falling towards the sky » Gen

Makka na Ito

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 16:31:00 +0000

Title: Makka na Ito (Deep Red Thread)
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Characters: Shindou Hikaru, Touya Akira, Waya Yoshitaka
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to Yumi Hotta and Takeshi Obata.
Notes: For oneangrykate, who likes “witty, thoughtful gen” with “hints of pairings.” I can’t vouch for witty or thoughtful, but I did try for gen with a hint of a pairing. Many thanks to glossing for the last-minute beta, and for helping me not to leap from a cliff while writing this. Title borrowed from Plastic Tree. Thought process behind title inspired by too much xxxHolic. Originally posted 3/18/08 for the 2008 exchange.

*****

Makka na Ito

“Hey, we’re starting the round robin tournament next week. Can you play Saturday?” Waya asked, placing his stone with a resounding clack.

Hikaru responded immediately with his next stone, earning a glare from Waya, and shrugged. “Sure, I think so.”

“Oh, wait, not next week, right?” Nase piped up from somewhere behind Hikaru.

“Why not?” Waya asked.

“Touya’s game,” Isumi said, nudging Waya lightly with his elbow. Ochi scowled so intensely it almost made a noise.

“Oh, right.” Waya smirked. “I’ll put you on the week after, Shindou.” He played his next stone.

Hikaru snorted. “What are you smoking? Touya doesn’t have a match next Saturday.”

Waya stared. “What are you smoking?” He raised his eyebrows. “Touya and Ko Yongha? Seriously, Shindou, you’re the last person I expected to forget about that.”

Hikaru felt a weird chill run through him and a heavy pounding in his chest. “Oh. Right,” he said, forcing out a laugh. “Ha ha. How could I forget?” He placed the stone in his hand randomly on the board. Ochi’s scowl had turned into some kind of smile, which was possibly the creepiest thing Hikaru had ever seen.

Waya looked at the stone and back up at Hikaru, “Dude, you are going down.”

Hikaru glanced back at the board, the back of his brain automatically calculating his comeback, while the front of his brain seemed to be completely lost and just the slightest bit dizzy. His cheeks were burning, and he wasn’t sure what was happening, but it felt seriously weird, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want it to be happening in front of Waya’s entire study group, especially Ochi, who was eyeing him like his next meal. Hikaru laughed again, running his hand over his hair. “Ah, ha ha, you’re gonna kill me, but I just remembered I have to go.”

“You’re forfeiting?” Waya quirked an eyebrow.

Hikaru couldn’t seem to stop laughing, though it was turning into this kind of fast, choppy thing that didn’t sound like him at all. “Yeah, sorry, ha ha, I’ll make it up next time!”

“Shindou–” Waya was giving Hikaru a look he could not decipher and was pretty sure he didn’t want to. All in all, it seemed like a really good time to leave, so he grabbed up his backpack and headed for the door, knocking Kadowaki in the shoulder with his backpack on the way.

“Oops, sorry!” he shouted in Kadowaki’s general direction on his way out the door, and then to the room in general, “See you!”

*****

Not that being outside was making him feel any better. Hikaru stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, trying to make his brain stop doing whatever the hell it was doing, which he eventually gave up on in favor of simply walking to the subway so that he could sit down. The train was empty for a Saturday afternoon, and he let his stop and a few more go by, before he transferred to another, much more crowded train going back the other way. When he finally got off near home, he realized he wasn’t really ready to be there yet, so he took a walk past his old middle school and ended up sitting on a park bench for a couple of hours avoiding his thoughts by watching a couple of old men play shougi. He shook his head when he was asked if he played, and left in the middle of a lecture about how young people these days were too caught up in video games to understand the classics.

After that, there was nowhere to go but home. Hikaru’s mom met him inside the door, with that timid-worried look she’d taken on pretty constantly since he’d started playing Go.

“Hikaru, you look tired! Have you had dinner?” She reached out to touch his arm as he ran up the stairs, but just missed him.

“Yeah, mom, I’m fine, I’m going to bed,” he said, slamming the bedroom door behind him, which he regretted almost immediately as he flopped onto the bed and his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t actually eaten since breakfast, but he couldn’t bear to think about the questions he’d be asked if he went back down there now.

It turned out, though, that going to bed was the worst idea ever, since he was stuck there with his traitorous brain, which kept flashing him images of Touya, eyes all dark and intense, sitting at the goban facing stupid Ko Yongha and his stupid, stupid hair.

Going to bed was a really bad idea.

“Bye, mom, I’m going out for a while!” Hikaru shouted as he ran back down the stairs, and out the door.

“But Hikaru, you just came home! It’s late, Hikaru!” his mom said, running from the kitchen. “Hikaru!” she called after him, but of course he kept on going. It wasn’t like he was going to talk to his mom about Ko Yongha’s stupid hair.

Once he got outside, his stomach reminded him that he was still hungry. He thought a little wistfully of his mom’s wakame udon, which he’d smelled on his way out, but then he remembered that the ramen shop near Waya’s was open late, so he got back on the subway, where he spaced out and missed his stop again. Luckily the next stop was close enough to walk from. He was starving by the time he got to the ramen place, and ordered up a large bowl, but only got about halfway through before his brain started showing him the hair again, so he took the rest to go and went back outside.

Since he was in the neighborhood, he figured he might as well go back to Waya’s.

*****

“It’s almost eleven.” Waya said, when he opened the door.

“Ah, yeah, I was just having dinner nearby, so I figured we could finish our game? I’ve got ramen, ” Hikaru said, holding up the take-out container in his hand. “Oh, uh, were you sleeping?” He scratched his head.

Waya rolled his eyes. “No,” he said, opening the door wider. “Come in.” He raised his eyebrows at Hikaru. “You really want to finish?”

“Yeah, of course,” Hikaru said, heading for the goban, dropping the container of ramen on the table on his way.

“I’m not letting you take back that last hand,” Waya said as he sat down across from him.

“I don’t need to take that back!” Hikaru yelled. “I won’t lose from one move!”

“Well, I’m not weak enough to let you get away with it!” Waya replied, shaking his fist.

They set up the game quickly, and Waya immediately began taking advantage of Hikaru’s disastrous last hand, not that Hikaru was worried. Apparently, even in the midst of a total mental breakdown, his brain could still think about Go.

They played pretty quietly for a while, and then, out of the blue, just as Hikaru was about to place the stone that would turn his game around, Waya asked, “Did you seriously not know?”

Hikaru dropped the stone.

“What are you talking about?” Hikaru said, in what he hoped was a casual tone, but his voice sounded kind of high and weird, and he shivered a little as he wondered whether the laughing was going to start again.

Waya sighed. “What do you think?”

“I really don’t–” Hikaru protested.

“Shindou. Quit it,” Waya interrupted.

Waya was glaring at him in that unmistakable Waya kind of way, and Hikaru felt whatever was holding his mental state together just completely give up. He let out a huge breath and let his gaze drop away from Waya’s steady glare. “He didn’t tell me,” he said. “We just played yesterday.” He looked back up at Waya. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Is that really so weird? Does he tell you everything?” Waya rolled his eyes, not waiting for a response. “You guys are total freaks.”

“Shut up! It’s not weird,” Hikaru said. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned it.” He puffed up a little. “After all, I’ve played Ko Yongha, I could give him some tips.”

