and to scarletladyy for organizing this brilliant fest.
Water drips from a crack in the ceiling and pools on the cold, stone floors of the cell. The warm light of a harvest moon casts long shadows from the window's wrought iron bars, which fall across the sleeping forms of a mother and her child. It has been seven months since the mother has seen anything besides this dingy room, and the babe in her arms has never known the world outside of it. The guards had come and laughed at her birth, howling with delight as the mother lay in a pile of her own piss and shit, her fingers streaked with blood where she clawed against the stone wall, grasping for something to hold onto as she pushed.
Neither mother nor babe had been expected to survive the night, and yet here they lay.
The baby gurgles in her sleep and her mother opens one tired eye to watch, love blossoming in her chest despite the squalor of their situation. The daughter will never know her father, killed on the Yorkshire moor where her mother was finally captured, but she looks just like him: red faced and red haired with blue, blue eyes.
Rose, the mother whispers into the darkness. My beautiful, darling Rose.
When she wakes in the morning, her baby is gone.
xxx
Rose has never had a last name. How could she? She's never had parents. For as long as she could remember, she'd just been Rose. Or girl. Or you there, yes you, the half-blooded bitch.
Abandoned on the doorsteps of an orphanage by a Mudblood whore, Rose knows she is lucky to have been given any food and shelter at all. She knows this, because that is what they tell her. They tell her everyday. They tell her in the morning as she scrubs the toilets; they tell her in the afternoons as she does the washing; they tell her in the evening as she eats her stale bread and rotted fruit. She is lucky that they have such large, loving hearts; who else would take in a pathetic, Mudblood Squib like her?
As lucky as Rose has been those first sixteen years, nothing compares to her fortune on the day a short, dark-haired witch with elegant robes the color of congealed blood and lips painted to match comes sauntering into the orphanage. She requires a girl, the woman tells the the matron, an assistant to take back to Hogwarts with her.
Rose keeps her eyes down as the woman strolls down the line of orphans, glancing each one over with disdain, her lip curled as though she smells something sour. On her third pass, the woman stops and lifts Rose's chin to examine her face.
What's your name? the woman asks.
Rose.
Rose what?
Rose nothing, she says and casts her eyes down again.
You look like a boy I once knew, says the woman quietly. Would you like to come with me?
Rose gives a small nod. She fills with gratitude.
xxx
Hogwarts is large and scary, full of endless dark corridors and dead-eyed pupils. Rose finds solace in her mistress's suite, an enclave where she feels safe and warm from the dank, labyrinthine halls of the castle. She is given a new pair of robes, cast-offs that her mistress once wore during her own days as a pupil at the school. She fingers the snake emblem on her chest and brings the fabric to her face, basking in the soft, floral scent of a perfume that hasn't quite faded.
Her mistress doesn't put her to work like they did at the orphanage. She still scrubs and cleans and tidies, but not because her mistress demands it. She does it because she wants to, she wants to see the pleased smile on her mistress's face when she returns from her lessons to find her rooms clean and a warm bath drawn. The house-elves hate her, and she hates them back. They say it is their role to serve, not hers. But house-elves are stupid, boorish creatures who can't understand. How else can a girl like Rose show her thanks for all she has been given?
She does not live to serve, but to please. Her life revolves around pleasing her mistress; she hangs on her mistress's every word, lives for her smile, begs for her touch. She is more than a house-elf, more than a servant. She knows this, because that is what her mistress tells her. Her mistress tells her this as she plaits her hair; as she strokes her face; as she tucks her in and kisses her goodnight.
She cares for her mistress, just as her mistress cares for her.
xxx
Rose never displayed any magical aptitude at the orphanage. The matron told her that the filth of her mother's blood must have corrupted the magic inside her. Her mistress laughs when Rose repeats the matron's words and gives her a small walnut wand with a unicorn hair core. It does nothing but sputter sadly when Rose swish-and-flicks, mumbling the incantations without hope.
