Fics for THE COMMUNITY!
Author: chimbomba
Recipient: THE COMMUNITY!
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: This may be the strangest combination of drabbles ever. xD Luna and Hagrid are the last two characters I’d ever thought I’d write, but when presented with such an opportunity, who am I to turn it down? I hope you enjoy!
Title: Mutual Curiosity
Pairing: Tom/Luna
Word Count: 436
Summary: An unnerving cry - not quite high enough to be piercing - reaches her ears, and a half-mile later she discovers a bird of dark plumage pecking at the carcass of a doe.
Author’s Notes: Ambiguous dark!fic is ambiguous. Also, a different take on the Death Eaters.
Today the sky is the color of decaying corpses. And it snows, just like yesterday.
The artiste props up his canvas and raises his thumb. Winter is bleak, he paints, winter is a gnarled, barren tree. Winter is a Bringer of Death.
Weep for me, my love.
But Luna laughs and skips down the road. (Not quite skips, though she does as best as one can in the snow.)
Winter is her favorite season. It is at the same time the brightest and the darkest, with white earth below grey sky - which makes it easy to see where she is going and who is following her.
(Animals like to follow her just as much as she likes following them.)
An unnerving cry - not quite high enough to be piercing - reaches her ears, and a half-mile later she discovers a bird of dark plumage pecking at the carcass of a doe. She stops skipping all at once, and the bitter wind strikes her cheeks in protest of her stillness.
But she does not look away when more black birds arrive; she is too curious and trusting to remain afraid for very long.
A Muggle might caution, Crows are bad luck. Pests. Omens of Death. Avert your eyes. Turn back now.
(They sprinkle the ground with the innocent’s blood as they eat.)
Luna peers closer and watches the murder. She is pretty sure these are ravens, and not crows.
Once the doe is picked clean, the birds fly away, each in a different direction; they are not a true flock, but they flock to meat. Only the original bird stays, surveying the bones.
He finds a tiny piece of the heart and attacks it.
“I suppose you can’t help being a raven,” Luna says to him, and edges closer still. There is the light of recognition in his keen, beady eyes. “But there are other things to eat, you know.”
She reaches into her coat and shows the bird a radish and some celery, which are wrapped loosely in a handkerchief. “You can have some, if you like,” she smiles, taking a vegetable for herself.
But the carrion bird will, by definition, only touch carrion. No other taste is worth acquiring.
Denying her, he flies away under the dappled light of the evergreens.
The snow hides all prior mischief, and this suits him well when he finally deigns to come back. Luna does not mind that he has brought others with him. She has plenty of celery this time.
“Oh, hello, Tom,” she calls out softly.
He feeds on her hand, and a mysterious smile escapes her lips.
Title: Discreetly Indiscreet
Pairing: Tom/Hagrid
Word Count: 415
Summary: Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience.
Author’s Notes: Isn’t this just a match made in heaven? Thank you for giving me the chance to write something cracky. :) Also, my eternal gratitude to manu86 who wrote the Guide to Dialects and Accents.
The hall-watcher keeps his careful gaze on the door, minding neither the empty glass in his hand nor the curvaceous barmaid trying to fill it. Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience. He sees shapes move past but is too anxious to recognize them.
“Oi, Tom!”
He hears a faint din but does not listen.
“Would you like another drink, boy?”
He talks, to himself mostly, but does not speak.
“I’LL JUST HAVE A PISS IN YOUR MUG, THEN.”
“NI!” he cries abruptly, jumping up from his barstool, causing the barmaid to shriek and cover her ears.
“Merlin’s beard, Tom, there’s no need for that!”
“Oh,” Tom says, noticing her at last, “I’m terribly sorry, Susanna. I’m not myself today. Perhaps another firewhisky would do the trick, do you think?”
“Right-o,” Susanna responds, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to pour his drink. As she does so, the door opens at last, and a great big brute blunders through, wearing a most horrid, brown hairy suit and a dingy, mismatched tie.
Hagrid.
Tom breathes heavily in disgust. Chap was a third-year and could barely fit past the doorframe. His wand had to be four times as long the usual length in order for him to properly wield it.
But he is just the person Tom has been looking for.
“You,” Tom hisses, charging straight at him, “You draw far too much attention to yourself.”
“Whadda yeh mean?” Hagrid sputters as Tom roughly tries to grab him by the collar. “Oi, don’ touch me suit, jus’ bin washin’ it an’ all.”
“Your suit is disgusting. It, much like you, has no place in this room.”
“AND WHO DO YEH THINK YEH ARE, EH? YEH THINK YEH CAN TAKE CHARGE O’ THE PLACE ’CAUSE EVERYONE’S BOUND TER LIKE YEH. WELL I DON’ LIKE YEH ANY MORE’N YEH LIKE ME SUIT!”
With that, Hagrid picks Tom up easily, slings him over his broad shoulder, and marches out the door; those remaining inside The Three Broomsticks are utterly bemused by this display.
“Put me down, fool. I haven’t time for one of your oafish tantrums,” Tom says when they are far out of earshot.
“Codswallop. This was all part o’ yer brillian’ plan, yeh can’ stop pretendin’ yeh don’ like me suit an’ tie now.” He extracted a bottle of mead from one of his massive coat pockets, and offered it to Tom. “Cheers. Have a rock cake.”
