(no subject)
Title: War Scars
Rating: PG
Prompt: #03 "Angst"
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: The scars are there even if you can't remember where they came from.
Pairing(s): None
Warning: None
Last time Harry had been on a train it was with Ron. There was a planned ambush in Glasgow, and they travelled the Muggle way, because any magic could’ve been detected by the Death Eaters, and they didn’t need any attention drawn to themselves.
They had been sitting in a dingy but cosy compartment, but there was neither time nor will to thing about hearth when the war was upon them. The curtains were fuchsia and Harry remembered the dark still sky outside, as he drew them back. Ron had been sitting next to him and he had touched Harry’s back with something like a pat to it. It made Harry feel a lot better. Back then, it had been mid-June, and now it was mid-July.
So much could change in a month, so many could die. How could so many die, when normal people, oblivious Muggles didn’t lose anybody? Did they even know that their future lay on the shoulders of a little bespectacled boy? Of course not. Harry felt he was taken for granted, no less, no more.
In a month another scar had appeared on his face, slashed across his cheek, curving where it met the bridge of his nose. This other mark didn’t bear any significance though, other than pain. He hated washing his face, rubbing his eyes, looking into the mirror, being photographed. Unlike the one on his forehead, he remembered how this one had appeared. Before, he hadn’t even known scars would be so hard to bear. As if the ones in his heart weren’t enough.
Hermione? Oh, she was still there, in London. It seemed that she - and many others - couldn’t get out of there; that, or didn’t want to. Losing the memories, even the painful ones, wasn’t an option. Moving is always easier when you’re a child and can’t remember. She had done exactly what she wanted, and Harry respected her for that, even when he had been trying to get away himself.
Now he was sitting in a train, and there was the midsummer green outside, green and blue, and red and yellow flowers, little cottages they passed, ever changing skyline like dots on a screen where they drew out your heartbeat. The train flew like a river stream, passing all the same landscapes Harry had seen a mere month ago, but in reversed order. There was no one sitting next to him or touching him this time, but on the opposite seat slouched Draco Malfoy, who was staring at the thread he was pulling from the hem of his jumper. This time Harry looked away from the horizon and contemplated Malfoy for a minute. The blond sniffed and inquired a bottle of Perrier. Harry looked away.
The war had worn him out like nothing ever had. He had wanted to arrive to London, embrace Hermione on the platform and embrace her warmth. She would have let him sleep it off. But instead he was beginning to fight a whole new war of his own.
He leaned his face it his palm accidentally and felt the rough ripple of the scar of his cheek. That’s where Ron had torn open his face when he was under the Imperius curse. The shallow curve on the bridge of Harry’s nose was where he’d refused to go any further. And that had been when Voldemort aimed his wand at him.
Draco Malfoy. After that he came back with Draco Malfoy. As if the scars in his heart weren’t enough.
Title: Shudder.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #11, Beat
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: Draco is still and Harry is watching.
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Warning: Mentions of breath play, bondage, character death.
Shudder. Rustle. A silent groan. A beam through a dirty window. Sheets were tangled around their naked forms, and it was cold, so cold in the bedroom. The repairman hadn’t come that day to pack the window and check on the others. One couldn’t trust them.
There was only a distant sound of a leaking tap spitting drops into the sink. That needed to be repaired too. Otherwise, so silent. The bed was about the only piece of furniture in the room. Dark wood with carvings, it was of Malfoy inheritance. The only thing left in the Manor after the Malfoys were killed and then the relatives had swept everything away. But the bed was enough.
“You can’t sleep, can you?” Harry lowered his dark-skinned palm on the small of Draco’s back that was white against it. It dipped low towards the mattress until it rose up again to form a beautiful curve of an arse, then back of his thighs, calves, feet, toes. His body was still. “You never could.”
Harry was kissing Draco’s shoulder blade, his breath coming through his nose as the kisses were long. Press your lips against his skin. Feel the surge of blood under, tickle your breath, ram into your brain until you break the kiss angrily leaving a trickle of saliva behind.
Harry propped himself up higher and lit a cigarette. Thought of age.
He smoked a few and watched Draco’s curves, remembered how he’d only a few hours ago buried his mouth and nose in the place where the back of Draco’s thigh met his left buttock. Then he’d surveyed the effect on Draco’s face and proceeded deeper.
