Gacked from Sansa1970: Guess That Fic!
I had every intention of posting last night, but then I proceeded to accidentally pour an entire bottle of water all over my laptop. Gaahh!
I spent a good hour taking the computer apart, unscrewing all the various panels and popping off each and every key to mop up the water from the innards. However, even after all that it wouldn't boot up before I went to bed. :-(
Miraculously, though, it started okay this morning. *clutches laptop* Whew!
In other news, I saw this meme on sansa1970's journal and thought it sounded like fun. Below are opening scenes from ten HP fics nine HP fics and one QaF fic. These are some of my favorite fics of all time (and nearly all of them have been recced on this journal at some point). Most of these are reasonably well known, I think, at least if you're interested in the particular pairing. Can you guess the fics? (Authors, no guessing your own!)
1. In the summer of 1977, Sirius Black fell in love with the Beatles.
It was his first love, fresh and brilliant, a sudden rush of pleasure that fluttered through his body when he first heard The White Album on Lily's Muggle record-player. It'd pleased him so much that she bought Sirius one of his own, therefore bridging the fragile gap between best friend and girlfriend. She introduced him to all sorts of music that he'd never heard in the home of his strict wizarding family, opened up his ears and showed him a world he'd never even known existed. In return, Sirius gave her the key to James Potter's heart.
He still thinks it's a fair trade.
Sing My Heart by anniesj (Remus/Sirius, NC-17, recced here)
2. 7:30 P.M.
It won't be over for hours yet. It doesn't do any good to look at the clock. And even if it were over, Harry reminds himself, Draco wouldn't come to Grimmauld Place because (a) making straight for an unknown location right after a Death Eater ritual is probably suicide and Draco is cannier than that, and (b) he has, as much as it hurts Harry to think it, no reason to come here.
Snape, unwittingly kind, has written out a report on the details of the rite. Harry has read it over and over until his eyes blurred. Now he makes another pot of coffee, taking his time, and reads it again.
The gathering started half an hour ago. There will be no stragglers still drifting in. The fear of Voldemort will have ensured that scores of people reached the meeting point at precisely 7:00 P.M., not a minute later or earlier. Only dictators seem to be able to make things run on time. Harry thinks he might spend a while pondering what that says about human nature, but in the end he just takes another drink of his coffee and looks back down at the report.
Right now Draco is on his knees on a stone floor, icy water being poured over his head by terrified house elves, a ritual cleansing. The Dark Lord is a great believer in purity. Purity of mind and soul are clearly negotiable; purity of blood and body are not. Of course, if Voldemort had his eye on Draco's virginity, Harry suspects that he's several years too late, but one can't have everything - and thus, this part of the ritual.
Kailash, When It Rises by mirasfics (Harry/Draco, PG)
3. From his vantage point next to the cash register, he heaved a sigh.
The woman next to him nodded. “Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk this morning.”
Harry smiled to indicate he agreed, but in a tired way to let her know he didn’t want to engage in any conversation. Not that his sigh had anything to do with the weather, although it was bloody hot, come to think of it. No. The sighing had nothing to do with the weather at all.
He was both grateful and profoundly disappointed that it wasn’t him. Although he must confess that since he’d never seen Snape in anything but voluminous robes for their entire acquaintance, he couldn’t swear it wasn’t Snape. Could that wiry torso and, shit, those nicely toned arms belong to Snape? Harry knew what Snape looked like in Neville’s grandmother’s clothes and a hat the size of the Queen Mary, but he defied anyone to predict what Snape would look like in jeans, a tee-shirt, and an Arizona D-backs cap so faded that the purple had bleached out to a blotchy pink.
Snape: The Home Fries Nazi by pir8fancier (Severus/Harry, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by sansa1970 and musigneus
4. The Auror manning the Hogwarts gate stopped Neville with a wand to the throat. "State your name and business!" he barked. His name was Boris Bumstead, and he'd gone out with Neville's cousin Doris until she caught him casting moulting charms on her cat.
"Hullo, Boris," Neville said. "Neville Longbottom, Gryffinpuff Squadron. How's your Mum?"
"State your business for the log book!" Boris said, then dropped his wand and scratched his ear. "She's all right, thanks, Nev. Having her turns again, what with the war and everything, but her roses come up good this year. We're all real sorry to hear about your Gran."
Neville nodded. There was a goosefeather quill busily scribbling their every word into a giant leather book, and it seemed to be quivering impatiently. "Ron Weasley sent me to speak with Professor Snape. Got some news about the Dementors."