“Tips,” Waya repeated, looking unimpressed.

Hikaru nodded. “I know his weaknesses. Really, Touya’s an idiot for not telling me about it.”

“Well, now you know. You’ve got a whole week,” Waya said with a snort. “I’m sure he’s pale with terror, waiting for your tips.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not going to help that idiot!” Hikaru shouted, “Not if he can’t even be bothered to tell me when he’s having a match!” Then Waya’s last sentence finally registered. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, forget it, Shindou, this is stupid.” Waya crossed his arms and leaned away from the goban.

“What’s stupid?” Hikaru asked, starting to wish he’d decided to talk to his mom after all.

“The thing is, I kind of know you,” Waya said.

“Huh?” Hikaru said.

Waya sighed. “I know why you’re mad that Touya didn’t tell you.” When Hikaru didn’t respond, he went on. “I know you’re upset that he’s having the match in the first place.” Hikaru stared blankly, and Waya sighed again. “I know if you don’t go talk to that freak, I’m going to have to watch you mope around like a girl for the next year, so just go do it already!”

“What?” Hikaru sputtered, “You–” He frowned. “But we haven’t finished our game! Again!”

“Just go,” Waya said, gesturing to the door. “We’ll finish on Thursday, after official matches. And you’ll bring sushi.”

“I’ll what?” Hikaru protested. He definitely should have picked his mom. “Fine,” he grumbled.

Waya grinned. “Isumi will be here. Better bring enough for him too.”

“Fine!” Hikaru said, reaching for the doorknob. “Whatever.” He opened the door. “God.” Then he frowned and turned back, grabbing up the ramen take-out from the table. “I’m keeping this. And I do not mope like a girl.”

*****

The lights were off at the Touya house when he got there, but Hikaru rang the bell anyway, and when nobody answered, he decided to knock as well.

“Touya!” he called out, as loud as he could without worrying about the neighbors.

After about a minute, the door opened a crack. “Shindou?”

“Um, hi,” Hikaru said. “Touya?”

The door opened a little further to reveal Touya staring at him with bleary eyes. He was in his pajamas and his hair was mussed.

“Oh, oops,” Hikaru said. “Sorry. It’s really late.”

Touya pulled the door open the rest of the way, and Hikaru slipped off his shoes and stepped inside.

“What are you doing here?” Touya asked. He padded across the room, settling himself down at the goban, graceful and composed in perfect seiza despite the late hour. Hikaru smiled a little at that. Even half-asleep and annoyed, Touya still associated Hikaru’s presence with Go.

“Shindou,” Touya said.

Hikaru still had his half-eaten ramen take-out in his hands, and he held it before him like a religious offering.

“Well, your parents are gone again, so you probably aren’t eating,” he said, only peripherally aware of his own embarrassment as he remembered that Touya didn’t actually like ramen, and even if he did, he probably wasn’t going to eat it in the middle of the night. “And Waya said you looked pale!” Touya frowned at that, and looked like he might be about to protest, so Hikaru hurried on, “And,” he swallowed hard, letting the ramen fall to his side, “what the hell are you doing with Ko Yongha?”

Touya sighed, reaching for the goke. “It’s not an official game, obviously,” he said. “He challenged me. Some of the Korean press has been going on about the fact that he didn’t play against me at the Hokuto Cup, so he wanted to prove that he could defeat me. He’s flying back for the occasion.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hikaru asked.

Touya’s brow crinkled up in that way that always made him look really old. “I thought you might… take it badly.”

“What does that mean?” Hikaru said, “I mean, that’s just really, really stupid.”

“Except you did,” Touya said, gently.

That kind of logic was the kind to be ignored.

Hikaru frowned. “Since when do you worry about how I’ll take something anyway?”

“This is different,” Touya said.

“Why?” Hikaru felt impatience and frustration welling up in him like a five-year-old, and he knew he sounded like one, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

Touya’s jaw was clenched, like he was struggling to hold something in.

“What?” Hikaru demanded. “What the hell, Touya? It’s not like it has anything to do with me!” Which is really the problem, his brain helpfully supplied. Hikaru scowled. “You’re not replacing me,” he said, scowling further as he realized that despite his best efforts to make that sound like a demand, or at least an accusation, it had come out more like a very sad plea.

“Don’t be stupid, Shindou,” Touya said, his voice tight and sharp at the edges.

“Well, what is it then?” Hikaru asked, and then he had a horrible thought. “I don’t need you to beat him for me or something, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, not you,” Touya said. “It’s not for you, is it?”

Touya’s voice was quiet, his body was completely still, and his eyes were wide open, really open, in a way Hikaru had never actually seen before, and for one crazy moment he thought he saw something sort of tender there, and Touya’s face was tilted up at him with those open, open eyes.

“Touya…”

Hikaru felt something catch in his throat, which he hurridly turned into a cough. Touya’s eyes flickered away.

“Nigiri,” Touya said, his closed hand hovering over the goban.

Hikaru sat down across from him, picked up two black stones from the goke, and placed them softly in front of him.

Touya opened his hand, releasing the cluster of white stones. “You’re black,” he said.

They played slowly, sleepily, and it reminded Hikaru of some of his late-night games with Sai, only… not better, he thought, just something. Something good. It was a heady mixture of comfort and excitement, a kind of cross between a warm bath and a stomach full of butterflies, and it made Hikaru feel weirdly content and at home in this big, formal house that was nothing at all like his own. The stillness of the room was broken only by the occasional sound of stone on wood, and a couple of times in between, Hikaru caught himself drifting off a little. Images of Ko Yongha’s hair had been replaced by Touya’s hands over the goban, the long, graceful fingers–so much like Sai’s, Hikaru thought–fingers so delicate that the unavoidable calluses of a professional Go player seemed out of place.

“Shindou,” Touya broke the silence, shaking Hikaru out of his thoughts. “It’s your turn.” Touya’s voice was steady and perfectly calm, but his face held a trace of something else–not just his usual seriousness, but maybe a question? It reminded Hikaru of something he’d seen there the night before his own game with Ko Yongha.

Hikaru pushed back the giggle that welled up in his chest as he thought of their conversation then. “Since you’re taking my place as, um,” Hikaru gulped and then grinned. “I won’t allow you to have any embarrassing results.”

“Shindou!” Touya said, looking offended.

Hikaru laughed. “I’m know, I’m sorry I couldn’t help it.”

Touya frowned. “I’ve never played embarrassing Go.”

“What about that time at the salon, when you–” Hikaru began.

Touya interrupted, “Your responses were ridiculous! How could I play seriously against that?”

“Touya, I want–” Hikaru was suddenly feeling serious, and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but considering his day, he decided just to go with it. “I need to defeat him myself.”

“You will,” Touya said. “Next year.”

“Touya…”

Touya’s mouth curved into a small smile. “If you can earn first board.”

“You think I won’t?” Hikaru demanded.

“I think you’ll have to play more effectively than you are right now,” Touya said, pointing at the board. “What kind of shape is that?”

“That shape is fine!” Hikaru shouted. “I’m killing you with that shape!”

Touya raised his eyebrows. “I hope you don’t really think you’re killing me.”

“Keep playing, you’ll see!” Hikaru said. “Give me five hands!”

“I’ll give you ten, and you still won’t be killing me with that shape!”

