featherxquill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
featherxquill) wrote2005-06-30 12:44 am
featherxquill) wrote2005-06-30 12:44 am
Entry tags:
Parasol
Title: Parasol
Rating: PG-13, R at a pinch.
Pairing: Molly/Bellatrix
Summary: When the final battle descends upon Hogwarts, they find themselves finally forced to betray each other.
Author's notes: Title and lyrics belong to Tori Amos. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_oldladysb's Shag Em Before They Die challenge. Not quite the smut that the challenge called for, but I hope it is enjoyed anyway. Dedicated to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
minerva_fan - a very late birthday gift.
When I come to terms, to terms with this
When I come to terms with this
My world will change for me
I haven’t moved since the call came
Since the call came I haven’t moved
I stare at the wall knowing on the other side
The storm that waits for me
A burning red feather materialises in the fireplace, bursts into flame, burns green for a moment then turns to ash. The clock still ticks, but the time has come. The apparation wards have failed; Deatheaters have attacked Hogwarts, and all of my children are in mortal peril, for although only two of them are directly threatened, the results of this confrontation will change the world.
It is time for me to rise, to take up my wand and charge into battle like Boadicea, but just for a moment I cannot move. I am a Gryffindor, but I don’t think I am brave enough for this.
I have no need for a sea view
For a sea view I have no need
I have my little pleasures
This war being one of these
I feel so very alive.
All those years in Azkaban, being drained of everything – anger, hatred, will to live – they have faded into this glory. I am at my Lord’s right hand. The laughter in my eyes matches the fire in my fingers as I cry out Crucio and the old bitch McGonagall falls writhing to the floor. I always hated her.
We attack during dinner, the better to catch everyone in the same place. Children scream. Hufflepuffs cower, Ravenclaws try to keep order, Slytherins smile and Gryffindors are torn between fight and flight. And then I spot the red haired girl in the crowd.
Then the seated woman with a parasol may be the only one you can’t betray
If I’m the seated woman with a parasol
I will be safe in my frame
And then I spotted the red haired girl in the crowd. She was sitting at one of the tables at Florean’s. I had never seen her alone before. I knew her, of course: Molly Prewett. We took astronomy together, but Slytherins and Gryffindors made a point of avoiding one another.
That day, though, was different. It was summer and she wasn’t in her school robes. She wore white, and the handle of a parasol rested against one shoulder to keep the sun off, but every now and then she would lift it away, twirl it in her fingers, look up at the sky and close her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. When she did, it set her fiery hair ablaze with light.
My heart stopped. Merlin, she was beautiful.
And just for that day, I forgot all about house loyalties, and spoke to her.
When I come to terms, to terms with this
When I come to terms with this
When I come to terms with this whiplash
Of silk on wool embroidery
I apparate into the Great Hall, into the middle of the fray. My wand is already in my hand. There are other Order members by my side – Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks. But all of the hasty plans we made minutes ago fly out the window when I hear my Ginny scream, and turn in time to see that she has been disarmed. The woman is advancing on her. That woman.
My blood boils in my veins. My children have told me I am formidable in anger, but at that moment I am burning. Every person I have ever been – brave Gryffindor, fiery redhead, tender mother – they collide with one another, fuse together and galvanise to white-hot steel. The true measure of a lioness is when the hyena threatens her cubs.
I surge forward into battle.
Her back is to me when I reach her, she is forcing Ginny back toward the wall. I could throw a curse at her now, but I will not. I will not.
“Bellatrix Black.” I know that is no longer her name, but the woman who chose Ginny as an object for torture is not Bellatrix Lestrange. It is the echo of a woman from a different time, a different life.
She turns, and suddenly she is so close to me that our arms are touching, wands raised, staring at each other. She speaks, and her voice is a sinister caress. “Prewett. Do you remember?”
Oh, yes.
The Head Girl’s room was Slytherin that year – hers – and the sheets were black satin. I remember the feel of that hair over my fingers like water, the touch of her kisses on my throat. I remember saying Arthur thinks I’m studying, and her laughing, and curling her fingers around inside me so that I cried out, and my fingernails drew red lines in her skin.
She was pale, even paler than I, a redhead who was forced to carry a parasol in summer. Her skin tasted of milk when I kissed it, and her thighs were even paler than the rest. She loved to be pinched, nibbled, bitten. She was worshipped by so many, and she loved it when I thrust my fingers into her hard, or twined her hair around my fingers and pulled. When I bared her throat to me and bit down hard enough to leave a bruise.
She worshipped me instead. Arthur was sweet, fumbling, shy, but Bella was none of those things. She was passionate and demanding, confident and bold. When she slid her fingers into me and teased me with her tongue I would melt, dissolve into the covers, arch my head against the sheets and lose myself as stars bloomed before my eyes.
And we would lay on her sheets with the sun on our bodies, curl around one another and forget that the rest of the world existed. We made love fiercely the day that she showed me the brand on her arm, because I thought that if I loved her enough, if I gave her enough of myself she might choose light over dark, might choose me over him.
But she did not. She does not.
We move away from each other into a duelling position, raise our wands, and throw our memories between us. My daughter is frozen against the wall, watching me, and her master is locked in battle with the Boy Who Lived. I can feel the curse growing inside me; feel the magic winding up like a spring.
She is fast. “Avada Ked-“
But I am faster.
“Obliviate!”
Then the seated woman with a parasol may be the only one you can’t betray
If I’m the seated woman with a parasol
I will be safe in my frame
In your house, in your frame
My daughter is running to me, and the woman who used to be Bellatrix is sitting on the floor examining her wand. Ginny’s arms are around me, and I am hugging her fiercely, burying my face in her hair and breathing in her smell. Tears are streaming down my face into her hair, but they are nothing so simple as tears of happiness for her safety.
