DEAD STORY SPAM!!!!!!!!
Nov. 1st, 2005 10:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skoosiepantsWow, I'm in the middle of writing my pirate!fic and Blaise isn't being cooperative, so I've been going through some files for inspiration.
Sorry for the spammage tonight... just felt like posting lots *grins winningly*
And I'd edit the Ghost Zeppelin entry, but I felt like that sorta needed to stand on it's own.
So, anywho, I need to set up a dead story page, I think. Here are a few ideas that unforunately puttered out...
a bit of continuation of that Seamus and Nev in the jungle story I never finished
for the curious, part one can be found here and part two is here... and Nev wasn't being particularly nice about this third part so I didn't get very far...
A twitchy bloke with fine brown hair and pale eyes shook Nev awake, but the night was still dark and heavy when he crawled out of the tent and blinked up at the man who’d been guarding Seamus so closely. Nott, he thought his name was, just as he knew they called the twitchy bloke Mouse and that one of the smaller ‘men’ was actually a woman.
Nev had always been more observant than Seamus under stress.
Nott had his gun slung over one shoulder and his scowl was more pinched than cold in the low-lantern light. “Dr. Longbottom,” he said, and Nev was struck, not for the first time, by how polite they’d all been to him.
Waving guns, yes. And okay, sure, pointed threats were tossed about more than once, but. Besides the large German, no one seemed very intent on harming them, mentally or physically.
“What’s wrong?” Nev asked, and Nott nodded across the camp to where a tall, gangly man called Boot was shifting drowsily on his feet. He yawned wide. Nev could practically hear the pop and grind of his jaw, and he rubbed his eyes in commiserating sympathy, swiping away the last of his interrupted sleep. And then he heard a low keening sound and snapped his gaze back to Nott, who visibly flinched, chased by a fleeting grimace before his face went stone-quiet again.
All right. Nev knew what was wrong.
Unsteadily, he stood up, keeping a wary eye on Nott as he crossed the camp and dropped to his knees again at the opening of Seamus’ tent. The flap was open, golden lamplight dimly outlining his restless form.
Seamus was curled up on his side, arms tucked between his drawn up legs and his chest, and in the semi-darkness he looked exactly as he had as a boy, shivering cold no matter how many blankets he had, whimpers slipping past his lips no matter now tight his teeth were clenched.
It’d broken Neville then, when they were barely thirteen, and it broke him now, seeing the dark jacket – Nott’s? – tucked over him, and the uncontrollable shivers that always grew more pronounced when his mind crawled desperately back towards consciousness. He knew what to look for in the moments before Seamus was going to wake up, the rapid shift of his eyes under thin-skinned lids, the panting breaths, a yell readying in the back of his mouth, but he never knew how to help. Nev sat on his heels and watched, hands fisted on his thighs.
Nott was behind him, hovering. Nev felt his warmth at his back, his agitated movements, and finally the man pressed against his side in the cramped tent and hissed, “Well? Do something.” At Neville’s continued silence, he went to move past him, one hand already reaching out towards Seamus, and Nev caught hold of his forearm, clamping down hard with his thick fingers.
He shook his head slowly, mouth and lips and throat dry, making his voice just above a rasp when he said, “Touching him only makes it worse.”
***
Seamus had been all bones and snarl when Nev found him, skin pale and jaundiced under layered filth. Strangely confident, he’d approached him exactly how he would a starving dog, palm out and up, unintelligible soothing nonsense bubbling softly out his mouth, and Seamus had sat stone-still, growls dried up in his throat, large eyes watery, shoulders slumped in defeat. Nev’d figured the boy thought he was gong to toss him out, and it was pouring, a damp chill permeating the clapboard box. Nev could see all the hurt and acceptance and fear wrapped up in his dark hazel eyes.
Gran made everything better, of course, because Gran had been stubborn and kindly firm from the first. She had Seamus doing chores by the end of the week. His eyes were bright, color a high rose, and he didn’t talk about the nightmares that stalked his sleep, the ones that kept Nev awake and helpless in the twin across their room.