Touya’s eyes were dark and intense as he faced Hikaru over the goban.

Hikaru smiled.

The Past and Pending

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 14:52:07 +0000

Title: The Past and Pending
Author: dorriey
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Harry Potter
Characters: Willow Rosenberg, Neville Longbottom
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to Joss Whedon and JK Rowling.
Notes: It should be the easiest thing ever to place a witch into the HP world, but I actually had great difficulty putting these two characters together, until I considered this particular period of time. This is set between BTVS seasons 6 & 7, when Willow is in England with Giles, which according to the HP timeline, puts Neville in his early twenties and (for the purposes of this story) mid-war. It is also accidentally a prequel to my HP story In Your Pocket You Carry Devotion. Title borrowed from The Shins. A world of thanks to glossing for her kind and patient counsel, and for making me feel like less of a dork. Just over 3000 words. Written for

*****

The Past and Pending

Held to the past too aware of the pending
Chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale.
Enter the fog another low road descending
Away from the cold lust, your house and summertime.

It was a small cottage, at least from the outside; its yellow paint cracked and faded. Neville let himself enjoy the morning sunshine for a moment longer before he stepped on to the narrow cobblestone path that was overgrown with thistle and wild carrot. The teapot he carried felt heavier than it should have as he shifted it to grasp the overly large doorknocker, and he nearly lost some of its contents through the spout. He rapped as lightly as possible, to avoid disturbing the hive of bees buzzing nearby.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a slight, pale-faced girl with bright, red hair. Neville thought she could not be more than sixteen, though her eyes were as shadowed and weary as his Gran’s. Neither of them spoke.

“Do you–can I help you with something?” the girl said, finally.

“Um. Sorry,” Neville said. “I’m looking for Willow Rosenberg?”

“I’m. Uh. She,” the girl said, haltingly.

“Oh! Hello! ” He took a deep breath and let it out, struggling to regain his composure. “Sorry.” He smiled. “I’m Neville Longbottom. I’ve been sent to ask you a few questions.”

She frowned slightly, eyebrows lifted in amusement. “Longbottom?” she said.

“Yes,” Neville continued. “May I come in?” He looked past her into the room, and was surprised to see that it was no larger than it looked from the outside, and very sparsely furnished.

Willow opened the door further, and gestured him in. “You’re from the… Ministry of Magic?” she asked. “I was told to expect someone. That’s. You?” As she spoke, Neville reconsidered her age, placing her perhaps near his own, which was still a great deal younger than he’d expected.

“Not exactly,” Neville said, “but the Ministry does know I’m here. My organization volunteered to make the trip.”

“Your organization?” she said. “You’re Secret Magic Intelligence or something?” She walked to a square, wooden, painted table on the far side of the room and gestured for Neville to take one of its two chairs.

“No, nothing like that.” Neville said, following her. “I’d just like to speak with you for a while. Will you have some tea?” He held up the teapot in his hand, and then set it down on the table, as he fished in the pockets of his robes for the teacups he’d brought. When he pulled them out, he noticed one had developed a large chip. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to bring them like this. I’m pants at Transfiguration.” He poured tea into the better of the two teacups and set it in front of Willow.

“Even an interrogation comes with tea,” she said, smiling as she sat down. She took a cautious sip of the tea, wincing a little at its heat. “You’re not going to tell me the name of your organization, are you?”

“No. I’m sorry. We’re not hostile, just cautious.” Neville sat across from her and poured his own tea. “You’ve met some of us already. Hermione Granger, I think, and Remus Lupin.”

“He’s the werewolf?” she asked.

Neville nodded.

“Giles. Uh. Mister. Giles brought him in, but he didn’t say why,” she said. “And she… she comes in to work with the other witches once a week. Learning their type of magic? I think–” She frowned. “She doesn’t like me.”

Neville smiled. “You may be wrong about that. She’s very serious about her work here, and when she’s working, she doesn’t always remember to be friendly.”

“She’s a very powerful witch. I can feel the–” Willow paused, “weight of her in the group. That’s not the right word, exactly.”

“You can feel her?” Neville asked.

Willow chuckled softly. “Is this the beginning of the interrogation?” she asked.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Neville said, smiling.

“I can feel… everything,” she said. “Everyone. Not in a. Creepy way. Just. Everything’s connected. Some stand out from the crowd.”

“Like Hermione,” Neville said.

“She’s not the only one,” Willow said. “She’s one I have a name for.”

“So until you have a name, these people–the ones who stand out–are just… feelings?” Neville said.

Willow smiled. “More than that, ” she said. “But if you’re asking if I magically know the name, address and sexual preference of every powerful witch in England, the answer is no.”

“Well,” Neville said, “that’s a relief then, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Her eyes brightened, looking alive for the first time since Neville had arrived. She grinned. “What secrets are you hiding, Neville Longbottom?”

Neville laughed. “Believe me, nothing interesting.”

“I’m sure they’re interesting to someone.” She was still grinning.

“You’re not what I expected,” Neville said, changing the subject.

“That’s. A relief,” she said. “I think.”

“What do you think I expected?” Neville said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The Eye of Sauron?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s. Scary. Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “I forgot about the. Culture thing.”

“That’s all right,” Neville said.

“I am scary, though.” Her face was serious now. “I mean. You should be scared. They are.” She nodded her head past Neville, in the direction of the main house.

“They’re pretty isolated over here,” Neville said. “Cut themselves off from the rest of us a long time ago–for good reason from what I understand.” He gave her a small smile. “Believe me, you’re not the scariest we’ve seen.”

Willow raised her eyebrows. “That’s… good,” she said. “In a not good kind of way.” She took another sip of her tea. “So, why you? I mean. You don’t really seem like the stern, government type,” she said. “Well, except for the. Robes. How did you get this assignment?”

“I’ve seen enough to be trusted, but I’m not too important to risk,” Neville said.

“That was me being stupid,” she said, waving her hands vaguely. “I didn’t mean–”

“No, it’s all right,” Neville said, with a smile. “I’ve seen what ‘important’ gets you these days, and believe me, I wouldn’t want it.”

“I would,” Willow said. “I mean I did. You should have heard the things I–” She looked at her teacup. “I’ve tried to tell myself that I didn’t really mean the things I said and thought then, but I did. The darkness only grabs on to what’s already there.” She looked up at Neville. “Why am I saying these things?”

“It’s the potion,” Neville said. “In your tea. I’m sorry.”

“Oh!” she said, standing suddenly. “Oh.” She sat back down again. “I guess you people mean business, don’t you?”

“You could probably resist it if you wanted to,” Neville said. “You’re powerful enough.”

“Yes,” she said. “But there wouldn’t be any point, would there? I mean, that would just make me more dangerous as far as you’re concerned.”

“I’m sorry,” Neville said. “Please understand–”

“I understand,” she said, her voice even. “I’ve killed people. I’m not in a position to get high-and-mighty about anything.”

“It’s not usually administered without warning,” Neville said. “In this case, however, the Ministry feared you wouldn’t allow it.”

“Of course,” she said. “I mean, I can understand.”

“I’m-” Neville started.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” she said. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Miss Rosenberg–”

“Willow, please,” she said, closing her eyes. “I want–” She opened them again. “Please, just Willow.”

