I LOVE YOU
GET MY DRIFT
(I'm boring, I don't really want to read a rarepair right now xD)
I LOVE YOU
GET MY DRIFT
(I'm boring, I don't really want to read a rarepair right now xD)
Ratings/Warnings: 1-2nd years (Does fluff count? )
A/N: I think this is sweet; it shows a young Granger-Weasley Family. (Used: Romione/LET'S READ)
“Ron! Can you read Rosie her bedtime story tonight?” Hermione called up the stairs, sitting at her desk, papers surrounding her.
“Which one?” He called back as Rose ran down the hall to jump in bed. At four years old, she was the cutest thing Ron had ever seen, except for Hugo.
“It doesn’t matter! They’re on Rosie’s shelf!” She shouted, before returning to her work. Ron walked into Rose’s room, surprised to see not only Rose, but also Hugo. They were sitting in Rose’s bed, waiting anxiously for their story. He walked over to Rose’s bookshelf and pulled out a random one. Great, it’s the diseased girl. He smiled and sat on the bed across from his children.
“Are you lot ready?” He asked, pretending to be his older brother. “If the time is inconvenient I can come back,” he asked snobbishly, and watched his children giggle.
“No, Uncle Percy! Read us our story!” Rosie said, and Ron immediately gave into her. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t.
“All right. Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cinderella . . .” he started, wondering how far he would make it before he started comparing it to the stories he heard growing up.
“Are they asleep?” Hermione asked, peeking her head into Rose’s room. Ron was tucking Rosie in while balancing a sleeping Hugo. He was smiling.
“Yeah. I’m glad I didn’t have to read the whole thing, because I can never take the endings seriously,” he admitted, handing Hugo over to his wife.
“They’re fairytales. They’re supposed to be magical and far-fetched. It’s why they love them so much,” she told her husband, kissing him briefly before putting Hugo to bed. She would never tell him she already had her fairytale, and that he was her prince. That would make him laugh. Ron never liked fairytales, whereas she loved them. So she went to her prince, who was just looking at his daughter. She was his weak spot, Hermione knew. They sat there a while, talking quietly, looking at their children. It was the one thing they hadn’t made a mess of. It was perfect, and she slept soundly next to Ron that night, until Hugo had a nightmare at three in the morning.
It was just another day in her fairytale.
Title: A Sort Of Life
Ratings/Warnings: 1-2nd years/ Mental disorders and mention of violence
Word Count: 792
A/N: I hope you like this, and the style isn't too peculiar for you. It's been in the works a while, so I hope it makes sense. The candy used was 'Love Life'.
A man, with a scar on his cheek, but I think he was a boy quite recently, and I wonder when that change happened. He’s holding my hand--there’s a scar there too, on the smooth white skin, and his other hand is wrinkled, not like his hand at all, veins bursting from it like roots from the ground, and I continue to stare, unable to look away from his two strange hands.
Slips, one of them, the young one, from my old grip and it brushes a lock of light brown hair behind his ears--he has big ears, that stick out, as do his teeth, but he doesn’t look comical. He reminds me of someone, as if he’s a sculpture modelled on another human being.
Once he fell down, tripping over the tray that brings the meals around daily, but that was when he was small, so very small, and the woman who helped him up is now sitting on the other--what’s the word? I can’t remember the word, but it’s there, dancing, teasing on the tip of my tongue. I used to know it well, and it’s warm and it’s comfy and it’s being in someone else’s arms, and never wanting to leave, but now I can’t remember it. I reach forward to bite it, catch it in my mouth, but my teeth don’t snag on the word but on my tongue and I taste the blood.
Blood. Only a little, but once there was once lots of it. The first time I saw a bloody body was in a fight, and one guy had something, another word not quite in focus, something that’s usually safe, and soft, and brought to the skin every few days by one of the men or women in the lime green robes, with the bones and crossed wands across it.
I used my wand to heal his wounds, the skin sewing itself together, and then I pressed my wand to his temple and made him forget what he had done--how could I have done that? At least I didn’t sew his lips together, which is what someone, don’t know who, or when, sometimes it feels like a year, sometimes it feels like more, has done to me. Each word that passes through the stitches is an escape, blissfully uttered as it flies from the confines of my head, into the real world, but mostly it’s not a word at all, but a half-formed, weak thing, like the echo of a scream.