"Righto," Boris said. He tapped the gate with his wand and it swung open to reveal the castle inside. "Hi to Doris, if you see her."
Neville jogged up the path to the entrance, ducked through the series of metamorph-animagus-polyjuice detector spells on the stairs, and went inside.
Night-blooming Heartsease by julad (Severus/Neville, not rated, recced here) -- guessed by musigneus
5. Sirius Black isn’t used to people sitting beside him on trains.
It’s four days past Christmas, edging into the desolate grey of the time just past the holidays when everything blends together into long nights and too much shovelling, and he’s coming back from Wales. Sirius has never been entirely sure what one does in Wales, but he goes twice a year, like clockwork, because it seems the sort of thing one ought to do, like sending Christmas cards and giving a few pounds to the heroin addict sleeping in the bus stop. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing in Wales, just like it doesn’t matter that the Christmas cards will doubtlessly rest on the mantle for a few days before they’re thrown away, like no one bothers to care that the money will only go for more drugs, not a hot cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Sirius has a list of things he’d like to do, which always seem to fall into the no man’s land of his To Do List, lost in the perpetual haze of “when I get around to it.” They’re caught in the January of the bulletin board that hangs in his kitchen, with sprawled phone numbers. The scrap of paper that says Groceries! and the one that says Library books due - Thursday 3:00 PM are lucky, tangible like May, no easier to ignore than the first of the crocuses. They’re always taken care of, again and again, and sometimes Sirius thinks he ought to make a list and work his way down it. He’d like to live in an ideal world where the ultimate goal of visiting Nepal has equal weight in time to remembering to pick up his dry cleaning. He’d like the idea of not going to Wales to be as obtainable as buying laundry detergent, like to remember to carry a flask of coffee and sandwiches in the bottom of his briefcase, to give the man at the bus station something useful.
He’s twenty-six and floundering when he steps into the carriage, with thirty around the corner of the luggage rack and thirty-five in the chewing gum spots under the seats.
Then someone beside him asks to sit down.
The Moon's Significant Tremble by setissma (Remus/Sirius, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by musigneus
6. Severus had been told that the computing department would send someone to get rid of the virus that had gone through the pharmaceutical department like, well, like the disease it was described as. He disliked intensely the idea of anyone rummaging through his hard drive.
But he especially disliked having Remus Lupin in his office.
"Hello, I hear you've got a problem," the man said, opening the door after knocking, without waiting for Severus to admit him. He introduced himself and slid easily into Severus' hastily vacated chair.
He didn't look like a computer nerd, unless perhaps the shoulder-length hair caught back with a band counted. Severus didn't think it did. The thick honey coloured hair and the warm brown eyes and the wide mouth with a ready smile pushed all Severus' buttons in a totally figurative sense. (And speaking of figures, Severus' brain surreptitiously checked and approved.)
Double Happiness Masala by busaikko (Remus/Severus, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by schemingreader
7. Draco has marks that he hides. It's not always easy, particularly in the summer, but he has good, solid British weather and the wizarding penchant for robes on his side. Most days, either of those is enough. Also in his corner is the fact that in the wake of his father's--and most of his extended family's--execution for Crimes Against the British Wizarding Population, people tend to cut Draco a wide berth and look steadfastly in the other direction when they see him in the street.
That suits Draco just fine.
Severus knew about the marks, every last one of them. Though he never trusted Draco enough to say the words, "Voldemort's a great big git and I went off him a while back and never really came back around," he cared about Draco enough to say before things went too far, "Miss Bulstrode was headed toward an Advanced Potions Degree at my recommendation. She'll be able to provide for you."
Draco said, "Shut it, Professor, I'll stick with your product," and "Tell me what to do."
Severus, being Severus, kept Draco as far from the center of things as possible. Not far enough for Draco to miss Severus being tortured to death in front of him. Voldemort had always picked the worst times to make meetings mandatory.
The Fields of St. Herve by arsenicjade (Remus/Draco, R, recced here) -- guessed by sansa1970
8. Numbers never lied.
Vincent learned that at an early age, learned that numbers were the only things that didn't lie. Mothers lied, and fathers home from Azkaban, they lied a lot, and friends certainly lied. Numbers, though. Numbers never called him names, or sold him out to tall, cold men. Numbers were exactly what they claimed to be, and rather than manipulate him, Vincent could manipulate them. Numbers were cold, hard fact.
Numbers were telling him to marry Harry Potter.