Yes, Bella, I remember. Even if you do not.
Rating: PG-13, R at a pinch.
Pairing: Molly/Bellatrix
Summary: When the final battle descends upon Hogwarts, they find themselves finally forced to betray each other.
Author's notes: Title and lyrics belong to Tori Amos. Written for
hp_oldladysb's Shag Em Before They Die challenge. Not quite the smut that the challenge called for, but I hope it is enjoyed anyway. Dedicated to minerva_fan - a very late birthday gift.When I come to terms, to terms with this
When I come to terms with this
My world will change for me
I haven’t moved since the call came
Since the call came I haven’t moved
I stare at the wall knowing on the other side
The storm that waits for me
A burning red feather materialises in the fireplace, bursts into flame, burns green for a moment then turns to ash. The clock still ticks, but the time has come. The apparation wards have failed; Deatheaters have attacked Hogwarts, and all of my children are in mortal peril, for although only two of them are directly threatened, the results of this confrontation will change the world.
It is time for me to rise, to take up my wand and charge into battle like Boadicea, but just for a moment I cannot move. I am a Gryffindor, but I don’t think I am brave enough for this.
I have no need for a sea view
For a sea view I have no need
I have my little pleasures
This war being one of these
I feel so very alive.
All those years in Azkaban, being drained of everything – anger, hatred, will to live – they have faded into this glory. I am at my Lord’s right hand. The laughter in my eyes matches the fire in my fingers as I cry out Crucio and the old bitch McGonagall falls writhing to the floor. I always hated her.
We attack during dinner, the better to catch everyone in the same place. Children scream. Hufflepuffs cower, Ravenclaws try to keep order, Slytherins smile and Gryffindors are torn between fight and flight. And then I spot the red haired girl in the crowd.
Then the seated woman with a parasol may be the only one you can’t betray
If I’m the seated woman with a parasol
I will be safe in my frame
And then I spotted the red haired girl in the crowd. She was sitting at one of the tables at Florean’s. I had never seen her alone before. I knew her, of course: Molly Prewett. We took astronomy together, but Slytherins and Gryffindors made a point of avoiding one another.
That day, though, was different. It was summer and she wasn’t in her school robes. She wore white, and the handle of a parasol rested against one shoulder to keep the sun off, but every now and then she would lift it away, twirl it in her fingers, look up at the sky and close her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. When she did, it set her fiery hair ablaze with light.
My heart stopped. Merlin, she was beautiful.
And just for that day, I forgot all about house loyalties, and spoke to her.
When I come to terms, to terms with this
When I come to terms with this
When I come to terms with this whiplash
Of silk on wool embroidery
I apparate into the Great Hall, into the middle of the fray. My wand is already in my hand. There are other Order members by my side – Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks. But all of the hasty plans we made minutes ago fly out the window when I hear my Ginny scream, and turn in time to see that she has been disarmed. The woman is advancing on her. That woman.
My blood boils in my veins. My children have told me I am formidable in anger, but at that moment I am burning. Every person I have ever been – brave Gryffindor, fiery redhead, tender mother – they collide with one another, fuse together and galvanise to white-hot steel. The true measure of a lioness is when the hyena threatens her cubs.
I surge forward into battle.
Her back is to me when I reach her, she is forcing Ginny back toward the wall. I could throw a curse at her now, but I will not. I will not.
“Bellatrix Black.” I know that is no longer her name, but the woman who chose Ginny as an object for torture is not Bellatrix Lestrange. It is the echo of a woman from a different time, a different life.
She turns, and suddenly she is so close to me that our arms are touching, wands raised, staring at each other. She speaks, and her voice is a sinister caress. “Prewett. Do you remember?”
Oh, yes.
The Head Girl’s room was Slytherin that year – hers – and the sheets were black satin. I remember the feel of that hair over my fingers like water, the touch of her kisses on my throat. I remember saying Arthur thinks I’m studying, and her laughing, and curling her fingers around inside me so that I cried out, and my fingernails drew red lines in her skin.
She was pale, even paler than I, a redhead who was forced to carry a parasol in summer. Her skin tasted of milk when I kissed it, and her thighs were even paler than the rest. She loved to be pinched, nibbled, bitten. She was worshipped by so many, and she loved it when I thrust my fingers into her hard, or twined her hair around my fingers and pulled. When I bared her throat to me and bit down hard enough to leave a bruise.
She worshipped me instead. Arthur was sweet, fumbling, shy, but Bella was none of those things. She was passionate and demanding, confident and bold. When she slid her fingers into me and teased me with her tongue I would melt, dissolve into the covers, arch my head against the sheets and lose myself as stars bloomed before my eyes.
And we would lay on her sheets with the sun on our bodies, curl around one another and forget that the rest of the world existed. We made love fiercely the day that she showed me the brand on her arm, because I thought that if I loved her enough, if I gave her enough of myself she might choose light over dark, might choose me over him.
But she did not. She does not.
We move away from each other into a duelling position, raise our wands, and throw our memories between us. My daughter is frozen against the wall, watching me, and her master is locked in battle with the Boy Who Lived. I can feel the curse growing inside me; feel the magic winding up like a spring.
She is fast. “Avada Ked-“
But I am faster.
“Obliviate!”
Then the seated woman with a parasol may be the only one you can’t betray
If I’m the seated woman with a parasol
I will be safe in my frame
In your house, in your frame
My daughter is running to me, and the woman who used to be Bellatrix is sitting on the floor examining her wand. Ginny’s arms are around me, and I am hugging her fiercely, burying my face in her hair and breathing in her smell. Tears are streaming down my face into her hair, but they are nothing so simple as tears of happiness for her safety.
Yes, Bella, I remember. Even if you do not.