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whitechapelFor muteinglorious: something with Dr. Mrs. The Monarch. [304 words, set before The Lepidopterists]
Living in a gated community for supervillains means that it’s the rule, rather than the exception, to open the door and find a malevolent being in a costume standing on your front porch. Usually, though, the malevolent being lives down the street and is here to return a wayward newspaper.
But Malice has only one gothy teenager in a hot pink velour catsuit, and this definitely isn’t the same kid – for one thing, he doesn’t wear goggles.
“I’m Kim,” the girl supplies helpfully. “We met in the ladies’ room a while back.”
Dr. Mrs. The Monarch has to think for a moment before she remembers – right, she had considered going solo again thanks to Phantom Limb being... Phantom Limb, and had figured that one adolescent protégée was probably safer than amassing another unwieldy army of Murderous Moppets.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “So you decided to go into the business after all, huh?”
“The Guild’s giving me a trial period,” says Kim. “They’ve got me arching this stretchy scientist guy ‘cause apparently the Venture twins can’t be arched separately till they’re eighteen – which is crap because they’ve turned sixteen like three times. Does the costume work?”
“Well it’s pretty revealing,” says Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, “so the Guild will like it. What’s your schtick?”
“I’m still hashing it out – there’s not a lot you can do with Lady Nocturne,” says Kim. “If you guys ever want backup with the Ventures, though, I could like... put on a moth costume or something, kick Hank and Dean’s asses.”
“We’re actually going to start trial-arching Jonas Venture soon, and he’s kind of a lot like Professor Impossible,” she says, see-sawing her hand. “He’s even got most of Impossible’s old crew. It’s probably not your thing.”
“Well, shit. Is it too much to hope for that the Ventures will turn eighteen eventually?”
“Probably.”
Forfeverbeats: Sirius/Snape. [833 words, roughly PG13]
The deadbolts clattered open upstairs and awoke him with a start.
It took a moment for Sirius to remember where he was – the candles on the table had melted down to stubs and the kitchen was cast in shadow. Beyond the tiny window onto the sidewalk it was oppressively dark, and the echo of the deadbolts through the upstairs hallway was accompanied by the patter of the rain.
It must be Harry. Harry came to visit for Easter after all.
Sirius quickly vanished the empty bottles from the table, swallowed a few mouthfuls of tepid peppermint tea to try and disguise the smell of alcohol. He listened – there was one set of footsteps, no raucous chatter from the assorted Weasleys or earnest pontificating from Hermione. It wasn't like Harry to visit alone, and whenever Remus drifted back to the house he did so in the morning. Either of them would have spoken by now.
He took the stairs up to the entrance hall, hoping that even a visitor who wasn't Harry might offer a pleasant distraction. With every step his spirits sank lower under the weight of the history-heavied air – and, on seeing who had come to call, Sirius wasn't sure whether he'd rather kill himself, the visitor, or God.
"The hell are you doing here."
"Order business," said Snape smugly. "Please, don't allow me to separate you from your work. Destroying your liver may not have strategic importance, but you're doing wonders for my morale."
Snape shoved past him to head down to the kitchen, as confident as if he owned the place. It was a long-repressed part of Sirius that brought him abruptly from angry to furious – who does that little nothing think he is, there's more history in this house's scullery than there is in his entire mongrel bloodline – but for once, and entirely because it was Snape, he didn't care.
"Dumbledore didn't mention anything to me," Sirius said, turning to follow Snape down the stairs. There was a haughty edge to his voice.
"No, I don't suppose he would," said Snape. He was rattling through drawers, gathering rolls of parchment, brushing casually over ornaments that at least deserved the gravity of ritualized destruction. Sirius grabbed a new bottle from the counter nearby and leaned against the doorframe to drink from it, fantasizing about how badly the alcohol would burn if he shattered the bottle over Snape's face.