No, as soon as the sun hit the horizon, Seamus was… Seamus. Loud and laughing, with a flash-pan temper that was never once, in all their years as family, directed at Nev or Gran.
And Seamus never, ever learned to shut up. He never learned control, never learned moderation, and it frankly terrified Nev to think of what would’ve happened if Seamus hadn’t run away, hadn’t curled up in a tense ball in Gran’s shed. There were so many infinitesimal ways Seamus’ life could’ve gone horribly worse than it had, and Nev. Nev felt guilty sometimes, because deep down he was selfishly glad that Seamus’ father had been so big a bastard. He couldn’t imagine living without him.
***
Neville wasn’t stupid. Obviously. Twelve years was a long time to waste searching for a recalcitrant son, and by the look of things. These guys were professionals – efficient, spare, smart. They worked well together, worked good together, and Nev gave them two months, tops. There was no way it’d taken them longer.
He eyed up his choices and finally approached Boot, long-limbed and shaggy with an easy grin that looked practiced, dangerous, but was a least overtly friendly.
...
*******************
a fic drabble-idea that never panned but was part of the same universe I wrote the Untitled Ficlet of Doom in; where Lee, Pansy, Nev and Ron are stuck in a house surrounded by Death Eaters...
At some point, Hermione died.
Her eyes went wide and blind, the wound on her side tightened and exploded with fire as she arched off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. She had a brief, conscious moment when all her vitals went liquid and then there was nothing.
Hannah was hovering over her when the pain buffeted her back into wakefulness, and she croaked, “What happened?”
The blond witch refused to meet her gaze, but patted her arm. “You died.”
“Oh,” she managed, and Hannah tipped a glass up to her lips, pouring a bare minimum of droplets into her mouth. She rolled her tongue, pressed idly on the back of her teeth, then asked, “For how long?”
“Four days,” she answered, and for a second Hermione thought she might have been hallucinating, because four days?
“That. Four days?”
Finally, Hannah looked Hermione in the eye, her own bloodshot and drooping at the edges, and her shoulders curled with weight when she shrugged. “You were in the morgue,” she offered, voice breaking in the middle.
“The morgue,” Hermione echoed faintly. Jesus. She really had been dead. “How…?”
“We don’t know.” She pressed her fingers into her forehead, eyes falling closed. “I swear to god, Hermione, I wouldn’t have… I mean.” Turning away, she went on huskily, “I don’t make those sorts of mistakes, Hermione. You were dead. For four days.”
The implications were clear.
“What the hell happened?” Hermione demanded stridently. She took stock of her body, acknowledging her slightly muzzy head, the sharp pain in her side and around her skull, but she didn’t feel wrong.
...
*************
meant to be a companion piece to Aftermath, I think I posted parts of this one before. Going absolutely no where, and doesn't make much sense without reading Aftermath, since they are literally in sync with each other - that one from Ron's POV and this one's from Draco's...
When their eyes catch over the frozen foods, Draco’s heart stutters in his chest and he struggles to keep the shock off his face. He recognizes the shape of his mouth, the patterned freckles, the thinly arched red brows, but Weasley’s face is sharper, the blue of his irises leeched dull, and Draco walks away without a backwards glance.
It’s better like this, he tells himself.
**
Draco hates dealing with Muggles, but he knows there’s no other way. Not after the war broke London, split every single ward in half and many of those halves into itty bitty pieces; useless sparks of Magic that hardly even register.
He wouldn’t be there at all, except there’s no where else to go. The manor and all its worldly possessions were confiscated soon after the war ended, soon after Lucius and Narcissa were found dead in full Death Eater garb. And Draco’s inheritance consists of the three half-warded buildings in West London Grandfather Black had left him when he was eight, and a cheap cigar factory in Germany.
He gets lunch down on Fifth on Tuesdays, where he suspects the gnarled old vendor enjoys sparring with him. He sees Weasley step from the shadows of a crumbling brick building out of the corner of his eye, sees him stop and watch him, and knows if he turned his head even an inch, they’d lock gazes again. Maybe Draco wouldn’t walk away this time, would walk across to him instead, but it doesn’t matter. Weasley turns his broad back towards him, shoulders slumped, hands deep in his pockets, and Draco pretends he didn’t see him standing there.