Rose cherishes her wand all the same. She carries it with her everywhere, tucked in the waistband of her skirt, hidden under her pillow at night, a nine and a half inch reminder of how lucky she is to have a mistress so kind.
It is Victory Day when Rose does magic for the first time. There are never any lessons on Victory Day, the day when the Wizarding world stops to remember the terrible war that shed so much Wizarding blood, the day they celebrate their Lord's defeat of the half-blood usurper. Her mistress stays in her chambers that day and tutors Rose, running through drill after drill until Rose wants to cry with frustration. Her mistress has been so kind and so patient with her. She never hits or starves Rose when she knocks over a glass of pumpkin juice or misses a spot of grime on the floor. She doesn't yell and curse and beat her like they did at the orphanage, and Rose is thankful for it.
Disappointing her mistress is Rose's biggest fear; she feels that the weight of her failure may crush her.
Relax, you silly cow, her mistress says as she comes to stand behind her. She wraps her hand around Rose's and lifts the girl's wand arm into the air. She moves their arms together and Rose feels a tingle rise from her belly. Rosa Apparet, her mistress whispers. Something strange and wild surges through Rose. She can feel the heat of her mistress's body pressed against her back. Her arm shakes as energy courses through it, direct from her heart, and then light explodes from the tip of the wand, filling her field of vision with a blinding burst of silver magic and a cloud of smoke. The smoke clears to reveal a hundred rose petals, dancing through the air, drifting on their slow descent to the floor.
Rose can feel the warmth of her mistress's breath on her neck. Her mistress is just as winded as she, neither expecting the power of their combined magic.
Very good, purrs the voice behind her. Very, very good.
Rose's soul sings.
xxx
Hogwarts is cold in the winter. Rose spends most of her evenings tending the fire in her mistress's room as the older woman reclines on her chaise, idly marking pupil's work. She has the afternoons to herself and uses her free time to practice the small list of charms that her mistress has so graciously taught her. They are mostly useful spells for cleaning and grooming, a few basic transfigurations, and a number of novelty charms with no real purpose beyond simple amusement. Her mistress likes to keep her amused.
What her mistress doesn't know is that when she is out teaching, Rose is tucked away in their rooms, pouring over the textbooks left behind. Rose didn't know it before she came to Hogwarts, but she has an insatiable thirst for knowledge. She hides on the rare occasion that a pupil comes to her mistress's personal chambers, but she studies them from the shadows, a jealous curiosity burning in the pit of her stomach when she thinks of what a normal pupil's life must be like.
But Rose is not a normal pupil, because Rose is not a normal girl. She's the half-blooded bastard of a blood-traitor and his Mudblood whore; she's hardly more than a Squib, poor and alone and unloved. She knows this, because this is what she has been told. She shoves the books away as her mistress returns and smiles at her when she speaks, forcing herself to remember just how lucky she is.
xxx
Between the warmth of the fire and the soothing strokes of her mistress's hand on the top of her head, Rose can barely keep her eyes open. Settled on the floor besides her mistress's favorite chair, she leans her head against her mistress's knee and arches into the touch, feeling utterly contented.
You're tired, my pet, her mistress says at Rose's yawn. Shall we retire?
Rose nods and climbs to her feet, following her mistress into their bedchamber. She readies her mistress for bed, then strips off her own threadbare clothes. She slips into her camp bed, which is placed beside her mistress's large bed, and shivers under the still cool covers. She is happy that she is now allowed to sleep in her mistress's room, but the distance between them still feels too far. Her nights are cold and lonely.
Rose? Are you awake?
Yes, mistress, she replies.
Come up here, then. I wish to share my bed with you tonight.
Rose stands on unsteady legs. Are you sure, mistress?
I would not have said it if I weren't. Enough dallying, silly girl. Come here.
Rose crawls on to the bed and sits on her heels, unsure of what to do. Her mistress points to the foot of the bed and Rose moves, settling at her mistress's feet. She's never been given a set of night clothes and her naked body trembles in the frigid air. It's colder above the covers than it was in her bed. But then she feels it: the gentle burst of a warming charm heats her skin. She falls asleep with a smile on her face.
