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rarepair_shorts2011-01-12 09:36 pm
rarepairs_mod) wrote in rarepair_shorts2011-01-12 09:36 pm
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Fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
absolutelybatty
Author: gelsey
Recipient:absolutelybatty
Title: Ring A-Ring O’ Roses
Pairing: Severus/Molly, Severus/Lily
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1033
Summary: Her red hair fascinates me, as red has fascinated me since the day I met Lily Evans.
Author's Notes: This is one of the weirdest fics I’ve written in a long time. I do hope you enjoy it. This version of the rhyme comes from the UK, or so says Wikipedia. It’s not a fairy tale, but I hope it works. I know S/L isn’t rare, but it hooks into the S/M at least for me.
Ring a-ring o’ roses
I watch her from the shadows. Her red hair gleams in the lights. It fascinates me, as red has fascinated me since the day I met Lily Evans.
She is not Lily, of course. But she is still comely, with widely curved hips and bountiful breasts and that long, beautiful hair. The most unattractive part is, in fact, the children with that same hair which seem to be attached to her at every available point.
She drops a package and I swoop in, grabbing it before she can juggle children and packages in order to get it herself. Her eyes widen. They are not green, like Lily’s, but they still hold a spark—and a tinge of wariness. “I would be more careful if I were you, Molly Weasley,” I murmur, low and silky. “You never know when a moment of distraction could be your undoing.”
I stalk away, cloak snapping behind me, as she warily surveys the surrounding shops. There is a shadow in every doorway, but as I turn and Apparate, they all disappear as well.
When she opens her package once she’s home, there shall be a wreath inside—a full wreath of black roses. Be warned, the old sayings go, with a wreath of black, for they are only for the dead. She is a Prewett at the root of things, after all—and the Prewetts are on the list to be dealt with.
A pocket full of posies
The potion vials fill my pockets, even shrunk as they are. They clink quietly. I stick a hand in my pocket to rearrange them so nothing sounds at all. When I reach up a moment later to secure my silver mask in place, I smell the faint scent of posies, the dried ground petals of a nosegay being one of the main ingredients in this particular potion.
The house is surrounded. We are like the wreath of black roses in our robes, with silver pollen gleaming in the middle where our faces shine in the moonlight. We circle the rundown Prewett manse; the Dark Lord’s eyes glow red, the bow on our wreath.
“Do it,” he orders, and we descend as silent as Dementors. Under his command, we are Death.
I am Death.
Except to her. She lies bleeding upon the floor, the red of her blood an apple compared to the rose of her hair. That vibrant red hair. I must protect it, I must protect her. If I cannot protect her, then I shall not be able to protect Lily either. Their hair is the exact same color.
She is beautiful, even as she lies dying. Molly is beautiful, even with her stomach rounded with twins. So stupid, to visit her family all alone on the holidays. As stupid as hanging mistletoe in a family home, like the sprig above the door.
I withdraw the vials and pour them, one after the other, down her throat. And the last, an Obliviate, so she will not know it is I, for I think she senses who is behind the mask.
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
Gideon and Fabian Prewett attack from brooms the moment I step out of doors. They scream recriminations and of vengeance for their dearest sister. Perhaps they spied me hovering over her from up the stairs. Whatever they saw, they must think I killed her and escaped out the windows of the attic to come after me.
If they keep this up, and she does not die, everyone will know who had been seen with her. Lingering. Watching. Touching. Spending precious moments that could have been spent attacking others who were not yet incapacitated.
Me.
Then it will be I surrounded by a black wreath of my fellows. I cannot have that. No, I cannot have that happen at all.
The dust of their flying tickles my nose, and I fight back a sneeze before lifting my wand. It’s two little words, said twice over; twin flashes of light for a set of twins. Molly might be a vibrant rose, but these two were simply weeds in need of plucking.
I sneeze afterward, twice. I find it fitting.
We all fall down.
The home is crumbled, a ruin of humble comfort, in the town of Godric’s Hollow. I follow the neatly trimmed path, an automaton, self-made.
I must see. I must touch. I must know.
I must make certain.
Up the steps, and through the hole of a door. Past him, the one who does not matter, who has never mattered. James was trash in life. He shall remain trash thrown carelessly to one side in death.
Back, down the hall, to the nursery with its cracked cheerfulness. There is no child crying or silent, dead or alive. He must have been reclaimed already, while she is left here all alone.
She is beautiful, as she lies on the rumpled rug. There is no blood to contrast with her hair. That vibrant red hair. This time, my pockets do not clink. They are empty, as empty as I feel. But no posies could have reclaimed my Lily, unlike my Molly. There is no stopper for the death that comes on green light—green nearly the color of her eyes.
All my efforts, in vain. I saved Molly, but there is no saving Lily.
I fall. The floor against my knees is only an echo of pain at this point. Everything else in me hurts too much to feel something so trivial. My fingers reach out and stroke her hair, that red, red hair. Her green eyes stare sightlessly through me. She is gone, fallen.
So, too, is the Dark Lord. For now, at least. But he is the one who has destroyed all the good things in my life, what few they were. I shall not follow him again.
No, next time, if such a time does come, he shall be the one who falls.
Not another Lily. Not another Molly.
Him. And, my sense of foreboding speaks, perhaps me.
But not Molly. No, I could keep her safe still. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll keep her safe like I didn’t manage to keep Lily.