“Willow,” he said, quietly. “We’ve been at war my entire adult life. There are very few of us who haven’t killed someone. Most of us, more than one.”

“It’s different,” she said.

“Is it?” Neville paused and took a deep breath. “Last week, I killed a schoolmate,” he said. “Someone I had lessons with every day for six years. He was about to kill one of ours, so I killed him first. In the Ministry’s eyes, that makes me a hero, at least for now. To his mum–” he stopped, unable to continue the thought without losing control. “Well,” he said. “Evil is evil, and declaring war doesn’t change that. This is just the evil we choose to live with.”

Willow’s eyes were old again. “You’re definitely not from the Ministry of Magic,” she said. “At least–well, the women in the coven aren’t exactly fans.”

Neville nodded. “You’d do best to leave out the details,” he said. “I do have to make an official report.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m. It’s a permanent. Foot. Mouth. Thing.”

“Now it’s your turn to stop apologizing,” Neville said, smiling.

“I’m s–” She caught herself. “I just don’t understand why you’re being so respectful.”

“I know that where you come from, witches and wizards are feared people,” Neville said. “We–those of us from wizarding families–we’ve grown up with magic all our lives. In our society, great power, even terrible power, commands great respect.”

“That’s still just fear, though. Isn’t it?” she said. “I lost control of. Everything. I’m like a… demon. Or worse.”

“And you traveled all the way here to take that control back,” Neville said. “Isn’t that worth my respect?”

“I was brought here,” she said.

“From what I hear, you could have stopped it if you’d wanted,” he said. “Couldn’t you?”

“I. Thought about it. Just for a moment, but–” she said. “Wow, this potion is. Brutal. Isn’t it?”

“Usually.” Neville smiled apologetically. “It shouldn’t be for too much longer, I promise.”

“What do you need to know?” Her face was earnest.

Neville faced her, squarely. “The Ministry’s interest is to determine how much of a threat you might pose to us by being here in England,” he said. “It’s not quite as awful as it sounds. The war has weakened the Ministry’s defenses tremendously. Even your Mister Giles is a person of interest these days.” He snorted. “My organization is interested in making sure that those of you outside the official jurisdiction of the Ministry are treated fairly, and without prejudice.” Willow nodded and Neville continued, “Perhaps you can tell me something about the way you use magic? The other women here practice magic without a wand, like you do, but they haven’t ever generated the same kind of power, at least not individually. Can you tell me about that?”

“It’s hard to explain. In a way that will make sense. To. Uh. You,” she said, wincing apologetically.

“Is there something you’d be willing to demonstrate?” Neville said. “I understand your control is fragile, but something you’d feel comfortable with? Something small?”

“Maybe,” Willow said, “I could–” She frowned.

“Yes?” Neville asked.

Then Willow’s voice was inside Neville’s head. “Can you hear me?”

Neville startled. “I–”

“Don’t answer out loud. Just think.”

Neville thought hard, “Hello?”

“That’s it.” Willow smiled.

“How are you doing this?” He was trying to remain calm. “What’s the spell? Some kind of Legilimency?”

“It’s not a spell,” she said. “Not the way you’re thinking of it. I don’t think I can explain.”

“This is something you’ve used? In a…” Neville chose this thought carefully, “Battle situation?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. Though it has other uses.” Her eyes sparkled. “Tell me, Neville, who exactly should be interested in your secrets?”

The answer came before Neville could stop it.

“The werewolf?” she asked, her voice jarring against the stillness of the room.

Neville sighed, cursing the heat rising in his face.

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that,” she said, and then her eyes went round. “I mean–no! Not that, obviously. Just. Werewolf.” Her voice was soft. “Does he know?”

Neville shook his head. “He–” Neville watched Willow closely as he continued, “lost someone, recently. And anyway, he thinks of me as a boy.”

“A boy?” Her forehead wrinkled. “The British are a very strange people.”

“It’s not so strange,” he said. “I was a nervous thirteen-year-old when we first met, and he was my teacher besides. Those impressions can be hard to let go of. I think it would take something pretty extraordinary.”

“You could disappear for a year or so and come back all ruggedly handsome and world-weary,” she said, eyes sparkling again.

Neville laughed. “I doubt ten years could accomplish all that.”

“Or you could turn to the dark side and go on a murderous rampage against your friends,” she said, not quite smiling. “I’m told that packs a wallop.”

“Not sure that’s the effect I’m going for,” Neville said. He continued cautiously, “Why did you?”

“Please don’t make me answer that,” she said, and then hastily continued, “It’s not that–” She seemed to be struggling with words. “I’m not sure it’s safe. If I start talking about that.”

Neville considered her for a moment. “You asked before why I got this assignment. I gave you half the answer. The other half–” he stopped, and then forced himself to continue, “When I was a baby, some people tortured my parents. They used a curse–one we categorize as ‘unforgivable,’ not that you’d know, the way they’re thrown about these days. It’s a curse that causes unbearable pain. My parents survived, but only in the most basic sense. It drove them out of their minds. I never really knew them because of that. They died a few years ago. Mum first, and my dad not long after.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“They are probably better off. I know that. And I’d grieved for them long before they died, ” Neville said. He took a deep breath before going on. “When I was fifteen, I had an opportunity to avenge them. I wasn’t strong enough then to do it, though I tried,” he said. “I wanted so much to hurt the people who took them from me. It was maddening that I couldn’t. So I worked after that, hard. I thought if I trained hard enough and fought hard enough–” He felt his chest getting tight. “It scared me after a while, feeling that way, so I pushed it back–as far back as I could. I never told anyone about it.” He paused, staring darkly at the table. “Then last year, someone else killed them. Communication was so spotty, I didn’t find out until a week later. And I was angry,” he said. “Angry that I didn’t get to do it myself. Isn’t that awful? I’d never felt like that before. I went a bit crazy, in a way I–” He shook his head. “If it wasn’t for my friend Harry, I don’t know what I might have done. I’m terrified just thinking about it. And I’m just a Herbologist with an incomplete NEWT in Defense. I don’t have the kind of power–” He stopped. Willow was crying softly. He pulled a handkerchief from his robes and handed to her. “So when this assignment came up, I volunteered,” he said.

“You already know,” she said. “Everything.”

Neville continued, quietly. “My organization doesn’t look kindly on revenge. Not officially, anyway. I thought you’d be best off with someone who understood. Someone who’d faced loss… ungracefully.”

“You sound like him. Your werewolf,” she said, with a small smile. “He’s been very kind.”

Neville smiled. “He faces everything gracefully.”

“And your friend?” she asked. “The other one?”

“He has his own issues,” Neville said, biting back a laugh.

“Vengeance issues?” she asked, grinning, “or in-love-with-a-werewolf issues?”

“Vengeance issues!” Neville said, quickly. “I hope just vengeance issues.” He chortled. “I think you’d be more his style, actually.”

Willow let out a choking sort of laugh. “I’m glad that you came here,” she said. “That you understand. But it’s–” her face was serious again. “I failed. Completely,” she said. “It’s not what she’d have wanted, not ever. I didn’t… honor her.”

Neville touched her hand. “Well, it’s not really for them is it? We can pretend it is, but we know better.”

She went on, her eyes focused on something very far away. “I still feel it. The grief–it’s so intense. Some days I can’t see anything else. And then the rage. They’ve taught me so much here, but it doesn’t go away,” she said. “She was the only–” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Everything good in me died with her, and all I was left with was–” She closed her eyes. “I just want to be me again. Me before.”