Rose never sees the camp bed again.
xxx
Rose's mistress is the most beautiful woman alive. Sometimes its hard for Rose to even look at her, overwhelmed as she is by the unparallelled divinity of her mistress's face. Her mistress is soft in all the places where Rose is not, with rounded cheeks, hips, and breasts. Her own face is ugly, she knows. She is thin and gangly and has wretched ginger hair that curls wildly around her face, which is splattered with unsightly freckles despite the fact she hasn't been outside in months.
Despite her harsh angles and protruding bones, she feels beautiful and alive under her mistress' touch. My Rose, her mistress whispers against her skin. My lovely, gorgeous Rose, she says as her fingers slip into the softest part of Rose's body, slick and warm and as tender as the petals of the flower for which she is named. My beautiful, perfect, innocent Rose, she breathes against Rose's thighs. Come for me, my love.
Rose does as she is told, her skin burning and her heart alight at the words my love.
xxx
No one has ever given Rose a present before; not for her birthday, not for Christmas, and most certainly not “just because”. Warm tears of gratitude slip down her cheek as her fingers fumble to tear through the decorative paper wrapped around the box. She removes the lid to find a beautiful piece of jewelry, a slim silver collar that is both delicate and unrelenting. Two pieces of curved metal join in the center, clasped together by an engraved plate carved with the swirling letters “PP”.
So you never forget to whom you belong, her mistress tells her. So you never forget who loves you most.
Has there ever been a girl so lucky?
Author: thusspakekate
Recipient: dexstarr
Pairing(s): Pansy/Rose
Word Count: 2k
Rating: R for themes
Warnings: Minors in sexual situations (Rose is 16).
Summary: She cares for her mistress, just as her mistress cares for her.
Author's Notes: dexstarr mentioned that she'd prefer a fic without a lot of sex, which was actually a pretty fun challenge for me, since I default to smut. I feel as though everything here is subtle enough to go without warning. Sex is mentioned, but it's not explicit, and is more of a contributing factor than a central theme. I was intrigued by this pairing and tried to imagine a world in where it could exist, taking into account a few of the other prompts. I had a great time writing it, experimenting with style and atmosphere, and am pleased with the result. I only hope that dexstarr is too! Thanks to her for her wonderful prompts and to scarletladyy for organizing this brilliant fest.
Water drips from a crack in the ceiling and pools on the cold, stone floors of the cell. The warm light of a harvest moon casts long shadows from the window's wrought iron bars, which fall across the sleeping forms of a mother and her child. It has been seven months since the mother has seen anything besides this dingy room, and the babe in her arms has never known the world outside of it. The guards had come and laughed at her birth, howling with delight as the mother lay in a pile of her own piss and shit, her fingers streaked with blood where she clawed against the stone wall, grasping for something to hold onto as she pushed.
Neither mother nor babe had been expected to survive the night, and yet here they lay.
The baby gurgles in her sleep and her mother opens one tired eye to watch, love blossoming in her chest despite the squalor of their situation. The daughter will never know her father, killed on the Yorkshire moor where her mother was finally captured, but she looks just like him: red faced and red haired with blue, blue eyes.
Rose, the mother whispers into the darkness. My beautiful, darling Rose.
When she wakes in the morning, her baby is gone.
xxx
Rose has never had a last name. How could she? She's never had parents. For as long as she could remember, she'd just been Rose. Or girl. Or you there, yes you, the half-blooded bitch.
Abandoned on the doorsteps of an orphanage by a Mudblood whore, Rose knows she is lucky to have been given any food and shelter at all. She knows this, because that is what they tell her. They tell her everyday. They tell her in the morning as she scrubs the toilets; they tell her in the afternoons as she does the washing; they tell her in the evening as she eats her stale bread and rotted fruit. She is lucky that they have such large, loving hearts; who else would take in a pathetic, Mudblood Squib like her?