It didn’t look as though Draco had trashed against his bonds so hard his left wrist broke. Now it only looked…quiet. He had screamed, sworn, bled… but not anymore. Harry reached out with his hand and his fingertips met material quite unlike the sheets. He needed his both hands to open the knot, and still it was tight.
It was nasty underneath: welts, marks, reddened and swollen.
His skin was in goose bumps.
You need to make a few phone calls tomorrow morning.
Title: Exposure
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #04, "Impropriety"
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: Tom Riddle reads a lot. Maybe it's starting to get on his nerves.
Pairing(s): None.
Warning: Just what it says.
Even though Tom Riddle knew what he was, it seemed long before he was born, he didn’t comprehend it until he killed his father and grandparents. Before that incident in the summer of his sixth year he didn’t know that much. He only guessed.
He was greedy to try it all out. While his classmates played games, talked sex and fought over who was right, Tom sat in the corner of a Slytherin Common Room leather sofa his legs curled up under him. On his lap he held a volume or a few, and idly turning the pages, his eyes registering every bit of information that might come in useful, he sat through his school years, letting the hustle pass by him like a sound of wind in one’s ears.
I saw him there, even if no one else seemed to. I saw him lick a tip of his finger to turn a thick parchment page, saw him scan the text, even reading the picture sub-titles, saw him smirk in triumph when he found something. He kept a black leather-bound book with him always, and once in a while, he wrote down there something he’d seen in library tomes.
His eyes were shadowed as he read. He didn’t seem to care about life, or death, or responsibility.
::
It was in December when I returned to our common room having just spent a few hours building a snow castle. I headed for the fire tugging off my hat and shedding my coat. The heat tickled my bare arms and I shuddered; extended my clammy hands towards the fire.
That’s when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It wasn’t movement, and I knew Tom was sitting there - I’d noticed it before - but his eyes were fixed on the wall in front of me instead of another interesting book. He had Light for the Dark - Jinxes and Charms open on his lap so that it came almost up to his waist. Black material like a colourless water splashed from under the book cover, creating two rivers with a crack, where his cock protruded like a rock in the sea.
It couldn’t be mistaken for anything that Tom was aroused. I instantly turned away from his exposure, back to my wet socks drying in front of the fire, but I heard his breath on my neck just a mere half a metre behind me.
I quickly gathered my clothes and fled upstairs.
Rating: PG
Prompt: #03 "Angst"
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: The scars are there even if you can't remember where they came from.
Pairing(s): None
Warning: None
Last time Harry had been on a train it was with Ron. There was a planned ambush in Glasgow, and they travelled the Muggle way, because any magic could’ve been detected by the Death Eaters, and they didn’t need any attention drawn to themselves.
They had been sitting in a dingy but cosy compartment, but there was neither time nor will to thing about hearth when the war was upon them. The curtains were fuchsia and Harry remembered the dark still sky outside, as he drew them back. Ron had been sitting next to him and he had touched Harry’s back with something like a pat to it. It made Harry feel a lot better. Back then, it had been mid-June, and now it was mid-July.
So much could change in a month, so many could die. How could so many die, when normal people, oblivious Muggles didn’t lose anybody? Did they even know that their future lay on the shoulders of a little bespectacled boy? Of course not. Harry felt he was taken for granted, no less, no more.
In a month another scar had appeared on his face, slashed across his cheek, curving where it met the bridge of his nose. This other mark didn’t bear any significance though, other than pain. He hated washing his face, rubbing his eyes, looking into the mirror, being photographed. Unlike the one on his forehead, he remembered how this one had appeared. Before, he hadn’t even known scars would be so hard to bear. As if the ones in his heart weren’t enough.
Hermione? Oh, she was still there, in London. It seemed that she - and many others - couldn’t get out of there; that, or didn’t want to. Losing the memories, even the painful ones, wasn’t an option. Moving is always easier when you’re a child and can’t remember. She had done exactly what she wanted, and Harry respected her for that, even when he had been trying to get away himself.
Now he was sitting in a train, and there was the midsummer green outside, green and blue, and red and yellow flowers, little cottages they passed, ever changing skyline like dots on a screen where they drew out your heartbeat. The train flew like a river stream, passing all the same landscapes Harry had seen a mere month ago, but in reversed order. There was no one sitting next to him or touching him this time, but on the opposite seat slouched Draco Malfoy, who was staring at the thread he was pulling from the hem of his jumper. This time Harry looked away from the horizon and contemplated Malfoy for a minute. The blond sniffed and inquired a bottle of Perrier. Harry looked away.