"You don't fool me," said Sirius. His throat stung from the liquor and he was leaning in part to ensure that he didn't stumble, but he still managed to half-consciously mimic the way his mother looked down her nose with utter disdain.
He noted with some satisfaction that Snape's shoulders had tensed. "We've been through this." He turned around to look at Sirius with identical distaste. "Dumbledore trusts me, and you are neither wise nor insightful for rejecting his judgment."
In his early years at Hogwarts, when Sirius was learning every day that everything his family had groomed him for was a lie, he had clung to James's approval to steady his self-perception. James likes me, he had thought, and James doesn't like bad people. He felt a sudden twist of empathy as he wondered whether Snape went to sleep telling himself that Dumbledore trusted him, and the shock of it made him angrier.
Sirius laughed bitterly. "It doesn't matter what 'side' you're on," he sneered. "It doesn't change what you are. You think because Mummy never hugged you and you had it rough when you were a kid that gives you the right not to grow the fuck up. The only reason you'd ever do the right thing is to make yourself feel better about how pathetic you are, and someday you're going to realize that it's your own damn fault because the people you've been obsessing over and blaming everything on for your whole life are all dead."
Sirius expected Snape to snarl at him, curse him, maybe try to throw a punch. He didn't expect him to smile, almost imperceptibly, and close the distance between them to kiss him.
He hadn't quite broken through the shock by the end of it – it lasted just long enough for him to perceive that Snape still smelled like mildew and chemicals, the way he always had when Sirius knocked him over in the hallway.
"And what," said Snape ruthlessly, "does that make you?"
Sirius couldn't seem to make himself speak. James had liked him, Harry liked him too, he had had the strength to reject his upbringing. The accusation made no sense – he was nothing like Snape.
He said nothing as Snape gathered his papers, barely heard the obligatory snide remark he made on the way out. Sirius waited for the footsteps to disappear and the locks to slide back into place, then opened the bottle again.
"Maybe Harry will come tomorrow," he said to himself. It comforted him, no matter how futile it was.
formuteinglorious: something with Regulus. [684 words, very gen.]
It’s not quite the victory celebration he was expecting.
He’s still holding the Snitch, he realizes, but letting it go would mean he’d have to stop fidgeting. He pulls at one of its silver wings and twists it absently in its socket. Regulus glances at Potter out of the corner of his eye, but not for long — the older boy is staring at him in disbelief, and even without a direct threat, it’s intimidating enough that he doesn’t want to sustain eye contact.
“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” says Madam Hooch, the only one in the top box to look calm and impassive. “The Snitch goes to Slytherin. Slytherin loses the match, at a score of two hundred and seventy to two hundred and fifty — but Gryffindor needed a forty-point lead to take the Cup, so the Quidditch Cup still goes to Slytherin.”
“Sounds about right, ma’am,” Regulus says, focusing on her because three of the four Heads of House are wearing scarlet rosettes.
Potter is still staring at him. “Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he says with a harsh laugh. “I knew your offence was spotty today but I didn’t think you’d told them to do it on purpose. That isn’t legal, is it, Professor?” he adds, turning to McGonagall with a plaintive look.
“But it is!” Regulus interjects indignantly. He’s starting to get annoyed that no one sees the brilliance of it. “I checked, there’s nothing in the rules about losing on purpose. It’s not cheating, it’s tactics, Gryffindor always gets overconfident when the opponent isn’t doing well.”
In his pre-match fantasies — which were, admittedly, self-indulgent — the Gryffindors were always quick to concede that Slytherin had got the Cup fair and square, and his housemates were thrilled with him for finally getting Slytherin a little glory. But of course, anything faintly resembling cunning will throw everyone outside Slytherin into a self-righteous tailspin. Really, he should have seen this coming.
“That’s dashed clever of you, my boy,” Slughorn beams — but he pats Regulus’s shoulder in a way that says all too clearly that he’s trying to prepare him for a disappointment.