As lucky as Rose has been those first sixteen years, nothing compares to her fortune on the day a short, dark-haired witch with elegant robes the color of congealed blood and lips painted to match comes sauntering into the orphanage. She requires a girl, the woman tells the the matron, an assistant to take back to Hogwarts with her.
Rose keeps her eyes down as the woman strolls down the line of orphans, glancing each one over with disdain, her lip curled as though she smells something sour. On her third pass, the woman stops and lifts Rose's chin to examine her face.
What's your name? the woman asks.
Rose.
Rose what?
Rose nothing, she says and casts her eyes down again.
You look like a boy I once knew, says the woman quietly. Would you like to come with me?
Rose gives a small nod. She fills with gratitude.
xxx
Hogwarts is large and scary, full of endless dark corridors and dead-eyed pupils. Rose finds solace in her mistress's suite, an enclave where she feels safe and warm from the dank, labyrinthine halls of the castle. She is given a new pair of robes, cast-offs that her mistress once wore during her own days as a pupil at the school. She fingers the snake emblem on her chest and brings the fabric to her face, basking in the soft, floral scent of a perfume that hasn't quite faded.
Her mistress doesn't put her to work like they did at the orphanage. She still scrubs and cleans and tidies, but not because her mistress demands it. She does it because she wants to, she wants to see the pleased smile on her mistress's face when she returns from her lessons to find her rooms clean and a warm bath drawn. The house-elves hate her, and she hates them back. They say it is their role to serve, not hers. But house-elves are stupid, boorish creatures who can't understand. How else can a girl like Rose show her thanks for all she has been given?
She does not live to serve, but to please. Her life revolves around pleasing her mistress; she hangs on her mistress's every word, lives for her smile, begs for her touch. She is more than a house-elf, more than a servant. She knows this, because that is what her mistress tells her. Her mistress tells her this as she plaits her hair; as she strokes her face; as she tucks her in and kisses her goodnight.
She cares for her mistress, just as her mistress cares for her.
xxx
Rose never displayed any magical aptitude at the orphanage. The matron told her that the filth of her mother's blood must have corrupted the magic inside her. Her mistress laughs when Rose repeats the matron's words and gives her a small walnut wand with a unicorn hair core. It does nothing but sputter sadly when Rose swish-and-flicks, mumbling the incantations without hope.
Rose cherishes her wand all the same. She carries it with her everywhere, tucked in the waistband of her skirt, hidden under her pillow at night, a nine and a half inch reminder of how lucky she is to have a mistress so kind.
It is Victory Day when Rose does magic for the first time. There are never any lessons on Victory Day, the day when the Wizarding world stops to remember the terrible war that shed so much Wizarding blood, the day they celebrate their Lord's defeat of the half-blood usurper. Her mistress stays in her chambers that day and tutors Rose, running through drill after drill until Rose wants to cry with frustration. Her mistress has been so kind and so patient with her. She never hits or starves Rose when she knocks over a glass of pumpkin juice or misses a spot of grime on the floor. She doesn't yell and curse and beat her like they did at the orphanage, and Rose is thankful for it.
Disappointing her mistress is Rose's biggest fear; she feels that the weight of her failure may crush her.
Relax, you silly cow, her mistress says as she comes to stand behind her. She wraps her hand around Rose's and lifts the girl's wand arm into the air. She moves their arms together and Rose feels a tingle rise from her belly. Rosa Apparet, her mistress whispers. Something strange and wild surges through Rose. She can feel the heat of her mistress's body pressed against her back. Her arm shakes as energy courses through it, direct from her heart, and then light explodes from the tip of the wand, filling her field of vision with a blinding burst of silver magic and a cloud of smoke. The smoke clears to reveal a hundred rose petals, dancing through the air, drifting on their slow descent to the floor.
Rose can feel the warmth of her mistress's breath on her neck. Her mistress is just as winded as she, neither expecting the power of their combined magic.
Very good, purrs the voice behind her. Very, very good.