Well, to be accurate (Vincent placed great store in accuracy), Hermione Granger was telling him to marry Potter. But she was using Arithmancy to do it, and having gotten his only N.E.W.T. O in Arithmancy, Vincent was inclined to believe her. Unfortunately.
"You're crazy," Potter said. At Potter's side, Weasley was turning red. "I'm not marrying Crabbe."
The Chosen by allecto (Harry/Vincent Crabbe, not rated) -- guessed by rinsbane
9. "You know what," Lance breathed, the first time he took Fred home, "I think your brother's hot."
Fred froze. This could be trouble. "Ron?"
"Idiot," Lance laughed, and Fred thought it was a bit harsh to call him names this late in the day, since he'd been sitting perfectly innocently on a sofa at a houseparty until Lance wound up sprawled across his lap like Oliver Wood after a particularly heavy match. He was doing the favour, here.
Glacial sparks clashed together in Fred's brain. "George?"
"Got it in two," Lance murmured, and shifted comfortably, resting his head on the cushioned arm of the sofa. His eyes were half-closed and shone with something like deadly intent. He smelt faintly of expensive apricots.
"George," Fred said, stupidly. Of course he was aware of Lance's ass slotted so perfectly against his thighs, and of course he knew that Oliver sprawled like this when he wanted to be shown the sort of good time that Fred was all too happy to provide, but. George?
"You think he'd go for me?" Lance said, and Fred nodded because, well, he wasn't about to lie. That would be pathetic, to keep someone from his brother just because he wanted them himself. He hadn't done that in weeks.
Double or Nothing by ukcalico (Fred/George/Lance Bass, NC-17, recced here)
10. Justin wonders what it would be like if Brian just woke up one day and stopped tricking. He imagines it often in his head, playing out the scene in a hundred different ways, trying to decide which one is the most favorable and what his reaction would be.
What really happens is that Justin is the one who stops tricking, and it takes Brian nine days to notice.
When he does, his voice is accusatory.
“You didn’t let the new guy blow you. The one with the killer stomach.” His eyes are narrowed on Justin while Justin wonders if three oranges will be enough for two glasses of juice.
“Huh? Oh. No, I know. Wasn’t in the mood, I guess.”
“You’re always in the mood.”
Justin just shrugs and thinks he better let Brian have the juice.
Principles by ragingpixie (Brian/Justin, NC-17)
I spent a good hour taking the computer apart, unscrewing all the various panels and popping off each and every key to mop up the water from the innards. However, even after all that it wouldn't boot up before I went to bed. :-(
Miraculously, though, it started okay this morning. *clutches laptop* Whew!
In other news, I saw this meme on sansa1970's journal and thought it sounded like fun. Below are opening scenes from ten HP fics nine HP fics and one QaF fic. These are some of my favorite fics of all time (and nearly all of them have been recced on this journal at some point). Most of these are reasonably well known, I think, at least if you're interested in the particular pairing. Can you guess the fics? (Authors, no guessing your own!)
1. In the summer of 1977, Sirius Black fell in love with the Beatles.
It was his first love, fresh and brilliant, a sudden rush of pleasure that fluttered through his body when he first heard The White Album on Lily's Muggle record-player. It'd pleased him so much that she bought Sirius one of his own, therefore bridging the fragile gap between best friend and girlfriend. She introduced him to all sorts of music that he'd never heard in the home of his strict wizarding family, opened up his ears and showed him a world he'd never even known existed. In return, Sirius gave her the key to James Potter's heart.
He still thinks it's a fair trade.
Sing My Heart by anniesj (Remus/Sirius, NC-17, recced here)
2. 7:30 P.M.
It won't be over for hours yet. It doesn't do any good to look at the clock. And even if it were over, Harry reminds himself, Draco wouldn't come to Grimmauld Place because (a) making straight for an unknown location right after a Death Eater ritual is probably suicide and Draco is cannier than that, and (b) he has, as much as it hurts Harry to think it, no reason to come here.
Snape, unwittingly kind, has written out a report on the details of the rite. Harry has read it over and over until his eyes blurred. Now he makes another pot of coffee, taking his time, and reads it again.
The gathering started half an hour ago. There will be no stragglers still drifting in. The fear of Voldemort will have ensured that scores of people reached the meeting point at precisely 7:00 P.M., not a minute later or earlier. Only dictators seem to be able to make things run on time. Harry thinks he might spend a while pondering what that says about human nature, but in the end he just takes another drink of his coffee and looks back down at the report.