Professor McGonagall sets her mouth in a thin line. She seems to be pitting her inner Quidditch fanatic against her sense of fairness.
“It follows the letter of the rules, if not the spirit,” she says finally, fixing Regulus in a beadily disapproving gaze. “I will neither endorse nor withdraw Mr. Potter’s challenge. This is entirely Madam Hooch’s decision.”
Madam Hooch glances between the team captains and picks up the Cup. The Snitch in Regulus’s hands flicks its twisted wing sharply and slices across his knuckle.
After a split second, Hooch favors Regulus with a grim smile. “Technical win to Slytherin,” she says, and hands him the cup; it’s heavier than it looks and he staggers a bit when he tries to hold it one-handed. “Go tell your teammates.”
Potter probably would have held the damn thing aloft to announce his victory to the crowd, but Regulus feels small and silly and acutely aware of the mud spattered across the hem of his kit. As he makes his way back down to the field he doesn’t entirely hear Hooch’s announcement of the decision, but he does hear the reactions — shrieks of protest nearly drown out the Slytherins’ cheers, and the Gryffindor team sit clustered at the far end of the pitch, glaring mutinously.
One of the Chasers, Sophie Baddock, nearly knocks the wind out of him as he steps back onto the pitch. “Potter’s going to kill you!” she says blissfully from somewhere around his collarbone. “Did you see the looks on their faces?”
Regulus doesn’t tell her that it doesn’t matter; that they’re the only ones who think they’ve won it honestly; that rather than bringing respect to Slytherin they’ve just made themselves even more unpopular than they already were.
Instead he forces a grin. “I’d say we deflated their egos, but that’d probably take a miracle,” he says.
He hands the Quidditch Cup to the youngest player — the Keeper, Parkinson — and watches her raise it to lukewarm applause.
muteinglorious: something with Dr. Mrs. The Monarch. [304 words, set before The Lepidopterists]Living in a gated community for supervillains means that it’s the rule, rather than the exception, to open the door and find a malevolent being in a costume standing on your front porch. Usually, though, the malevolent being lives down the street and is here to return a wayward newspaper.
But Malice has only one gothy teenager in a hot pink velour catsuit, and this definitely isn’t the same kid – for one thing, he doesn’t wear goggles.
“I’m Kim,” the girl supplies helpfully. “We met in the ladies’ room a while back.”
Dr. Mrs. The Monarch has to think for a moment before she remembers – right, she had considered going solo again thanks to Phantom Limb being... Phantom Limb, and had figured that one adolescent protégée was probably safer than amassing another unwieldy army of Murderous Moppets.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “So you decided to go into the business after all, huh?”
“The Guild’s giving me a trial period,” says Kim. “They’ve got me arching this stretchy scientist guy ‘cause apparently the Venture twins can’t be arched separately till they’re eighteen – which is crap because they’ve turned sixteen like three times. Does the costume work?”
“Well it’s pretty revealing,” says Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, “so the Guild will like it. What’s your schtick?”
“I’m still hashing it out – there’s not a lot you can do with Lady Nocturne,” says Kim. “If you guys ever want backup with the Ventures, though, I could like... put on a moth costume or something, kick Hank and Dean’s asses.”
“We’re actually going to start trial-arching Jonas Venture soon, and he’s kind of a lot like Professor Impossible,” she says, see-sawing her hand. “He’s even got most of Impossible’s old crew. It’s probably not your thing.”
“Well, shit. Is it too much to hope for that the Ventures will turn eighteen eventually?”
“Probably.”
For
feverbeats: Sirius/Snape. [833 words, roughly PG13]The deadbolts clattered open upstairs and awoke him with a start.
It took a moment for Sirius to remember where he was – the candles on the table had melted down to stubs and the kitchen was cast in shadow. Beyond the tiny window onto the sidewalk it was oppressively dark, and the echo of the deadbolts through the upstairs hallway was accompanied by the patter of the rain.