“Before what?” Neville said.

She looked at him, surprised. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it? There’s nothing I can erase–nothing I hate–that doesn’t erase something I love.”

“We–my society, I mean,” Neville said. “We have a device that allows a wizard to turn back time. There aren’t many of them, and they are rarely used anymore. It’s dangerous, of course, but more than that–” He considered how to go on. “It’s useless, I think. Most of the time.” He scratched his head. “I’m not much for fate and all that. But I think most of us, given a second chance, would make the same choice as the first time around, whether we think we would or not.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better,” she asked, “or worse?”

Neville smiled. “Neither.” He stood up. “Well, I think I’ve finished here. Thank you for your patience, Miss Rosenberg.”

“It’s W-” she started. “You’re just doing the official thing now, aren’t you?” She stopped, looking anxious. “But. Am I. With. The danger?”

Neville brought the teapot and cups across the room to the small sink and began emptying them. “I’m a dunce at cleaning spells, too,” he said with a sigh. “If only more magic involved plants.”

“Neville–” she said.

“My report will say that I’ve determined you pose no threat to the Ministry or England, and that I recommend focusing our resources elsewhere,” Neville said, shaking water from one of the teacups. “That sounds wonderfully official, doesn’t it?”

“But you hardly–”

Neville turned to face her. “You chose to come here for the sake of others.” She gestured to interrupt him, but he continued, “and for your own sake, of course. I feel strongly that, given the chance, you’d make the same choice again, despite the pain and uncertainty you’ve faced.” He tucked the teacups into his pocket and headed to the door. “Our world is filled with powerful witches and wizards. They’re only a threat if they choose to be.” He smiled. “You’ve made your choice. I’ve made my decision.”

“Thank you,” she said, opening the door for him. A bee circled Neville’s head, and then disappeared swiftly into the bright outdoors. As Neville started forward, Willow caught his arm. “He’ll be interested,” she said, smiling. “Just. Wait for the right moment.”

Neville smiled and stepped into the sunshine.

*****

Note: Lyric quoted after the title is “The Past and Pending” by James Mercer of The Shins.

*****
In Your Pocket You Carry Devotion

In Their Eyes Shall Shine

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 14:35:52 +0000

Title: In Their Eyes Shall Shine
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry, Draco, Neville
Warnings: Character Death
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to JK Rowling.
Notes: Originally posted 12/14/04 miggy’s H/D Mp3 ficathon challenge. Inspired by “Bright Eyes” from the Watership Down soundtrack, as requested by miggy. Sung by Art Garfunkel. Written by Mike Batt. Lyrics.

*****

In Their Eyes Shall Shine

Hogwarts, A History (Revised, 2004), Volume II
Chapter 5: The Second Rise of Voldemort

On Christmas Eve, 1997, simultaneous attacks were made on the neighborhoods of Muggleborn wizards in several locations across England. In each case, the wizard was bound–his family and neighbors slaughtered before his eyes–then left to pick up the pieces. Some of the survivors fled the scene, finally surfacing in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, exhausted and raving. Others were apprehended by Muggle authorities and never heard of again. When Muggleborn students returned to Hogwarts that winter, many asked to remain there indefinitely.

On January third, the Ministry of Magic issued an statement declaring its intention not to act, as long as wizards were not being killed. “Muggles are not our business,” the statement read. It went on further to explain that any witch or wizard foolish enough to get involved was not the Ministry’s problem. On January fourth, the re-formed Order of the Phoenix began sending teams of their own. By the time the Ministry was forced to get involved, hundreds of wizards had already died in battle.

*****

It was during Harry Potter’s seventh year at Hogwarts that the war with Voldemort truly began in earnest. Harry had never been one for heavy reading, but what struck him most strongly about the war was how accurate the poets were. The war was a shadow that seeped slowly over the land, bringing sickening death to everything it touched. It was the helplessness in Arthur Weasley’s eyes as he stood at the center of a fallen Muggle village, all smoke and blackened grass. It was Luna Lovegood staring blankly at the letter reporting her father’s death. It was Hermione scanning the Muggle obituaries at breakfast, her finger racing down the page, pausing almost imperceptibly at various points before she folded it up and stowed it away. Harry’s old nightmares had abandoned him now, replaced by these new, more frightening images.

Soon, these visions began to follow him even in daylight, at breakfast or during lessons, carrying him off at will.

“What’s this?”

Harry blinked, eyes protesting against the white glare of sun on snow. Draco Malfoy was leaning against the castle’s stone wall, flanked by one of his usual cronies.

“Harry Potter alone on Valentine’s Day? Can it be true?”

Harry felt for his wand. “Come to profess your love, Malfoy?”

Malfoy scowled. “Don’t be disgusting.” He turned as though to leave, and then stopped abruptly. “Crabbe, give me a moment alone with our hero,” he said, his gaze fixed on Harry.

Crabbe stared.

“Crabbe, a moment.” Malfoy repeated. Crabbe disappeared.

“So it’s love after all, then?” Harry raised his eyebrow.

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I just thought you’d prefer a smaller audience when I tell you how you’re going to die.”

Harry smiled. “I hope you’ll be creative. Professor Trelawney’s covered all the usual, you know.”

“You think this is funny, don’t you, Potter?” Malfoy’s composure vanished as he moved closer with quick, uneven strides. “Believe me, you won’t. Not when I’m done with you.”

Malfoy continued, Harry barely registering his words. Instead, he was imprinted with the image of Malfoy’s eyes, fever-bright, shining with hatred, his pointed face flushed pink in the cold wind. Malfoy’s breath escaped in angry puffs, mixing with Harry’s before evaporating into nothing.

*****

February 14th, 1998 saw the largest mass exodus Hogwarts has seen in its long history, even to this day. In that one night, the upper years of Slytherin House were all but emptied (along with fractions of other Houses) as students fled the school in order to pledge their lives to Lord Voldemort. Their numbers included Slytherin Prefects, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Muggleborn student Dennis Creevy disappeared the same night. His body was discovered on his parents’ doorstep several days later, and their home and surrounding neighborhood destroyed the same evening. (Photographs courtesy of The Daily Prophet.)

*****

The meeting with Dumbledore had not gone at all as he’d expected. When Harry had stormed in, demanding to be allowed to fight, he’d expected refusal in fatherly tones. Grave consideration took him entirely by surprise, as did Dumbledore’s eventual acceptance. Harry returned to his common room that night filled with vigor and a sense of purpose he hadn’t had in months. Others followed suit, and soon the bulk of Gryffindor Tower’s older students were headed off to war. As February wore on, new students joined the war effort every day.

Harry’s new nightmares pursued him into battle. He existed in a dream, firing hexes and blocking spells as though he were leading practice with the DA. Dumbledore praised him for his level head, while Snape coughed loudly a few feet away. Harry heard none of it, his ears filled with Padma Patil’s anguished scream just before she fell.

*****

In March, the Order of the Phoenix began receiving information from the inside. The Order set up small task forces to attempt to thwart the Muggle massacres before they began. At Potter’s insistence, he was assigned a group of his own, consisting of several members of the student organization, Dumbledore’s Army. Their fourth mission out, they arrived at the targeted village to find that the Death Eaters had already hit. Most of the homes were destroyed. Any bodies that remained were burned beyond recognition.