**
(missing tandem pieces that were never written, skips ahead to when Ron acuses him of being lonely, la la la!)
**
Pansy has sent him an Owl once a week, every week, for as long as he can remember. Since before the war, at least. The cajoling tone during the first few months had set his teeth to grind, but then the cajoling turned to pleading, and pleading soon after to bitterness, and then. Then all he got were words of hate and the stamp of Azkaban on them, properly searched before being sent to post.
She’d fought for the Dark Lord, fought for all she’d ever known, and she never forgave Draco for leaving her to do it alone.
He keeps the letters in his trunk, hundreds of them, tied together in a neatly stacked bundle, but he hasn’t answered a single one. He loves her, but she was wrong, and she’s part of a past he refuses to dwell on.
Weasley accuses him of being lonely, but he isn’t lonely.
Whatever it is he’s doing with Weasley, it has nothing to do with loneliness, Draco’s sure of that. He intends to stay good and angry with the man until he apologizes, but then he gets another Owl from Pansy. Only it isn’t from Pansy, but from the Ministry about Pansy, and he suddenly doesn’t have to worry about the girl anymore. Words like taken and life and so sorry swim on the page and they’re meaningless to him. He doesn’t care.
But she’s family. More family than his own parents ever were, and that had never changed. Not even the hate had changed that, although that surprises him in the end. Her death is like a sucker punch, bowls him over unexpectedly, leaves numb and dry-eyed and he’s never felt loss like that before.
The next day he’s back at Weasley’s work, lunch in hand, and he dares the redhead to say anything at all about it. Weasley doesn’t.
He thinks Weasley missed him, too.
**
In Japan, he learned that hate is a four letter word, but he’s never balked at profanities, and knowledge doesn’t stop the emotion from solidifying underneath his skin. He scatters it more thinly, perhaps, until the manifestation of it is less than a sneer. Weasley doesn’t even notice.
...
I just took a shower (yay!) and got inspired to write a Hannah!scene in the pirate fic. Good little Hannah, always so helpful :)
Sorry for the spammage tonight... just felt like posting lots *grins winningly*
And I'd edit the Ghost Zeppelin entry, but I felt like that sorta needed to stand on it's own.
So, anywho, I need to set up a dead story page, I think. Here are a few ideas that unforunately puttered out...
a bit of continuation of that Seamus and Nev in the jungle story I never finished
for the curious, part one can be found here and part two is here... and Nev wasn't being particularly nice about this third part so I didn't get very far...
A twitchy bloke with fine brown hair and pale eyes shook Nev awake, but the night was still dark and heavy when he crawled out of the tent and blinked up at the man who’d been guarding Seamus so closely. Nott, he thought his name was, just as he knew they called the twitchy bloke Mouse and that one of the smaller ‘men’ was actually a woman.
Nev had always been more observant than Seamus under stress.
Nott had his gun slung over one shoulder and his scowl was more pinched than cold in the low-lantern light. “Dr. Longbottom,” he said, and Nev was struck, not for the first time, by how polite they’d all been to him.
Waving guns, yes. And okay, sure, pointed threats were tossed about more than once, but. Besides the large German, no one seemed very intent on harming them, mentally or physically.
“What’s wrong?” Nev asked, and Nott nodded across the camp to where a tall, gangly man called Boot was shifting drowsily on his feet. He yawned wide. Nev could practically hear the pop and grind of his jaw, and he rubbed his eyes in commiserating sympathy, swiping away the last of his interrupted sleep. And then he heard a low keening sound and snapped his gaze back to Nott, who visibly flinched, chased by a fleeting grimace before his face went stone-quiet again.
All right. Nev knew what was wrong.
Unsteadily, he stood up, keeping a wary eye on Nott as he crossed the camp and dropped to his knees again at the opening of Seamus’ tent. The flap was open, golden lamplight dimly outlining his restless form.
