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bookishwenchI haven't been posting all the drabbles/ficlets I've been putting in each week at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dramione_ldws, so I thought I'd catch up this week along with putting in a couple drabbles I wrote and wound up not using.
The first one is from the cliche challenge, which could be up to 499 words and had to make use of at least one HP fic cliche in it. I almost passed that week because I really haven't been in the fandom long enough and actively enough to be really familiar with cliches, but then a couple hit me and I wound up with
Subtlety Is Relative
Snape’s Defense Against the Dark Arts exams were usually boring, but Goyle had a brilliant plan. Unfortunately, he was Goyle. His chosen jinx made not only Potter’s quill catch fire, but everyone else’s too, resulting in Lavender leaping into Weasley’s lap in terror.
“Granger,” Snape said, jaw twitching, “quickly retrieve more quills from the second floor supply closet or it’s fifty points from Gryffindor.”
She took off in a blur. Minutes passed, and the combination of restless students and an irate Snape spelled potential homicide.
“Draco,” Snape finally hissed, “get the quills. NOW!”
Despite himself, Draco fled the room. The supply closet door was shut when he arrived. He pulled the knob, but it was locked.
“Granger?” he yelled at the keyhole.
He heard a familiar voice swear quietly. Interesting…
“Leave!”
“No,” he drawled lazily.
“I’ll kill those two,” Hermione mumbled.
Forget interesting; Draco was downright intrigued.
“Back away from the door,” Draco said, chuckling. “One, two… Alohomora!”
The door promptly burst open.
“The quills are right there,” her voice said from the shadows. “Take them and go.”
“Not so fast,” he said, shutting the door. “The only way out is past me, and I’m not moving. Show yourself.”
Quiet sobbing came from the corner. For six years he’d been making her life hell, and she’d never cried in front of him. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like it.
“Hermione,” he said, surprised he’d used her name, “what’s wrong?”
“Fine!” she yelled, stepping into view. “Look!”
She was almost unrecognizable. Her shoes had become high-heeled stiletto boots with marabou feathers at the cuffs. Above them black fishnet stockings disappeared under an extremely short robe. Its neckline plunged dangerously over a chest that could double as a flotation device. Heavy make-up plastered her face, including blindingly red lipstick, a knut-sized beauty mark, and false lashes so enormous he wondered if her eyelids were strong enough to blink. Stick straight hair as platinum blonde as his completed the effect.
He should have been laughing hysterically while taking pictures to send as Christmas cards. Instead, he felt ill.
“Who did this?” he asked.
She scuffed guiltily at the floor, and he noticed a sweets wrapper lying there.
“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes Beautifying Bon-Bons?” he read. “You ate this rubbish?”
“They swore it was subtle,” she said miserably.
Fred and George knowingly making a girl who was like their kid sister resemble a tarty circus freak brought the sick feeling back.
“Why would…,” he began, then remembered Lavender leaping into Ron’s lap. “Oh. The Weasel.”
She blushed.
“But this stuff must wear off,” he said.
“In three hours!” Hermione wailed.
“I’ll bring the quills,” he sighed in resignation. “Stay here until you’re normal.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He glared at her bizarre, overly sexual appearance, grabbed the quills, and turned the doorknob.
“Weasley’s a fool for not seeing what’s in front of him, and you’re another for thinking you needed those sweets in the first place,” he said, then left, closing the door.
I actually had this as a much longer fic, clocking in at around 1500 words, and it did run smoother that way. At some point, I might rework it.
The next one was for autumn imagery, omitting Halloween, and had to be exactly 400 words. I actually wasn't sure if apple picking is a big deal in England, so I ditched that idea and wound up with
Knowing
“I don’t really know you,” Hermione said, shattering the silence.
Draco smiled lazily, and she was reminded of a tiger, lithe and beautiful, but ultimately dangerous if he chose to be. The comparison made her uneasy, and he seemed to sense her discomfort, his features becoming less smug.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, staring down at her hands, embarrassed and desperate to avoid the temptation of looking at him. “We’ve been meeting here for over a month, but I still don’t know anything about you.”
“Such as?” he said, leaning against the tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest that had become their rendezvous point.