*****

Hermione touched his hand. “Harry.”

Harry’s throat was dry. “Who lived here?” Nobody answered. “Hermione?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone we knew.”

“No, it was.” Everyone turned to Seamus. “I mean, we did.” He swallowed. “Justin Finch-Fletchley. He lived here. His mother invited me to tea once.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a shout from the far side of the street.

“Harry!” Neville was waving them over. They hurried to him, finally gathering around a heap of black robes.

Seamus stepped toward it. “What is it?”

“They’ve never left any behind before, have they?” Neville asked. “Of their own, I mean.”

Ron squinted at it. “I think it’s still alive.”

Harry waved the others back and squatted next to it, pulling at the robes, trying to find the body underneath. Finally locating the hood, Harry pulled it back. Pale gray eyes stared back at him. They widened as the person choked out something unintelligible, and then fell shut.

“Be careful, Harry,” Hermione warned. “Harry?”

He looked up at her, stomach churning. “It’s Malfoy.”

“What?” Ron lurched forward.

“He saw me.” Harry frowned. “He tried to say something, I think. Then, well, he passed out or something.”

Ron huffed. “Oh, right. Setting a trap, more likely.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. There was something wrong.” He frowned again. “His eyes were just… gray.”

“They were always gray,” Hermione answered. “And of course something is wrong. He’s unconscious, Harry.”

He felt himself getting impatient. “No. I mean, I know. Just.” He took a breath. “They were different today. Something was–” He paused. “He really hated me. More than anything, maybe. But not today.”

“Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.” Hermione’s voice was unusually soft.

“Hermione?” Ron nudged her.

“Something I read once. I don’t even know why I remember it.” Hermione blinked. “Silly poetry.” She stepped away from the group. “Anyway, it looks like our information was useless. We’re far too late to help anyone here. We should return quickly.”

Harry hesitated. “What about Malfoy? Shouldn’t we do… something?”

Hermione frowned. “Like what, Harry?”

“Take him with us or something. Prisoner of War, that sort of thing.” His stomach churned again.

“Prisoner of War?” Ron chortled. “We’re not Her Majesty’s Royal whatever-you-call-it.”

Hermione elbowed him, turning to Harry. “It isn’t safe, Harry. We can’t apparate with a body in tow. We’d have to walk or fly the whole way. There could be Death Eaters anywhere. We should leave him here. Someone will come for him, and if he wakes up–”

Harry crossed his arms. “Who will come for him?”

“Harry–” Hermione reached for his arm.

“No. Hermione.” He shook her off. “Who will come? His mother is dead. His father–” He stopped. “Well, he left him here, didn’t he? Voldemort’s people have been gone for hours. Why would they come back now?”

Hermione protested, “Harry, we can’t just–”

“If we leave him here, he’ll die.”

“Maybe he should die.” Everyone stared at Seamus. “Nobody wants to say it, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? If he could, he’d have killed all of us by now. Who knows how many of these people he killed? Why should we put ourselves in danger to save him?”

“Seamus has a point, Harry.” Hermione nodded.

Harry gaped. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Hermione.”

“Why?” Ron challenged. “Everyone’s thinking it.”

Hermione continued, “Harry, he’s right. This could have easily been my street, my family.” She caught his arm again. “And what if it was? Would you be talking about saving him then?”

“It’s not–” Harry twisted away. “Look, it’s not about saving Malfoy!” He tried to lower his voice. “I mean, well, it is, but not because he’s Malfoy.” Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry walked to her, taking her hand. “Hermione.” His voice was quiet now. “I’m just tired of watching people die. It’s all I’ve been doing my whole life.” He looked back at Malfoy. “We don’t know why they left him here. He’s obviously injured. If we take him back, then he’s in Dumbledore’s hands, and someone else can decide what to do with him. I just–” He turned back to her. “I can’t decide that he should die. Not when he’s helpless like this. I can’t.” He let Hermione’s hand fall, facing the others. “Listen, I can take him back on my own. The rest of you can go on ahead, tell Dumbledore what’s going on. I’ll meet you.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, are you sure that would be–”

“Are you out of your mind?” Neville was almost laughing. “If you think that we’d let you risk your life for Malfoy, you’ve got another think coming.”

Harry stepped forward. “Now, look here–”

“No, I will not.” Neville was serious now. “You’re the one hope we’ve got of winning this thing in the end. You know this. We all do. You’re not going to risk losing the whole bloody war just to be Draco Malfoy’s personal hero!”

“I’m not–” Harry started.

“Malfoy isn’t our mission, Harry,” Neville went on. “He made his choice, and this is where it brought him. These people,” He swept his arm over the charred road, “were our mission, and we failed them.” His eyes blazed. “We need to remember why we’re here.”

Harry’s face was bright red. “I remember just fine-”

“Stop it, both of you!” Hermione shouted. “This isn’t solving anything!” She stepped into the middle. “Look. Harry doesn’t want to be the one to decide Malfoy’s fate. So, he doesn’t have to be. Why don’t we just find Dumbledore, and bring him back here? Then he can decide what to do with Malfoy, and we can end this nonsense.”

“Hermione,” Harry began.

Hermione raised her finger at him. “It may even be Malfoy’s best chance at survival. Dumbledore could make a portkey, maybe send him to a medical facility.” Her eyes were pleading. “It would only take a moment.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Fine.”

“I’ll stay with Harry,” Neville said.

“You don’t have to–”

Neville turned to him. “It’s not negotiable.” Harry glowered.

“We’ll be back soon.” Hermione straightened her robes and checked her wand. “Harry, you know it’s the best thing. Neville?”

“Right,” Neville answered, his voice tight.

“Let’s go then, Ron, Seamus,” Hermione said just as she vanished.

Harry and Neville stood, glaring at each other across Malfoy’s body.

“Harry, look. The war is messing with all of us. I know that.” Neville’s voice was even. “But we’re your team. You brought us out here. We need your leadership.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, I can see just how prepared you are to follow my lead.”

“You weren’t being a leader.” Neville smiled. “You were being an idiot.”

“Thanks a lot.” Harry turned, walking away.

“I shouldn’t be the one reminding you about the mission, Harry.” Harry stopped. Neville caught up with him. “Hermione shouldn’t. You have to make the hard decisions.” His eyes were kind. “You have to be the one who keeps the rest of us focused–who doesn’t let the fight get personal.”

Harry snorted. “Believe me, there’s nothing personal about my feelings for Malfoy.”

Neville chuckled. “Try that on someone who hasn’t been watching you both for seven years.” He ignored Harry’s wide eyes and turned toward the ruined homes. “Look, I’m going to do a quick sweep, make sure Jus–to make sure there’s no one still hanging around. It isn’t likely, I know, but-” Neville shrugged and headed into the village.

Harry walked back to the crumpled Malfoy. He looked fragile and childlike, in a way Harry hadn’t seen him since first year, and he was shaking as he breathed. Cruciatus, Harry thought most likely. He wondered what Malfoy had done to anger someone, or if he’d simply been in the way. “I think I despise you more than ever for this, Malfoy, do you know that?”

Malfoy was silent.