Scream. So loud, so loud, and I can’t get rid of it, clamp my hands to my ears to stop the noise, to pretend that I’m not helpless, to pretend that her body isn’t flying through the air and I’m not powerless to stop it--
Hands on my wrists, pulling my palm from my ear, and I’m staring into her eyes. I’ve stared into these eyes before, many, many times, in many, many places, and the images flash by, the day we met, she’s my boss, I think, I can’t be sure, but I think her a maverick, and she thinks me a stickler for rules, and we shout at each other, and there’s the red scent of danger, as we save each other’s lives, and then I call her infuriatingly spontaneous--what does that mean? I can’t remember what that means, but it must have meant something, to her, that day, because she kissed me.
I try to say it again, yearning with my eyes, to let her know that I don’t know her name, but I know I love her. She seems to know as well, because she reaches forward, her ears sticking out, her teeth overlarge, and presses her lips to my cheek.
I don’t know where we are, as we cradle each other in our arms. The world seems too bright, and the screaming in my head, her screaming I realise, doesn’t stop, but becomes muted.
One hand is being held again by the once-boy, now man. He’s staring at us. I wonder what he’s doing here. What business he has to stare at us so directly, as if his--what’s it called? That beating, pulsing thing inside your body--as if that might be hurting him, but why should it?
He has nothing to do with us.
Every object I set my eyes on explodes with possibility, uncertainty, memories that I can’t remember whether are lived or imagined, words which fail to frame what I feel in my head, but with this woman I have carved a sort of life from the little that remains to me, and that little that is certain, is the love I feel for her.
I'm so sorry I took so long to reply--both of these are just lovely :$ I love the Romione fluffiness and the total contrast with the other drabble which was just beautiful and painful and aah I heart it. I have a feeling who wrote both of these but I'm not going to say anything.... Just heart heart heart them both (:
Candy Heart used: Sweet Home
A/N: I have no idea where this came from, Lily, and it’s probably not what you wanted (especially the end) but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. It’s loosely based on a song, but I won’t tell you which one or else you might guess who I am
By the way, this was rather brutally cut, so I might expand this in the future.
“Long day?” Hannah Abbott says, placing a Butterbeer in front of Neville.
“You could say that,” he replies, grimacing. He usually doesn’t go to the Leaky Cauldron. Too many people. But he needs a drink—badly. And it’s not as busy as it usually is today, which is a first.
He laughs quietly, and when she frowns at him questioningly, he says, “It’s... nothing. I just—it’s... strange, being asked about my troubles by an old schoolmate.” He hadn’t spoken to Hannah properly since—when was it? Sixth year? And then she left because of her mother.
Hannah turns from him for a second, serving another customer. Then she faces him again. “Well, there's always a first time for everything.”
He doesn’t know why he tells her. He hasn’t told Harry, or Ron, or, Merlin forbid, Hermione, so why should he say anything to Hannah Abbott?
But he does. Neville tells her everything, everything about Luna.
They always had to argue, about petty, tiny things, things that didn't even matter. Of course, it always came down to that. They rowed over who went into the bathroom first. Neville would protest about Luna having showers at the oddest hours while he was trying to sleep. Luna would complain about the strong smell of toast in the kitchen. Neville would try tidying up Luna’s mess. Luna would retaliate by arranging everything even more haphazardly than before.
And all those tiny arguments led to an increasing amount of friction between them, and once Neville’s voice became hoarse from yelling, their bickering was replaced with such a deathly quiet that Neville almost preferred the fights.
“You need to talk to her,” Hannah says finally, putting a glass of Firewhisky in front of him as he finishes speaking. “I don't know Luna that well, but I know most people would like an apology if someone’s shouted at them.”
“But she does it as well,” he says hopelessly. “And what gets at me is that we argue about the most stupid things—”
“Don't give up, Neville. You love her, and anyone can see that. Talk to her. Try to make things work.”
“And if they don't?”
“Just try your best.”
He appears outside the door of the flat they share. Tapping the locks with his wand, the door opens with a creak, and he enters quietly.
“I’m home,” he calls.
She does not reply, and he makes his way through the mess strewn on the floor (the flat is so untidy that he can't even see a square inch of carpet) to the living room, trying not to step on anything, which is not an easy feat. She is sitting at the desk, piles of parchment covering every available surface, including the stools and chairs and the arms of the sofa. When he comes in, she does not even acknowledge his presence. She seems so wrapped up in her work that she probably can't even hear him.