It must be Harry. Harry came to visit for Easter after all.
Sirius quickly vanished the empty bottles from the table, swallowed a few mouthfuls of tepid peppermint tea to try and disguise the smell of alcohol. He listened – there was one set of footsteps, no raucous chatter from the assorted Weasleys or earnest pontificating from Hermione. It wasn't like Harry to visit alone, and whenever Remus drifted back to the house he did so in the morning. Either of them would have spoken by now.
He took the stairs up to the entrance hall, hoping that even a visitor who wasn't Harry might offer a pleasant distraction. With every step his spirits sank lower under the weight of the history-heavied air – and, on seeing who had come to call, Sirius wasn't sure whether he'd rather kill himself, the visitor, or God.
"The hell are you doing here."
"Order business," said Snape smugly. "Please, don't allow me to separate you from your work. Destroying your liver may not have strategic importance, but you're doing wonders for my morale."
Snape shoved past him to head down to the kitchen, as confident as if he owned the place. It was a long-repressed part of Sirius that brought him abruptly from angry to furious – who does that little nothing think he is, there's more history in this house's scullery than there is in his entire mongrel bloodline – but for once, and entirely because it was Snape, he didn't care.
"Dumbledore didn't mention anything to me," Sirius said, turning to follow Snape down the stairs. There was a haughty edge to his voice.
"No, I don't suppose he would," said Snape. He was rattling through drawers, gathering rolls of parchment, brushing casually over ornaments that at least deserved the gravity of ritualized destruction. Sirius grabbed a new bottle from the counter nearby and leaned against the doorframe to drink from it, fantasizing about how badly the alcohol would burn if he shattered the bottle over Snape's face.
"You don't fool me," said Sirius. His throat stung from the liquor and he was leaning in part to ensure that he didn't stumble, but he still managed to half-consciously mimic the way his mother looked down her nose with utter disdain.
He noted with some satisfaction that Snape's shoulders had tensed. "We've been through this." He turned around to look at Sirius with identical distaste. "Dumbledore trusts me, and you are neither wise nor insightful for rejecting his judgment."
In his early years at Hogwarts, when Sirius was learning every day that everything his family had groomed him for was a lie, he had clung to James's approval to steady his self-perception. James likes me, he had thought, and James doesn't like bad people. He felt a sudden twist of empathy as he wondered whether Snape went to sleep telling himself that Dumbledore trusted him, and the shock of it made him angrier.
Sirius laughed bitterly. "It doesn't matter what 'side' you're on," he sneered. "It doesn't change what you are. You think because Mummy never hugged you and you had it rough when you were a kid that gives you the right not to grow the fuck up. The only reason you'd ever do the right thing is to make yourself feel better about how pathetic you are, and someday you're going to realize that it's your own damn fault because the people you've been obsessing over and blaming everything on for your whole life are all dead."
Sirius expected Snape to snarl at him, curse him, maybe try to throw a punch. He didn't expect him to smile, almost imperceptibly, and close the distance between them to kiss him.
He hadn't quite broken through the shock by the end of it – it lasted just long enough for him to perceive that Snape still smelled like mildew and chemicals, the way he always had when Sirius knocked him over in the hallway.
"And what," said Snape ruthlessly, "does that make you?"
Sirius couldn't seem to make himself speak. James had liked him, Harry liked him too, he had had the strength to reject his upbringing. The accusation made no sense – he was nothing like Snape.
He said nothing as Snape gathered his papers, barely heard the obligatory snide remark he made on the way out. Sirius waited for the footsteps to disappear and the locks to slide back into place, then opened the bottle again.
"Maybe Harry will come tomorrow," he said to himself. It comforted him, no matter how futile it was.
for
muteinglorious: something with Regulus. [684 words, very gen.]It’s not quite the victory celebration he was expecting.