“Don’t you see what you’ve done? This fight, Malfoy. You are what makes this possible. You are what makes sense. You hating me.” His voice was getting louder, and Harry didn’t care.

“I have to fight this war. I have to win it. I can’t be soft.” He was pacing now. “I can’t be… moping around, worrying about the health of the enemy! Do you not see that?”

He fell to the ground, shaking Malfoy’s limp shoulders. “How dare you? How dare you make me care whether you live or die? Why can’t you just hate me?” He shook him harder. “Hate me, you bastard!”

He sank, drained. “Wake up and hate me.”

Something moved under his hands. Harry stopped, brushing his hand across Malfoy’s forehead. “Malfoy?”

Eyelids fluttered, and suddenly Harry was faced with the same gray he’d seen earlier. This time, Malfoy spoke. “Potter,” He gasped, as the shaking intensified. “P–” His right hand clutched Harry’s robes. He raised his head with great effort, nearly touching their foreheads together. Harry could feel Malfoy’s breath, warm on his chin.

“Potter,” he gasped again, his voice just above a whisper. “Help me.” His hand lost its grip, and he fell back to the ground.

“Malfoy.” Harry grabbed at his hand, trying to pull him back. “I will.” Malfoy’s eyes were empty, his face growing rapidly pale. Harry tapped at his cheek. “I’ll help you. I promise.” Harry’s heart was racing. Malfoy stopped moving. “Malfoy!”

Neville’s footsteps approached from the distance. He sped up as he neared Harry, stopping just next to him. His shoes were dusty. Harry looked up at him, squinting into the overcast glare of March.

Neville tilted his head. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon. You know how loopy Dumbledore can be sometimes.” Harry looked back at Malfoy. “Harry?”

Harry stood up, slowly. “It doesn’t matter.” Neville stared for a moment and then shifted his gaze to Malfoy’s body.

“Oh.” His voice was quiet. “There’s nothing you could have done. If you’d taken him, he’d have died on the way. You realize that.” His hand was on Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

“Help me.” Harry turned his head to face him. “That’s what he said, Neville. He said, ‘Help me.’” His voice grew more agitated. “I should have…”

“Should have what?” Neville squeezed his arm.

Harry moved away. “I don’t mean today. I mean… before.” Harry sat on the ground again. “He came to me the day he left, did you know that?” Neville shook his head. “It was nothing new, just the same as always. ‘I’ll get you,’ that sort of thing. I didn’t even listen, really. But now I wonder. What if he wanted me to do something?” He pushed his hair back roughly. “Change something. I don’t know.”

Neville sat down beside him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Harry faced him. “How many Hogwarts students left school to join Voldemort?”

“Twenty-five, maybe? Thirty?”

“Mostly Slytherin, right? And a few others?”

Neville nodded.

“Did we ever give a thought to any of them?”

Neville leaned back on his hands. “What do you think we should have done?”

“I don’t know,” Harry chewed at his lip. “Had a conversation?”

Neville chuckled. “They weren’t exactly the friendly sort.”

“I know. It’s not–” Harry frowned, looking at his shoes. “I should have… tried.” He fidgeted with a corner of his sleeve. “Today, he looked–he just looked scared. He was just a scared kid. Maybe if I had ever–” His eyes moved to Malfoy. “Maybe he wouldn’t have been here. Maybe he wouldn’t have–” He stopped.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Neville asked, softly.

“I think…” Harry took a breath. “We should go back to Hogwarts. The Order can summon us if they need us, but we should stay there for the rest of the term if we can. I think maybe there is more we can do there right now than anyplace else.”

Neville smiled. “Is that an order?”

“Don’t be–” Harry raised his eyebrow. “Is this where you tell me I’m an idiot again?”

“No.” Neville paused. “You know, Harry, maybe you saved him after all. I don’t mean saved. But… maybe it helped in the end. For him to think you had. Maybe it wasn’t so bad then.”

“Maybe.”

“I think that’s what keeps us all here, sometimes.” Neville furrowed his brow. “You haven’t saved us, not yet. But we believe you will.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” Neville pushed himself to his feet. “Come, there’s Dumbledore.”

Harry stayed still. He reached over and pushed Malfoy’s hair from his eyes. “Not in the hands of boys…” He stood quickly. “Coming.”

*****

On March 12th, 1998, in an unexpected move by the Order of the Phoenix, members of Harry Potter’s task force returned to Hogwarts, purportedly to finish their final term of school. As was later revealed in the now-famous Weasley Letters (see Chapter 7: Wartime Correspondence), the true purpose of this move was as an attempt to influence the allegiances of the children of known Death Eaters still remaining at the school. In the end, it is estimated that as many as forty children eventually joined forces with Harry Potter and Dumbledore’s Army, against the wishes of their parents. Recent scholars agree that this seemingly small shift in numbers and alliances played a significant role in the eventual defeat of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

*****

*The poem quoted by Hermione is “Anthem for a Doomed Youth” by Wilfred Owen.

Something In Between

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 14:31:06 +0000

Title: Something In Between
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Neville and his Gran
Rated: G
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to JK Rowling.
Note: Originally posted 11/16/04 for marginalia.

*****

Something In Between

Neville set down his trunk inside the door. The ride had been long, and the train was crowded. Nobody was apparating these days, not since the Death Eaters had started abducting people out of thin air. At least on the train one had a fighting chance. He’d said his few goodbyes at the platform. Luna had come as he somehow knew she would, and Hermione, he suspected, out of duty. Harry had run up at the last moment, looking oddly lost. He supposed it was strangest for Harry in some ways, who had called no other place home.

Most of them were taking flats in London, or camping out with Harry at Grimmauld Place. With war so imminent, nobody dared look past it. They were a generation interrupted, stalled at the gate. They’d finished their NEWTS in a sort of haze. Conversations about the future were free of the usual career talk, rarely venturing further than how to continue group Defence studies and where to go after the Leaving Feast. Neville had made his decision at Christmas, Gran’s suddenly frail hand touching his arm, eyes full of fear as he’d never seen them before. It was enough to make him realize where he belonged.

Now that he was here, it seemed like a mistake, like something not quite real or not quite in the present. He could feel it starting already, the timid awkwardness of his younger self settling in like always. He pushed it back and stepped in further, feet shuffling against the hardwood floor.

“Gran?” He poked his head into her sitting room. It was empty. “Gran?” He repeated a little louder, starting up the large, creaky staircase. A sound at the end of the second floor corridor caught his attention.

She sat at the edge of his bed, surrounded by photograph albums. Her hand hovered near her temple.

“Gran?”

Her face was so old. “Child,” she said, holding out her hand.

He walked forward to take it.

“Sit down, dear.” She was gripping his hand, hard.

“How are you doing, Gran?” He took the album from her lap. A young vision of his parents gazed up at him, holding a tiny baby. His mother waved. He smiled back at her. “I love looking at them like this, don’t you?” He looked back up at Gran.

“I should have–” She pursed her lips. “Well.”

“Should have what?” He brushed a stray hair away from her forehead.

She smiled faintly, in a way Neville hadn’t ever imagined. “I don’t know. Stopped them, I suppose.” The smile faded, her face hardening into something he was more accustomed to. “I should stop you.”

He touched her cheek. “You know you don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it, boy.” She took his hand away from her face and held it along with the other. “I only know I can’t.”