“Neville,” she replies quietly, looking up for a millisecond before returning to whatever she’s writing.
Neville stands there, in the mess, waiting for her to say something further. But she does not, and the only sound he hears is the annoying scratch of her quill. The silence stretches on, slowly filling with terseness, and the angry words they had exchanged earlier on in the day simply serve to distance them from one another further.
“Is there a reason why you’ve been standing there for the last five minutes staring at me?” Luna says abruptly now, her eyes still fixed on what she’s writing.
“Aren't we going to even talk about—”
“What’s the point?”
And Neville realises that Luna is right. There is no point of discussing it. It would only add fuel to the already blazing fire.
“But... Luna, we can't go on like this.”
“Like what?” she demands, and this time, she looks up and meets his eyes.
“All we seem to do is argue.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes we do.”
“All couples argue—”
“Look, you’re doing it now!” Neville points out, and the anger flares up from within him. The fatigue he feels from a long day at Auror training does not help. “Everything I say, you have to disagree with it. We do it all the time. You’re damn near impossible to live with. Yes, I know you think the same about me,” he adds as she opens her mouth to speak. “You—we’re like chalk and cheese, Luna. We don't work together. I love you, damn it, but I just don't think it’s working!”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying...” he pauses. What is he saying? What about what Hannah said? “I’m saying that... maybe, maybe we need to take a... break.”
Rating/Warnings: 1st/2nd Years — None
Author’s Notes: Oh, the days when Snape was young, innocent, and cared about others more than himself. :/
Severus scanned the area heavily, making sure that Petunia was nowhere in sight. Where Lily was good and wonderful, Petunia was the complete opposite, and he wanted nothing to do with the latter. It was difficult to find time to spend with Lily, so he didn’t want to waste a second squabbling with her surly older sister.
She was on a swing, one of her favourite places in the playground. The day was unseasonably warm for May, so the children who normally gathered in the area were inside, hiding from the heat with their lemonade. It was, because of this, a perfect day for a bit of magic. After he had told her of the laws regarding underage magic, it had taken some doing to convince Lily that she wouldn’t get in trouble for a little bit of minor spell-casting.
He desperately wanted to run to her and announce his presence, but it was not going to improve her confidence in him as a tutor. Instead, he strode from the bushes behind which he had been hiding after arranging his ill-fitting clothing to be as presentable as possible. She saw him fairly quickly and waved animatedly mid-swing.
“Sev, look what I can do!” Lily shouted.
Before Severus could ask what she was going to do, Lily launched herself from the swing when it was at the highest point of its arc. She had done this before with stunning success, but this time was different. He knew her and cared about whether she landed safely. However, she was not done. The muscles in his stomach tightened with worry as she turned head over heels mid-air.
His fears were quelled when she landed on her feet, albeit awkwardly, and bowed dramatically. Her jubilant smile of triumph made him run the rest of the distance, even though he stopped short and asked dully, “Are you all right?”
“I can fly, Sev!” she said, whipping her arms wide as if to show she had wings. “How could I not be fine?”
Though his brain screamed the thousand ways she could’ve been injured, Severus nodded in approval. “Your control is strong. You will be the best witch in the world with a wand and some training.”
“I hope so,” she replied, a slight wobble in her voice. “What if I’m too Muggle? What if my magic isn’t as good as everyone else’s because my parents aren’t witch and wizard?”
Something inside of Severus froze. He knew many things that she didn’t about the acceptance of Muggle-borns in the wizard world, but he almost didn’t have the heart to tell her. Instead, he plucked a twig laden with blossoms from a nearby cherry tree and placed it in her hands. She looked at him with curiosity, but he gestured toward the tiny branch.
“Visualise the cherries. Will them into existence. Don’t let it take no for an answer.”
Nodding solemnly, Lily squeezed her eyes shut and began murmuring quietly to herself. At first, a few of the blooms shrivelled and fell dead into the grass. Severus was glad Lily couldn’t see them, especially when, after half of the flowers had failed, the remaining ones began to develop into tiny green teardrops and finally into rich, plump-looking cherries. He swept the wilted ones away from them with his hand before saying, “Open your eyes.”
Lily looked down at her hands in wonder. “I . . . I did it. I did it!” With a squeak of delight, she dropped the branch in the grass and wrapped her arms around him. Severus was unprepared for her embrace, but as he acclimated to this unaccustomed contact, he hoped that she never lost that spark.