Neither could explain why they came here, only that the time spent in one another’s company was necessary in the insanity of their slowly dissolving world. Usually, they simply sat, silently watching the lake, content in knowing they weren’t alone. It was strange, she thought, depending on his presence so much but not being able to define it or the change that had crept over them since the beginning of autumn.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, sounding frustrated. “Silly things. Whether you like mornings, if you have a pet, what your favorite color is, just… things.”
He sat beside her, and she let herself look at him again.
“I loathe mornings, Mother has a Persian cat named Hebe, and my favorite color is brown,” he said.
Hermione couldn’t help laughing.
“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No one’s favorite color is brown,” she said, still giggling.
“Mine is,” he said firmly. “It’s the color of autumn leaves.”
“But they’re… dead,” she said, confused.
“I prefer to think of them as completed,” he explained. “They change the world around them. They can’t stay forever, but before they’re gone, they have a chance to fly.”
“I suppose,” she said, glancing at the canopy of brown above them, but suddenly his face blocked her view.
He’d never touched her before, and the single finger he drew down her cheek sent shockwaves through her. Draco rested his hand gently under her chin, turning her face towards him and looking into her eyes with an expression that was less like a predator and more like prey.
“As brown as leaves in autumn,” he said, holding her gaze. “Always my favorite.”
And when he kissed her, Hermione felt like she was flying.
***
I'd actually really wanted to play with that kind of a scene between the two of them in Shadowed Lives eventually, and still might, but as I've been so crazy-busy that my current chapter of it has stalled, I thought making use of the idea could work.
This week's challenge was to incorporate a rumor in the drabble, which had to be exactly 100 words long. The eventual result was
Burning Love
“Today I reveal Miss Granger’s scandalous depravity, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent, during the months she lived in a tent with two boys! An excerpt from my scintillating new book, Hermione Granger: A Lascivious Life!”
Hermione stopped reading as her eyes blurred with angry tears. Suddenly, she heard a familiar eagle owl tapping at her windowsill.
“Great. More trouble,” she moaned.
However, the message wasn’t what she expected.
Granger,
Don’t give the sow the satisfaction. Watch tomorrow’s paper.
Draco
Next morning, the Prophet’s headline read “Warehouse Fire Incinerates Skeeter’s Books!”
Hermione wondered how to phrase an arson thank you note.
****
The voters very kindly gave me first place on that one this week. :)
I did have a scrap of an alternate I was working on for the autumn challenge that I thought I'd add in for the heck of it, tentatively titled
Draco was not a romantic, at least not to the casual observer. He was not given to writing sonnets or listening to plaintive ballads and sighing dramatically. In fact, he thought those who did were not only idiots but nutjobs and deserved public humilation at worst and a long trip to St. Mungo’s at best.
He told himself this in a very loud internal monologue every time he caught himself staring absent mindedly at Hermione during Potions. He was not, as Yeats had said, “looped in the loops of her hair,” a metaphor that in her case would work as well as a symbol death via strangulation as love. He most certainly did not note the color of her eyes and compare them to cinnamon, chocolate, coffee, ginger snaps, or any other beverage or sweet of his choosing. And her voice, though not unpleasant, was simply her voice, nothing to bring on fevered dreams and palpitations like some great pansy of a Victorian fop might feel.
But as the autumnal equinox approached, even he admitted he felt a pull. Soon, the opposite ends of the spectrum would become equal, even, each as powerful as the other. The golden sunlight, so tied to the image of the fiery Gryffindor lion, and the Slytherin silver of moonlight would each have a fair share of the sky, their powers balanced in perfect symmetry. One would be no better or worse than the other, but the same, the two sides of a single coin, without even a hair’s breadth of difference in their rule of the heavens, the dance without end in a circle that was equal parts gold and silver, blended together, completely unified, not knowing where one began and the other ended.
Damn, he thought as he caught himself looking at her again. It was getting warm in here.