Right now Draco is on his knees on a stone floor, icy water being poured over his head by terrified house elves, a ritual cleansing. The Dark Lord is a great believer in purity. Purity of mind and soul are clearly negotiable; purity of blood and body are not. Of course, if Voldemort had his eye on Draco's virginity, Harry suspects that he's several years too late, but one can't have everything - and thus, this part of the ritual.
Kailash, When It Rises by mirasfics (Harry/Draco, PG)
3. From his vantage point next to the cash register, he heaved a sigh.
The woman next to him nodded. “Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk this morning.”
Harry smiled to indicate he agreed, but in a tired way to let her know he didn’t want to engage in any conversation. Not that his sigh had anything to do with the weather, although it was bloody hot, come to think of it. No. The sighing had nothing to do with the weather at all.
He was both grateful and profoundly disappointed that it wasn’t him. Although he must confess that since he’d never seen Snape in anything but voluminous robes for their entire acquaintance, he couldn’t swear it wasn’t Snape. Could that wiry torso and, shit, those nicely toned arms belong to Snape? Harry knew what Snape looked like in Neville’s grandmother’s clothes and a hat the size of the Queen Mary, but he defied anyone to predict what Snape would look like in jeans, a tee-shirt, and an Arizona D-backs cap so faded that the purple had bleached out to a blotchy pink.
Snape: The Home Fries Nazi by pir8fancier (Severus/Harry, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by sansa1970 and musigneus
4. The Auror manning the Hogwarts gate stopped Neville with a wand to the throat. "State your name and business!" he barked. His name was Boris Bumstead, and he'd gone out with Neville's cousin Doris until she caught him casting moulting charms on her cat.
"Hullo, Boris," Neville said. "Neville Longbottom, Gryffinpuff Squadron. How's your Mum?"
"State your business for the log book!" Boris said, then dropped his wand and scratched his ear. "She's all right, thanks, Nev. Having her turns again, what with the war and everything, but her roses come up good this year. We're all real sorry to hear about your Gran."
Neville nodded. There was a goosefeather quill busily scribbling their every word into a giant leather book, and it seemed to be quivering impatiently. "Ron Weasley sent me to speak with Professor Snape. Got some news about the Dementors."
"Righto," Boris said. He tapped the gate with his wand and it swung open to reveal the castle inside. "Hi to Doris, if you see her."
Neville jogged up the path to the entrance, ducked through the series of metamorph-animagus-polyjuice detector spells on the stairs, and went inside.
Night-blooming Heartsease by julad (Severus/Neville, not rated, recced here) -- guessed by musigneus
5. Sirius Black isn’t used to people sitting beside him on trains.
It’s four days past Christmas, edging into the desolate grey of the time just past the holidays when everything blends together into long nights and too much shovelling, and he’s coming back from Wales. Sirius has never been entirely sure what one does in Wales, but he goes twice a year, like clockwork, because it seems the sort of thing one ought to do, like sending Christmas cards and giving a few pounds to the heroin addict sleeping in the bus stop. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing in Wales, just like it doesn’t matter that the Christmas cards will doubtlessly rest on the mantle for a few days before they’re thrown away, like no one bothers to care that the money will only go for more drugs, not a hot cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Sirius has a list of things he’d like to do, which always seem to fall into the no man’s land of his To Do List, lost in the perpetual haze of “when I get around to it.” They’re caught in the January of the bulletin board that hangs in his kitchen, with sprawled phone numbers. The scrap of paper that says Groceries! and the one that says Library books due - Thursday 3:00 PM are lucky, tangible like May, no easier to ignore than the first of the crocuses. They’re always taken care of, again and again, and sometimes Sirius thinks he ought to make a list and work his way down it. He’d like to live in an ideal world where the ultimate goal of visiting Nepal has equal weight in time to remembering to pick up his dry cleaning. He’d like the idea of not going to Wales to be as obtainable as buying laundry detergent, like to remember to carry a flask of coffee and sandwiches in the bottom of his briefcase, to give the man at the bus station something useful.
He’s twenty-six and floundering when he steps into the carriage, with thirty around the corner of the luggage rack and thirty-five in the chewing gum spots under the seats.
Then someone beside him asks to sit down.
The Moon's Significant Tremble by setissma (Remus/Sirius, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by musigneus
6. Severus had been told that the computing department would send someone to get rid of the virus that had gone through the pharmaceutical department like, well, like the disease it was described as. He disliked intensely the idea of anyone rummaging through his hard drive.
But he especially disliked having Remus Lupin in his office.