Recipient: THE COMMUNITY!
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: This may be the strangest combination of drabbles ever. xD Luna and Hagrid are the last two characters I’d ever thought I’d write, but when presented with such an opportunity, who am I to turn it down? I hope you enjoy!
Title: Mutual Curiosity
Pairing: Tom/Luna
Word Count: 436
Summary: An unnerving cry - not quite high enough to be piercing - reaches her ears, and a half-mile later she discovers a bird of dark plumage pecking at the carcass of a doe.
Author’s Notes: Ambiguous dark!fic is ambiguous. Also, a different take on the Death Eaters.
Today the sky is the color of decaying corpses. And it snows, just like yesterday.
The artiste props up his canvas and raises his thumb. Winter is bleak, he paints, winter is a gnarled, barren tree. Winter is a Bringer of Death.
Weep for me, my love.
But Luna laughs and skips down the road. (Not quite skips, though she does as best as one can in the snow.)
Winter is her favorite season. It is at the same time the brightest and the darkest, with white earth below grey sky - which makes it easy to see where she is going and who is following her.
(Animals like to follow her just as much as she likes following them.)
An unnerving cry - not quite high enough to be piercing - reaches her ears, and a half-mile later she discovers a bird of dark plumage pecking at the carcass of a doe. She stops skipping all at once, and the bitter wind strikes her cheeks in protest of her stillness.
But she does not look away when more black birds arrive; she is too curious and trusting to remain afraid for very long.
A Muggle might caution, Crows are bad luck. Pests. Omens of Death. Avert your eyes. Turn back now.
(They sprinkle the ground with the innocent’s blood as they eat.)
Luna peers closer and watches the murder. She is pretty sure these are ravens, and not crows.
Once the doe is picked clean, the birds fly away, each in a different direction; they are not a true flock, but they flock to meat. Only the original bird stays, surveying the bones.
He finds a tiny piece of the heart and attacks it.
“I suppose you can’t help being a raven,” Luna says to him, and edges closer still. There is the light of recognition in his keen, beady eyes. “But there are other things to eat, you know.”
She reaches into her coat and shows the bird a radish and some celery, which are wrapped loosely in a handkerchief. “You can have some, if you like,” she smiles, taking a vegetable for herself.
But the carrion bird will, by definition, only touch carrion. No other taste is worth acquiring.
Denying her, he flies away under the dappled light of the evergreens.
The snow hides all prior mischief, and this suits him well when he finally deigns to come back. Luna does not mind that he has brought others with him. She has plenty of celery this time.
“Oh, hello, Tom,” she calls out softly.
He feeds on her hand, and a mysterious smile escapes her lips.
Title: Discreetly Indiscreet
Pairing: Tom/Hagrid
Word Count: 415
Summary: Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience.
Author’s Notes: Isn’t this just a match made in heaven? Thank you for giving me the chance to write something cracky. :) Also, my eternal gratitude to manu86 who wrote the Guide to Dialects and Accents.
The hall-watcher keeps his careful gaze on the door, minding neither the empty glass in his hand nor the curvaceous barmaid trying to fill it. Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience. He sees shapes move past but is too anxious to recognize them.
“Oi, Tom!”
He hears a faint din but does not listen.
“Would you like another drink, boy?”
He talks, to himself mostly, but does not speak.
“I’LL JUST HAVE A PISS IN YOUR MUG, THEN.”
“NI!” he cries abruptly, jumping up from his barstool, causing the barmaid to shriek and cover her ears.
“Merlin’s beard, Tom, there’s no need for that!”
“Oh,” Tom says, noticing her at last, “I’m terribly sorry, Susanna. I’m not myself today. Perhaps another firewhisky would do the trick, do you think?”
“Right-o,” Susanna responds, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to pour his drink. As she does so, the door opens at last, and a great big brute blunders through, wearing a most horrid, brown hairy suit and a dingy, mismatched tie.
Hagrid.
Tom breathes heavily in disgust. Chap was a third-year and could barely fit past the doorframe. His wand had to be four times as long the usual length in order for him to properly wield it.
But he is just the person Tom has been looking for.
“You,” Tom hisses, charging straight at him, “You draw far too much attention to yourself.”
“Whadda yeh mean?” Hagrid sputters as Tom roughly tries to grab him by the collar. “Oi, don’ touch me suit, jus’ bin washin’ it an’ all.”
“Your suit is disgusting. It, much like you, has no place in this room.”
“AND WHO DO YEH THINK YEH ARE, EH? YEH THINK YEH CAN TAKE CHARGE O’ THE PLACE ’CAUSE EVERYONE’S BOUND TER LIKE YEH. WELL I DON’ LIKE YEH ANY MORE’N YEH LIKE ME SUIT!”
With that, Hagrid picks Tom up easily, slings him over his broad shoulder, and marches out the door; those remaining inside The Three Broomsticks are utterly bemused by this display.
“Put me down, fool. I haven’t time for one of your oafish tantrums,” Tom says when they are far out of earshot.
“Codswallop. This was all part o’ yer brillian’ plan, yeh can’ stop pretendin’ yeh don’ like me suit an’ tie now.” He extracted a bottle of mead from one of his massive coat pockets, and offered it to Tom. “Cheers. Have a rock cake.”