He looked back to the photograph. His mother waved at him again. “Well.” He closed the album. “I’m home now.”

“Yes you are.” She let go of his hands and smoothed her robes. “Let’s get you taken care of, shall we? Tea, perhaps?” She got up from the bed. “You’ve had a long day. I’m sure–”

Neville stood. “You sit, Gran. I’ll get it.”

“Nonsense.” She gathered up the photograph albums. Neville took them from her, carrying them back to their shelves. “You’re so grown up,” she said, her voice clearer than he’d heard it in ages. “So ready to make your way.” She took his hand again, leading him to the stairs. “What does it feel like, child? An ending or a beginning?”

“I don’t know.” Neville frowned. “Neither, really. I suppose it’s something in between.”

She stopped and turned, studying his face. She nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your beginning will arrive soon enough.”

He smiled. “Not too soon, I hope.” He squeezed her hand. “C’m on, then. I’m desperate for that tea.”

Something Small

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 14:22:17 +0000

Title: Something Small
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13 for darkness
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to JK Rowling.
Note: Four drabbles strung together, 400 words. Originally posted 3/19/04.

*****

Something Small

“Do you ever think about it, Potter?” Draco whispered, his lips at Harry’s ear.

Harry stepped away, brow furrowed. “Think about what?”

Draco followed. “Power. Destruction. Being a Dark Lord.”

“I’ll never be like Voldemort,”

Draco smirked. “Voldemort was an idiot. That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, Malfoy?”

“I just-.” Draco licked his lips. “It could be… beautiful. All that destruction.” His voice was low and thick. “Holding the world in your hand, knowing you could crush it with a word.” His eyes burned. “Haven’t you ever thought about it?”

“No.”

“Potter.”

“No,” Harry snapped, turning away.

*****

Sometimes when Ron is talking, Harry wonders what it would be like to reach out with his mind and press on the side of his head. Gentle at first, no more than a feather’s touch to Ron. He wonders then how it would feel to push a little harder, to watch Ron’s temple indent gracefully until the pressure finally cracked his skull. He wonders how Ron’s face would look… horror mixed with fascination… adrenalin so strong he couldn’t tell fear from pleasure.

His hand reaches out to brush Ron’s face, and he grins, laughing as Ron’s eyes squint in confusion.

*****

“I’ll do it.”

Draco tilted his head. “You’ll do what, Potter?”

“You know.” Harry frowned.

“Really?”

“Just.” Harry looked away. “Small. Something small.”

Draco laughed. “Potter, there is no small. Do you think the universe knows the difference between a flobberworm and Weasley?” His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps that’s a poor example…”

“Malfoy-”

Draco sighed. “Don’t fool yourself, Potter. You’re either in-”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I’m in. But still. Something small. Small to me.”

“Okay.” Draco’s eyes glittered. “So, what’s the spell?”

“I don’t need a spell.”

Looking back, Harry thinks he should have gone slower. It hadn’t felt right at all.

*****

Sometimes when Hermione looks at him, Harry wonders if she’ll ask, and what he’d say if she did.

It started slowly… the Malfoys, then other former Death Eaters, some who’d only been suspected. The Prophet had suggested some sort of plague left by Voldemort to punish his followers in the event of his death. When the Ministry ordered the families of the victims into custody, nobody objected. Better safe than sorry, they all agreed.

Harry takes Hermione’s hand, smiling shyly, feeling her questions wash away with his touch. He closes his eyes.

“What are you thinking about, Harry?”

“Something small.”

*****

He was never a genius

dorrie6 — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:48:17 +0000

Title: He was never a genius
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Hikaru no Go/xxxHolic
Characters: Hikaru, Ensemble
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story are the property of Yumi Hotta, Takeshi Obata, and CLAMP.
Summary: Hikaru stumbles into an unexpected place.
Notes: Originally written 7/2/08 for glossing’s First Lines Challenge. First line: “He was never a genius.” by glossing, the rest by me. Comment-fic.

*****

He was never a genius

He was never a genius, except maybe at Go, but Hikaru knows there’s something weird about one small, old-fashioned house in the middle of a block of office buildings, and a bunch of people having a picnic in the yard just makes it even weirder. It’s only when the skinny kid in the apron nearly drops a plate of food to start pointing at him in a totally overblown way that Hikaru realizes he’s walked halfway up to the door of the place. Of course, they’re all staring at him at this point: the apron kid, an exotic looking lady with a long, ornate pipe, a tall kid in a yukata, a little blond girl, and some kind of black rabbit thing that was trained to hold a cup.

“Ah ha ha,” Hikaru laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything. It was pretty rude of me to come in here, huh?”

The apron kid sighs. “It’s not your fault,” he says, shooting a glare at the lady with the pipe. “I guess you have a customer.”

The pipe lady is staring at Hikaru like he’s a ghost or something. “He’s not here for me,” she finally says.

“What, you’re saying it’s an accident?” the apron kid says, loudly.

The tall kid frowns. “I thought they can’t enter unless they need to.”

The lady leans back in a kind of dramatic pose, with her fancy pipe and everything. “He needs to enter. But he’s not here for me.” Then she looks at the little girl. “Is he?”

The little girl seems kind of startled, but she takes a good look at Hikaru and her eyes go wide.

“Um.” Hikaru is scratching the back of his head again. “I don’t think I’m here for anybody.” He starts heading back toward the street. “Look, I’m really sorry.”

But then the little girl is right next to Hikaru, gesturing for him to lean down, and he figures he shouldn’t be mean to a little girl he doesn’t even know, so he goes along with it.

She whispers, “He knows.”

Hikaru frowns. “Huh?”

The girl’s eyes are so big, and so, so serious. “Sai,” she says. “He knows.”

And suddenly Hikaru has been hit by a bullet train, or that’s what it feels like, and he’s sitting on the ground with tears in his eyes, and the little girl is smiling, like she’s just given him a gift, which he’s pretty sure she has.

“Shizuka-kun,” she calls out softly toward the people at the blanket, but the tall kid is already standing there, holding his hand out to Hikaru, and Hikaru is letting himself be pulled up before he even knows what he’s doing.

“I could have done that, Kohane-chan,” the apron kid mutters, throwing a dirty look at Shizuka-kun, or whatever his name is, and Hikaru might find it funny if he wasn’t so busy being shocked out of his mind.

“Please,” Hikaru says, struggling to blink the tears from his eyes. “How do you know something like that?” But that’s not really what he wants to ask so he tries again, leaning down toward the little girl. “You really know that?”

The girl is serious again, no trace of that brief, bright smile, and she nods.

“Oh,” Hikaru says, and really he can’t think of anything else at the moment.

“Don’t forget the price, Kohane-chan,” the lady says, gently, but in that same ominous tone she’s been throwing around the whole time, and Hikaru starts to panic.

“Oh!” he says, rummaging through the pockets of his jeans. “Um. I was eating before, and I don’t really have much left.” His face is getting hot, and that nervous laugh bubbles up again. “Ha ha, um, can I send it to you or something?”

Now the girl is shaking her head, and the ominous, smoking, crazy lady is smiling at him in a really frightening way, the rabbit-thing is jumping around and speaking Japanese, and Hikaru starts to think he’s pretty much doomed, as the girl takes his hand and leads him towards the others.

She squeezes his hand and smiles again. “Teach me to play Go.”