***Yeah, I had no idea where that one was going, absolutely none. I may eventually use a bit of it in a longer fic as it's not horrible, but I wasn't really filling in the ideas completely and I think I was juggling too many different things in here, including a nod to Yeats (my favorite poet), "My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun," my slight obsession with relating characters to times of the year (My Darla bio, "The Alto," has everything major happening to her in autumn, for example), and a covert reference to dear old William from Buffy. Yeah, a bit much there.
dramione_ldws, so I thought I'd catch up this week along with putting in a couple drabbles I wrote and wound up not using.The first one is from the cliche challenge, which could be up to 499 words and had to make use of at least one HP fic cliche in it. I almost passed that week because I really haven't been in the fandom long enough and actively enough to be really familiar with cliches, but then a couple hit me and I wound up with
Snape’s Defense Against the Dark Arts exams were usually boring, but Goyle had a brilliant plan. Unfortunately, he was Goyle. His chosen jinx made not only Potter’s quill catch fire, but everyone else’s too, resulting in Lavender leaping into Weasley’s lap in terror.
“Granger,” Snape said, jaw twitching, “quickly retrieve more quills from the second floor supply closet or it’s fifty points from Gryffindor.”
She took off in a blur. Minutes passed, and the combination of restless students and an irate Snape spelled potential homicide.
“Draco,” Snape finally hissed, “get the quills. NOW!”
Despite himself, Draco fled the room. The supply closet door was shut when he arrived. He pulled the knob, but it was locked.
“Granger?” he yelled at the keyhole.
He heard a familiar voice swear quietly. Interesting…
“Leave!”
“No,” he drawled lazily.
“I’ll kill those two,” Hermione mumbled.
Forget interesting; Draco was downright intrigued.
“Back away from the door,” Draco said, chuckling. “One, two… Alohomora!”
The door promptly burst open.
“The quills are right there,” her voice said from the shadows. “Take them and go.”
“Not so fast,” he said, shutting the door. “The only way out is past me, and I’m not moving. Show yourself.”
Quiet sobbing came from the corner. For six years he’d been making her life hell, and she’d never cried in front of him. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like it.
“Hermione,” he said, surprised he’d used her name, “what’s wrong?”
“Fine!” she yelled, stepping into view. “Look!”
She was almost unrecognizable. Her shoes had become high-heeled stiletto boots with marabou feathers at the cuffs. Above them black fishnet stockings disappeared under an extremely short robe. Its neckline plunged dangerously over a chest that could double as a flotation device. Heavy make-up plastered her face, including blindingly red lipstick, a knut-sized beauty mark, and false lashes so enormous he wondered if her eyelids were strong enough to blink. Stick straight hair as platinum blonde as his completed the effect.
He should have been laughing hysterically while taking pictures to send as Christmas cards. Instead, he felt ill.
“Who did this?” he asked.
She scuffed guiltily at the floor, and he noticed a sweets wrapper lying there.
“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes Beautifying Bon-Bons?” he read. “You ate this rubbish?”
“They swore it was subtle,” she said miserably.
Fred and George knowingly making a girl who was like their kid sister resemble a tarty circus freak brought the sick feeling back.
“Why would…,” he began, then remembered Lavender leaping into Ron’s lap. “Oh. The Weasel.”
She blushed.
“But this stuff must wear off,” he said.
“In three hours!” Hermione wailed.
“I’ll bring the quills,” he sighed in resignation. “Stay here until you’re normal.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He glared at her bizarre, overly sexual appearance, grabbed the quills, and turned the doorknob.
“Weasley’s a fool for not seeing what’s in front of him, and you’re another for thinking you needed those sweets in the first place,” he said, then left, closing the door.
I wound up using the Ho-mione and scene-in-a-closet cliches
I actually had this as a much longer fic, clocking in at around 1500 words, and it did run smoother that way. At some point, I might rework it.
The next one was for autumn imagery, omitting Halloween, and had to be exactly 400 words. I actually wasn't sure if apple picking is a big deal in England, so I ditched that idea and wound up with
“I don’t really know you,” Hermione said, shattering the silence.
Draco smiled lazily, and she was reminded of a tiger, lithe and beautiful, but ultimately dangerous if he chose to be. The comparison made her uneasy, and he seemed to sense her discomfort, his features becoming less smug.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, staring down at her hands, embarrassed and desperate to avoid the temptation of looking at him. “We’ve been meeting here for over a month, but I still don’t know anything about you.”
“Such as?” he said, leaning against the tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest that had become their rendezvous point.