He’s still holding the Snitch, he realizes, but letting it go would mean he’d have to stop fidgeting. He pulls at one of its silver wings and twists it absently in its socket. Regulus glances at Potter out of the corner of his eye, but not for long — the older boy is staring at him in disbelief, and even without a direct threat, it’s intimidating enough that he doesn’t want to sustain eye contact.
“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” says Madam Hooch, the only one in the top box to look calm and impassive. “The Snitch goes to Slytherin. Slytherin loses the match, at a score of two hundred and seventy to two hundred and fifty — but Gryffindor needed a forty-point lead to take the Cup, so the Quidditch Cup still goes to Slytherin.”
“Sounds about right, ma’am,” Regulus says, focusing on her because three of the four Heads of House are wearing scarlet rosettes.
Potter is still staring at him. “Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he says with a harsh laugh. “I knew your offence was spotty today but I didn’t think you’d told them to do it on purpose. That isn’t legal, is it, Professor?” he adds, turning to McGonagall with a plaintive look.
“But it is!” Regulus interjects indignantly. He’s starting to get annoyed that no one sees the brilliance of it. “I checked, there’s nothing in the rules about losing on purpose. It’s not cheating, it’s tactics, Gryffindor always gets overconfident when the opponent isn’t doing well.”
In his pre-match fantasies — which were, admittedly, self-indulgent — the Gryffindors were always quick to concede that Slytherin had got the Cup fair and square, and his housemates were thrilled with him for finally getting Slytherin a little glory. But of course, anything faintly resembling cunning will throw everyone outside Slytherin into a self-righteous tailspin. Really, he should have seen this coming.
“That’s dashed clever of you, my boy,” Slughorn beams — but he pats Regulus’s shoulder in a way that says all too clearly that he’s trying to prepare him for a disappointment.
Professor McGonagall sets her mouth in a thin line. She seems to be pitting her inner Quidditch fanatic against her sense of fairness.
“It follows the letter of the rules, if not the spirit,” she says finally, fixing Regulus in a beadily disapproving gaze. “I will neither endorse nor withdraw Mr. Potter’s challenge. This is entirely Madam Hooch’s decision.”
Madam Hooch glances between the team captains and picks up the Cup. The Snitch in Regulus’s hands flicks its twisted wing sharply and slices across his knuckle.
After a split second, Hooch favors Regulus with a grim smile. “Technical win to Slytherin,” she says, and hands him the cup; it’s heavier than it looks and he staggers a bit when he tries to hold it one-handed. “Go tell your teammates.”
Potter probably would have held the damn thing aloft to announce his victory to the crowd, but Regulus feels small and silly and acutely aware of the mud spattered across the hem of his kit. As he makes his way back down to the field he doesn’t entirely hear Hooch’s announcement of the decision, but he does hear the reactions — shrieks of protest nearly drown out the Slytherins’ cheers, and the Gryffindor team sit clustered at the far end of the pitch, glaring mutinously.
One of the Chasers, Sophie Baddock, nearly knocks the wind out of him as he steps back onto the pitch. “Potter’s going to kill you!” she says blissfully from somewhere around his collarbone. “Did you see the looks on their faces?”
Regulus doesn’t tell her that it doesn’t matter; that they’re the only ones who think they’ve won it honestly; that rather than bringing respect to Slytherin they’ve just made themselves even more unpopular than they already were.
Instead he forces a grin. “I’d say we deflated their egos, but that’d probably take a miracle,” he says.
He hands the Quidditch Cup to the youngest player — the Keeper, Parkinson — and watches her raise it to lukewarm applause.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-28 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-29 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-29 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-29 10:01 pm (UTC)Thank you! ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-07-30 12:11 am (UTC)Ohgod, I made a ridiculous high-pitched noise.
SO, YEAH, THAT WAS PRETTY DAMN AWESOME.
Also awesome is the Regulus gen! HIS TINY PRECIOUS SMART FACE!
no subject
Date: 2009-07-30 04:43 am (UTC)Thank you!!