"Hello, I hear you've got a problem," the man said, opening the door after knocking, without waiting for Severus to admit him. He introduced himself and slid easily into Severus' hastily vacated chair.
He didn't look like a computer nerd, unless perhaps the shoulder-length hair caught back with a band counted. Severus didn't think it did. The thick honey coloured hair and the warm brown eyes and the wide mouth with a ready smile pushed all Severus' buttons in a totally figurative sense. (And speaking of figures, Severus' brain surreptitiously checked and approved.)
Double Happiness Masala by busaikko (Remus/Severus, NC-17, recced here) -- guessed by schemingreader
7. Draco has marks that he hides. It's not always easy, particularly in the summer, but he has good, solid British weather and the wizarding penchant for robes on his side. Most days, either of those is enough. Also in his corner is the fact that in the wake of his father's--and most of his extended family's--execution for Crimes Against the British Wizarding Population, people tend to cut Draco a wide berth and look steadfastly in the other direction when they see him in the street.
That suits Draco just fine.
Severus knew about the marks, every last one of them. Though he never trusted Draco enough to say the words, "Voldemort's a great big git and I went off him a while back and never really came back around," he cared about Draco enough to say before things went too far, "Miss Bulstrode was headed toward an Advanced Potions Degree at my recommendation. She'll be able to provide for you."
Draco said, "Shut it, Professor, I'll stick with your product," and "Tell me what to do."
Severus, being Severus, kept Draco as far from the center of things as possible. Not far enough for Draco to miss Severus being tortured to death in front of him. Voldemort had always picked the worst times to make meetings mandatory.
The Fields of St. Herve by arsenicjade (Remus/Draco, R, recced here) -- guessed by sansa1970
8. Numbers never lied.
Vincent learned that at an early age, learned that numbers were the only things that didn't lie. Mothers lied, and fathers home from Azkaban, they lied a lot, and friends certainly lied. Numbers, though. Numbers never called him names, or sold him out to tall, cold men. Numbers were exactly what they claimed to be, and rather than manipulate him, Vincent could manipulate them. Numbers were cold, hard fact.
Numbers were telling him to marry Harry Potter.
Well, to be accurate (Vincent placed great store in accuracy), Hermione Granger was telling him to marry Potter. But she was using Arithmancy to do it, and having gotten his only N.E.W.T. O in Arithmancy, Vincent was inclined to believe her. Unfortunately.
"You're crazy," Potter said. At Potter's side, Weasley was turning red. "I'm not marrying Crabbe."
The Chosen by allecto (Harry/Vincent Crabbe, not rated) -- guessed by rinsbane
9. "You know what," Lance breathed, the first time he took Fred home, "I think your brother's hot."
Fred froze. This could be trouble. "Ron?"
"Idiot," Lance laughed, and Fred thought it was a bit harsh to call him names this late in the day, since he'd been sitting perfectly innocently on a sofa at a houseparty until Lance wound up sprawled across his lap like Oliver Wood after a particularly heavy match. He was doing the favour, here.
Glacial sparks clashed together in Fred's brain. "George?"
"Got it in two," Lance murmured, and shifted comfortably, resting his head on the cushioned arm of the sofa. His eyes were half-closed and shone with something like deadly intent. He smelt faintly of expensive apricots.
"George," Fred said, stupidly. Of course he was aware of Lance's ass slotted so perfectly against his thighs, and of course he knew that Oliver sprawled like this when he wanted to be shown the sort of good time that Fred was all too happy to provide, but. George?
"You think he'd go for me?" Lance said, and Fred nodded because, well, he wasn't about to lie. That would be pathetic, to keep someone from his brother just because he wanted them himself. He hadn't done that in weeks.
Double or Nothing by ukcalico (Fred/George/Lance Bass, NC-17, recced here)
10. Justin wonders what it would be like if Brian just woke up one day and stopped tricking. He imagines it often in his head, playing out the scene in a hundred different ways, trying to decide which one is the most favorable and what his reaction would be.
What really happens is that Justin is the one who stops tricking, and it takes Brian nine days to notice.
When he does, his voice is accusatory.
“You didn’t let the new guy blow you. The one with the killer stomach.” His eyes are narrowed on Justin while Justin wonders if three oranges will be enough for two glasses of juice.
“Huh? Oh. No, I know. Wasn’t in the mood, I guess.”
“You’re always in the mood.”
Justin just shrugs and thinks he better let Brian have the juice.
Principles by ragingpixie (Brian/Justin, NC-17)