Neither could explain why they came here, only that the time spent in one another’s company was necessary in the insanity of their slowly dissolving world. Usually, they simply sat, silently watching the lake, content in knowing they weren’t alone. It was strange, she thought, depending on his presence so much but not being able to define it or the change that had crept over them since the beginning of autumn.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, sounding frustrated. “Silly things. Whether you like mornings, if you have a pet, what your favorite color is, just… things.”
He sat beside her, and she let herself look at him again.
“I loathe mornings, Mother has a Persian cat named Hebe, and my favorite color is brown,” he said.
Hermione couldn’t help laughing.
“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No one’s favorite color is brown,” she said, still giggling.
“Mine is,” he said firmly. “It’s the color of autumn leaves.”
“But they’re… dead,” she said, confused.
“I prefer to think of them as completed,” he explained. “They change the world around them. They can’t stay forever, but before they’re gone, they have a chance to fly.”
“I suppose,” she said, glancing at the canopy of brown above them, but suddenly his face blocked her view.
He’d never touched her before, and the single finger he drew down her cheek sent shockwaves through her. Draco rested his hand gently under her chin, turning her face towards him and looking into her eyes with an expression that was less like a predator and more like prey.
“As brown as leaves in autumn,” he said, holding her gaze. “Always my favorite.”
And when he kissed her, Hermione felt like she was flying.
***
I'd actually really wanted to play with that kind of a scene between the two of them in Shadowed Lives eventually, and still might, but as I've been so crazy-busy that my current chapter of it has stalled, I thought making use of the idea could work.
This week's challenge was to incorporate a rumor in the drabble, which had to be exactly 100 words long. The eventual result was
“Today I reveal Miss Granger’s scandalous depravity, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent, during the months she lived in a tent with two boys! An excerpt from my scintillating new book, Hermione Granger: A Lascivious Life!”
Hermione stopped reading as her eyes blurred with angry tears. Suddenly, she heard a familiar eagle owl tapping at her windowsill.
“Great. More trouble,” she moaned.
However, the message wasn’t what she expected.
Granger,
Don’t give the sow the satisfaction. Watch tomorrow’s paper.
Draco
Next morning, the Prophet’s headline read “Warehouse Fire Incinerates Skeeter’s Books!”
Hermione wondered how to phrase an arson thank you note.
****
The voters very kindly gave me first place on that one this week. :)
I did have a scrap of an alternate I was working on for the autumn challenge that I thought I'd add in for the heck of it, tentatively titled
Draco was not a romantic, at least not to the casual observer. He was not given to writing sonnets or listening to plaintive ballads and sighing dramatically. In fact, he thought those who did were not only idiots but nutjobs and deserved public humilation at worst and a long trip to St. Mungo’s at best.
He told himself this in a very loud internal monologue every time he caught himself staring absent mindedly at Hermione during Potions. He was not, as Yeats had said, “looped in the loops of her hair,” a metaphor that in her case would work as well as a symbol death via strangulation as love. He most certainly did not note the color of her eyes and compare them to cinnamon, chocolate, coffee, ginger snaps, or any other beverage or sweet of his choosing. And her voice, though not unpleasant, was simply her voice, nothing to bring on fevered dreams and palpitations like some great pansy of a Victorian fop might feel.
But as the autumnal equinox approached, even he admitted he felt a pull. Soon, the opposite ends of the spectrum would become equal, even, each as powerful as the other. The golden sunlight, so tied to the image of the fiery Gryffindor lion, and the Slytherin silver of moonlight would each have a fair share of the sky, their powers balanced in perfect symmetry. One would be no better or worse than the other, but the same, the two sides of a single coin, without even a hair’s breadth of difference in their rule of the heavens, the dance without end in a circle that was equal parts gold and silver, blended together, completely unified, not knowing where one began and the other ended.
Damn, he thought as he caught himself looking at her again. It was getting warm in here.
***Yeah, I had no idea where that one was going, absolutely none. I may eventually use a bit of it in a longer fic as it's not horrible, but I wasn't really filling in the ideas completely and I think I was juggling too many different things in here, including a nod to Yeats (my favorite poet), "My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun," my slight obsession with relating characters to times of the year (My Darla bio, "The Alto," has everything major happening to her in autumn, for example), and a covert reference to dear old William from Buffy. Yeah, a bit much there.