The war had worn him out like nothing ever had. He had wanted to arrive to London, embrace Hermione on the platform and embrace her warmth. She would have let him sleep it off. But instead he was beginning to fight a whole new war of his own.
He leaned his face it his palm accidentally and felt the rough ripple of the scar of his cheek. That’s where Ron had torn open his face when he was under the Imperius curse. The shallow curve on the bridge of Harry’s nose was where he’d refused to go any further. And that had been when Voldemort aimed his wand at him.
Draco Malfoy. After that he came back with Draco Malfoy. As if the scars in his heart weren’t enough.
Title: Shudder.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #11, Beat
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: Draco is still and Harry is watching.
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Warning: Mentions of breath play, bondage, character death.
Shudder. Rustle. A silent groan. A beam through a dirty window. Sheets were tangled around their naked forms, and it was cold, so cold in the bedroom. The repairman hadn’t come that day to pack the window and check on the others. One couldn’t trust them.
There was only a distant sound of a leaking tap spitting drops into the sink. That needed to be repaired too. Otherwise, so silent. The bed was about the only piece of furniture in the room. Dark wood with carvings, it was of Malfoy inheritance. The only thing left in the Manor after the Malfoys were killed and then the relatives had swept everything away. But the bed was enough.
“You can’t sleep, can you?” Harry lowered his dark-skinned palm on the small of Draco’s back that was white against it. It dipped low towards the mattress until it rose up again to form a beautiful curve of an arse, then back of his thighs, calves, feet, toes. His body was still. “You never could.”
Harry was kissing Draco’s shoulder blade, his breath coming through his nose as the kisses were long. Press your lips against his skin. Feel the surge of blood under, tickle your breath, ram into your brain until you break the kiss angrily leaving a trickle of saliva behind.
Harry propped himself up higher and lit a cigarette. Thought of age.
He smoked a few and watched Draco’s curves, remembered how he’d only a few hours ago buried his mouth and nose in the place where the back of Draco’s thigh met his left buttock. Then he’d surveyed the effect on Draco’s face and proceeded deeper.
It didn’t look as though Draco had trashed against his bonds so hard his left wrist broke. Now it only looked…quiet. He had screamed, sworn, bled… but not anymore. Harry reached out with his hand and his fingertips met material quite unlike the sheets. He needed his both hands to open the knot, and still it was tight.
It was nasty underneath: welts, marks, reddened and swollen.
His skin was in goose bumps.
You need to make a few phone calls tomorrow morning.
Title: Exposure
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #04, "Impropriety"
Date: 07/15/06
Summary: Tom Riddle reads a lot. Maybe it's starting to get on his nerves.
Pairing(s): None.
Warning: Just what it says.
Even though Tom Riddle knew what he was, it seemed long before he was born, he didn’t comprehend it until he killed his father and grandparents. Before that incident in the summer of his sixth year he didn’t know that much. He only guessed.
He was greedy to try it all out. While his classmates played games, talked sex and fought over who was right, Tom sat in the corner of a Slytherin Common Room leather sofa his legs curled up under him. On his lap he held a volume or a few, and idly turning the pages, his eyes registering every bit of information that might come in useful, he sat through his school years, letting the hustle pass by him like a sound of wind in one’s ears.
I saw him there, even if no one else seemed to. I saw him lick a tip of his finger to turn a thick parchment page, saw him scan the text, even reading the picture sub-titles, saw him smirk in triumph when he found something. He kept a black leather-bound book with him always, and once in a while, he wrote down there something he’d seen in library tomes.
His eyes were shadowed as he read. He didn’t seem to care about life, or death, or responsibility.
::
It was in December when I returned to our common room having just spent a few hours building a snow castle. I headed for the fire tugging off my hat and shedding my coat. The heat tickled my bare arms and I shuddered; extended my clammy hands towards the fire.
That’s when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It wasn’t movement, and I knew Tom was sitting there - I’d noticed it before - but his eyes were fixed on the wall in front of me instead of another interesting book. He had Light for the Dark - Jinxes and Charms open on his lap so that it came almost up to his waist. Black material like a colourless water splashed from under the book cover, creating two rivers with a crack, where his cock protruded like a rock in the sea.
It couldn’t be mistaken for anything that Tom was aroused. I instantly turned away from his exposure, back to my wet socks drying in front of the fire, but I heard his breath on my neck just a mere half a metre behind me.
I quickly gathered my clothes and fled upstairs.