Seamus was curled up on his side, arms tucked between his drawn up legs and his chest, and in the semi-darkness he looked exactly as he had as a boy, shivering cold no matter how many blankets he had, whimpers slipping past his lips no matter now tight his teeth were clenched.
It’d broken Neville then, when they were barely thirteen, and it broke him now, seeing the dark jacket – Nott’s? – tucked over him, and the uncontrollable shivers that always grew more pronounced when his mind crawled desperately back towards consciousness. He knew what to look for in the moments before Seamus was going to wake up, the rapid shift of his eyes under thin-skinned lids, the panting breaths, a yell readying in the back of his mouth, but he never knew how to help. Nev sat on his heels and watched, hands fisted on his thighs.
Nott was behind him, hovering. Nev felt his warmth at his back, his agitated movements, and finally the man pressed against his side in the cramped tent and hissed, “Well? Do something.” At Neville’s continued silence, he went to move past him, one hand already reaching out towards Seamus, and Nev caught hold of his forearm, clamping down hard with his thick fingers.
He shook his head slowly, mouth and lips and throat dry, making his voice just above a rasp when he said, “Touching him only makes it worse.”
***
Seamus had been all bones and snarl when Nev found him, skin pale and jaundiced under layered filth. Strangely confident, he’d approached him exactly how he would a starving dog, palm out and up, unintelligible soothing nonsense bubbling softly out his mouth, and Seamus had sat stone-still, growls dried up in his throat, large eyes watery, shoulders slumped in defeat. Nev’d figured the boy thought he was gong to toss him out, and it was pouring, a damp chill permeating the clapboard box. Nev could see all the hurt and acceptance and fear wrapped up in his dark hazel eyes.
Gran made everything better, of course, because Gran had been stubborn and kindly firm from the first. She had Seamus doing chores by the end of the week. His eyes were bright, color a high rose, and he didn’t talk about the nightmares that stalked his sleep, the ones that kept Nev awake and helpless in the twin across their room.
No, as soon as the sun hit the horizon, Seamus was… Seamus. Loud and laughing, with a flash-pan temper that was never once, in all their years as family, directed at Nev or Gran.
And Seamus never, ever learned to shut up. He never learned control, never learned moderation, and it frankly terrified Nev to think of what would’ve happened if Seamus hadn’t run away, hadn’t curled up in a tense ball in Gran’s shed. There were so many infinitesimal ways Seamus’ life could’ve gone horribly worse than it had, and Nev. Nev felt guilty sometimes, because deep down he was selfishly glad that Seamus’ father had been so big a bastard. He couldn’t imagine living without him.
***
Neville wasn’t stupid. Obviously. Twelve years was a long time to waste searching for a recalcitrant son, and by the look of things. These guys were professionals – efficient, spare, smart. They worked well together, worked good together, and Nev gave them two months, tops. There was no way it’d taken them longer.
He eyed up his choices and finally approached Boot, long-limbed and shaggy with an easy grin that looked practiced, dangerous, but was a least overtly friendly.
...
*******************
a fic drabble-idea that never panned but was part of the same universe I wrote the Untitled Ficlet of Doom in; where Lee, Pansy, Nev and Ron are stuck in a house surrounded by Death Eaters...
At some point, Hermione died.
Her eyes went wide and blind, the wound on her side tightened and exploded with fire as she arched off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. She had a brief, conscious moment when all her vitals went liquid and then there was nothing.
Hannah was hovering over her when the pain buffeted her back into wakefulness, and she croaked, “What happened?”
The blond witch refused to meet her gaze, but patted her arm. “You died.”
“Oh,” she managed, and Hannah tipped a glass up to her lips, pouring a bare minimum of droplets into her mouth. She rolled her tongue, pressed idly on the back of her teeth, then asked, “For how long?”
“Four days,” she answered, and for a second Hermione thought she might have been hallucinating, because four days?
“That. Four days?”
Finally, Hannah looked Hermione in the eye, her own bloodshot and drooping at the edges, and her shoulders curled with weight when she shrugged. “You were in the morgue,” she offered, voice breaking in the middle.
“The morgue,” Hermione echoed faintly. Jesus. She really had been dead. “How…?”