Rose's soul sings.
xxx
Hogwarts is cold in the winter. Rose spends most of her evenings tending the fire in her mistress's room as the older woman reclines on her chaise, idly marking pupil's work. She has the afternoons to herself and uses her free time to practice the small list of charms that her mistress has so graciously taught her. They are mostly useful spells for cleaning and grooming, a few basic transfigurations, and a number of novelty charms with no real purpose beyond simple amusement. Her mistress likes to keep her amused.
What her mistress doesn't know is that when she is out teaching, Rose is tucked away in their rooms, pouring over the textbooks left behind. Rose didn't know it before she came to Hogwarts, but she has an insatiable thirst for knowledge. She hides on the rare occasion that a pupil comes to her mistress's personal chambers, but she studies them from the shadows, a jealous curiosity burning in the pit of her stomach when she thinks of what a normal pupil's life must be like.
But Rose is not a normal pupil, because Rose is not a normal girl. She's the half-blooded bastard of a blood-traitor and his Mudblood whore; she's hardly more than a Squib, poor and alone and unloved. She knows this, because this is what she has been told. She shoves the books away as her mistress returns and smiles at her when she speaks, forcing herself to remember just how lucky she is.
xxx
Between the warmth of the fire and the soothing strokes of her mistress's hand on the top of her head, Rose can barely keep her eyes open. Settled on the floor besides her mistress's favorite chair, she leans her head against her mistress's knee and arches into the touch, feeling utterly contented.
You're tired, my pet, her mistress says at Rose's yawn. Shall we retire?
Rose nods and climbs to her feet, following her mistress into their bedchamber. She readies her mistress for bed, then strips off her own threadbare clothes. She slips into her camp bed, which is placed beside her mistress's large bed, and shivers under the still cool covers. She is happy that she is now allowed to sleep in her mistress's room, but the distance between them still feels too far. Her nights are cold and lonely.
Rose? Are you awake?
Yes, mistress, she replies.
Come up here, then. I wish to share my bed with you tonight.
Rose stands on unsteady legs. Are you sure, mistress?
I would not have said it if I weren't. Enough dallying, silly girl. Come here.
Rose crawls on to the bed and sits on her heels, unsure of what to do. Her mistress points to the foot of the bed and Rose moves, settling at her mistress's feet. She's never been given a set of night clothes and her naked body trembles in the frigid air. It's colder above the covers than it was in her bed. But then she feels it: the gentle burst of a warming charm heats her skin. She falls asleep with a smile on her face.
Rose never sees the camp bed again.
xxx
Rose's mistress is the most beautiful woman alive. Sometimes its hard for Rose to even look at her, overwhelmed as she is by the unparallelled divinity of her mistress's face. Her mistress is soft in all the places where Rose is not, with rounded cheeks, hips, and breasts. Her own face is ugly, she knows. She is thin and gangly and has wretched ginger hair that curls wildly around her face, which is splattered with unsightly freckles despite the fact she hasn't been outside in months.
Despite her harsh angles and protruding bones, she feels beautiful and alive under her mistress' touch. My Rose, her mistress whispers against her skin. My lovely, gorgeous Rose, she says as her fingers slip into the softest part of Rose's body, slick and warm and as tender as the petals of the flower for which she is named. My beautiful, perfect, innocent Rose, she breathes against Rose's thighs. Come for me, my love.
Rose does as she is told, her skin burning and her heart alight at the words my love.
xxx
No one has ever given Rose a present before; not for her birthday, not for Christmas, and most certainly not “just because”. Warm tears of gratitude slip down her cheek as her fingers fumble to tear through the decorative paper wrapped around the box. She removes the lid to find a beautiful piece of jewelry, a slim silver collar that is both delicate and unrelenting. Two pieces of curved metal join in the center, clasped together by an engraved plate carved with the swirling letters “PP”.
So you never forget to whom you belong, her mistress tells her. So you never forget who loves you most.
Has there ever been a girl so lucky?