They all would fall. We all would fall, to keep them safe. Her safe.
And We
All Fall
Down.
gelseyRecipient:
absolutelybattyTitle: Ring A-Ring O’ Roses
Pairing: Severus/Molly, Severus/Lily
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1033
Summary: Her red hair fascinates me, as red has fascinated me since the day I met Lily Evans.
Author's Notes: This is one of the weirdest fics I’ve written in a long time. I do hope you enjoy it. This version of the rhyme comes from the UK, or so says Wikipedia. It’s not a fairy tale, but I hope it works. I know S/L isn’t rare, but it hooks into the S/M at least for me.
I watch her from the shadows. Her red hair gleams in the lights. It fascinates me, as red has fascinated me since the day I met Lily Evans.
She is not Lily, of course. But she is still comely, with widely curved hips and bountiful breasts and that long, beautiful hair. The most unattractive part is, in fact, the children with that same hair which seem to be attached to her at every available point.
She drops a package and I swoop in, grabbing it before she can juggle children and packages in order to get it herself. Her eyes widen. They are not green, like Lily’s, but they still hold a spark—and a tinge of wariness. “I would be more careful if I were you, Molly Weasley,” I murmur, low and silky. “You never know when a moment of distraction could be your undoing.”
I stalk away, cloak snapping behind me, as she warily surveys the surrounding shops. There is a shadow in every doorway, but as I turn and Apparate, they all disappear as well.
When she opens her package once she’s home, there shall be a wreath inside—a full wreath of black roses. Be warned, the old sayings go, with a wreath of black, for they are only for the dead. She is a Prewett at the root of things, after all—and the Prewetts are on the list to be dealt with.
The potion vials fill my pockets, even shrunk as they are. They clink quietly. I stick a hand in my pocket to rearrange them so nothing sounds at all. When I reach up a moment later to secure my silver mask in place, I smell the faint scent of posies, the dried ground petals of a nosegay being one of the main ingredients in this particular potion.
The house is surrounded. We are like the wreath of black roses in our robes, with silver pollen gleaming in the middle where our faces shine in the moonlight. We circle the rundown Prewett manse; the Dark Lord’s eyes glow red, the bow on our wreath.
“Do it,” he orders, and we descend as silent as Dementors. Under his command, we are Death.
I am Death.
Except to her. She lies bleeding upon the floor, the red of her blood an apple compared to the rose of her hair. That vibrant red hair. I must protect it, I must protect her. If I cannot protect her, then I shall not be able to protect Lily either. Their hair is the exact same color.
She is beautiful, even as she lies dying. Molly is beautiful, even with her stomach rounded with twins. So stupid, to visit her family all alone on the holidays. As stupid as hanging mistletoe in a family home, like the sprig above the door.
I withdraw the vials and pour them, one after the other, down her throat. And the last, an Obliviate, so she will not know it is I, for I think she senses who is behind the mask.
Gideon and Fabian Prewett attack from brooms the moment I step out of doors. They scream recriminations and of vengeance for their dearest sister. Perhaps they spied me hovering over her from up the stairs. Whatever they saw, they must think I killed her and escaped out the windows of the attic to come after me.
If they keep this up, and she does not die, everyone will know who had been seen with her. Lingering. Watching. Touching. Spending precious moments that could have been spent attacking others who were not yet incapacitated.
Me.
Then it will be I surrounded by a black wreath of my fellows. I cannot have that. No, I cannot have that happen at all.
The dust of their flying tickles my nose, and I fight back a sneeze before lifting my wand. It’s two little words, said twice over; twin flashes of light for a set of twins. Molly might be a vibrant rose, but these two were simply weeds in need of plucking.
I sneeze afterward, twice. I find it fitting.
The home is crumbled, a ruin of humble comfort, in the town of Godric’s Hollow. I follow the neatly trimmed path, an automaton, self-made.
I must see. I must touch. I must know.
I must make certain.
Up the steps, and through the hole of a door. Past him, the one who does not matter, who has never mattered. James was trash in life. He shall remain trash thrown carelessly to one side in death.
Back, down the hall, to the nursery with its cracked cheerfulness. There is no child crying or silent, dead or alive. He must have been reclaimed already, while she is left here all alone.
She is beautiful, as she lies on the rumpled rug. There is no blood to contrast with her hair. That vibrant red hair. This time, my pockets do not clink. They are empty, as empty as I feel. But no posies could have reclaimed my Lily, unlike my Molly. There is no stopper for the death that comes on green light—green nearly the color of her eyes.
All my efforts, in vain. I saved Molly, but there is no saving Lily.
I fall. The floor against my knees is only an echo of pain at this point. Everything else in me hurts too much to feel something so trivial. My fingers reach out and stroke her hair, that red, red hair. Her green eyes stare sightlessly through me. She is gone, fallen.
So, too, is the Dark Lord. For now, at least. But he is the one who has destroyed all the good things in my life, what few they were. I shall not follow him again.
No, next time, if such a time does come, he shall be the one who falls.
Not another Lily. Not another Molly.
Him. And, my sense of foreboding speaks, perhaps me.
But not Molly. No, I could keep her safe still. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll keep her safe like I didn’t manage to keep Lily.
They all would fall. We all would fall, to keep them safe. Her safe.
All Fall
Down.