“We don’t know.” She pressed her fingers into her forehead, eyes falling closed. “I swear to god, Hermione, I wouldn’t have… I mean.” Turning away, she went on huskily, “I don’t make those sorts of mistakes, Hermione. You were dead. For four days.”
The implications were clear.
“What the hell happened?” Hermione demanded stridently. She took stock of her body, acknowledging her slightly muzzy head, the sharp pain in her side and around her skull, but she didn’t feel wrong.
...
*************
meant to be a companion piece to Aftermath, I think I posted parts of this one before. Going absolutely no where, and doesn't make much sense without reading Aftermath, since they are literally in sync with each other - that one from Ron's POV and this one's from Draco's...
When their eyes catch over the frozen foods, Draco’s heart stutters in his chest and he struggles to keep the shock off his face. He recognizes the shape of his mouth, the patterned freckles, the thinly arched red brows, but Weasley’s face is sharper, the blue of his irises leeched dull, and Draco walks away without a backwards glance.
It’s better like this, he tells himself.
**
Draco hates dealing with Muggles, but he knows there’s no other way. Not after the war broke London, split every single ward in half and many of those halves into itty bitty pieces; useless sparks of Magic that hardly even register.
He wouldn’t be there at all, except there’s no where else to go. The manor and all its worldly possessions were confiscated soon after the war ended, soon after Lucius and Narcissa were found dead in full Death Eater garb. And Draco’s inheritance consists of the three half-warded buildings in West London Grandfather Black had left him when he was eight, and a cheap cigar factory in Germany.
He gets lunch down on Fifth on Tuesdays, where he suspects the gnarled old vendor enjoys sparring with him. He sees Weasley step from the shadows of a crumbling brick building out of the corner of his eye, sees him stop and watch him, and knows if he turned his head even an inch, they’d lock gazes again. Maybe Draco wouldn’t walk away this time, would walk across to him instead, but it doesn’t matter. Weasley turns his broad back towards him, shoulders slumped, hands deep in his pockets, and Draco pretends he didn’t see him standing there.
**
(missing tandem pieces that were never written, skips ahead to when Ron acuses him of being lonely, la la la!)
**
Pansy has sent him an Owl once a week, every week, for as long as he can remember. Since before the war, at least. The cajoling tone during the first few months had set his teeth to grind, but then the cajoling turned to pleading, and pleading soon after to bitterness, and then. Then all he got were words of hate and the stamp of Azkaban on them, properly searched before being sent to post.
She’d fought for the Dark Lord, fought for all she’d ever known, and she never forgave Draco for leaving her to do it alone.
He keeps the letters in his trunk, hundreds of them, tied together in a neatly stacked bundle, but he hasn’t answered a single one. He loves her, but she was wrong, and she’s part of a past he refuses to dwell on.
Weasley accuses him of being lonely, but he isn’t lonely.
Whatever it is he’s doing with Weasley, it has nothing to do with loneliness, Draco’s sure of that. He intends to stay good and angry with the man until he apologizes, but then he gets another Owl from Pansy. Only it isn’t from Pansy, but from the Ministry about Pansy, and he suddenly doesn’t have to worry about the girl anymore. Words like taken and life and so sorry swim on the page and they’re meaningless to him. He doesn’t care.
But she’s family. More family than his own parents ever were, and that had never changed. Not even the hate had changed that, although that surprises him in the end. Her death is like a sucker punch, bowls him over unexpectedly, leaves numb and dry-eyed and he’s never felt loss like that before.
The next day he’s back at Weasley’s work, lunch in hand, and he dares the redhead to say anything at all about it. Weasley doesn’t.
He thinks Weasley missed him, too.
**
In Japan, he learned that hate is a four letter word, but he’s never balked at profanities, and knowledge doesn’t stop the emotion from solidifying underneath his skin. He scatters it more thinly, perhaps, until the manifestation of it is less than a sneer. Weasley doesn’t even notice.
...
I just took a shower (yay!) and got inspired to write a Hannah!scene in the pirate fic. Good little Hannah, always so helpful :)
