January Omniocular Challenge
Jan. 21st, 2007 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coyotegothFor my entry in the January challenge for the Harry Potter genfic community ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
omniocular, I've taken the titles of two Beatles songs, and written stories around them. (I suppose one of them could technically be termed a songfic, as I quote a couple of lyrics, but it's not necessary to have entries in songfic form.) Should anyone be interested, the contest remains open to the end of January; posting rules for nonmembers (such as myself) are included in the entry to which I've linked. At any rate, two Harry Potter stories below, with appropriate spoiler warnings; for things written in haste, I rather like them.
For No One
It is a purely wizarding cemetery- well known, as it is the only such within the UK; nonetheless, it is empty of visitors when the man and the woman arrive. The first snow-covered grave he stops at, on his annual visits, is quite impressive: clearly, its owners have money. It doesn’t have all the elaborate wizarding accoutrements one would expect for the plot of an old family such as the Malfoys, and there’s no family tree proudly advertising the purity of the family’s blood; it’s quite a new family plot, in fact, only three or four generations old. Still, respectable enough, all things considered. October 31st, the twin dates on the stone read.
The second is somewhat less impressive, as though its user had fallen on harder times, or rejected the use of a family plot. The date on this stone reads June; there are many other graves clustered around it, as though huddled together for warmth. Several of these bear a common last name, although it’s unusual for a family not to have its own plot; he stops at each one of these. The woman beside him weeps quietly, and brushes her fingers along one particular stone.
The third is set back well away from the main area; on his first visit, he had to search to find it. There is only a small, irregular cluster of unnamed stones here, all donated; he knows the one he seeks, however. A grave for no one, he thinks, looking at the stone, blank save for a date. January, the man reads, green eyes squinting behind thick glasses. His shoes crunch on winter snow, and he muses yet again upon the fact that this is the date by which he times his visits to this place.
“I brought firewhiskey, as usual- you lot were always fiends for drink,” he says, voice cutting through winter cold as he opens and upends the bottle. “Some chocolate this time, too- I remember how you were always one for foisting it on us.” He bends stiffly, and lays the Wonka bar on the grave. Although the other tombs in this section are all bare, this one carries a small pile of flowers, notes, and other gifts.
“I keep telling the Ministry they have to change their policy,” he says at last. “If they’re going to have the Boy Who Lived running the show any longer, they can bloody well put the demi humans... damn it, you were the one who finally... ah, hell.” He turns to the woman by his side, vision blurry now. “You always had the words,” he chokes out. She shakes her head, then finally says, in a small voice, “Professor... you taught me more than anyone else ever had. Not just in school- you taught me about friendship, and duty, and sacrifice.” She takes a deep breath, and says, in a steadier voice, “You taught me what it truly means to be human.”
Julia
Harry was almost relieved, when he jolted awake in the middle of the night, and found himself within the stifling confines of Grimmauld Place. For once, it hadn’t been the nightmares that had been making him wonder whether he was losing his mind; instead, it was just... A woman’s voice. Laughter, high and cold. A sudden, painful flash of green. Ron snored on, but Harry couldn’t get back to sleep in this strange, gloomy house, with its faint smell of mold. Finally, he pulled his robe on, and headed downstairs. He hesitated for a moment; the Muggle house next door was playing music, and sometimes it spilled through the walls into number twelve.
...but I say it just to reach you, Julia...
Harry paused, and listened to the song; he rarely listened to music, and he didn’t know what to make of most of the words, but there was something about it... The song started over; then, he heard a noise from downstairs, and decided to investigate. Moonlight spilled through the window; a thin form sat in front of it, staring outside, drawing from a bottle, some sort of picture frame in the other hand- “Who’s there?” Sirius hissed, drawing his wand.
“It’s me,” Harry whispered, walking up. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Uh? Oh- Harry; thought it was a Death Eater. First War- bad memories." He blinked owlishly. "You shouldn’t be down here this la- ” Sirius broke off, and took another pull on the bottle. “Oh, sod it- you can be here if you like.”
Harry nodded. “What’re you doing?”
“Looking out at the courtyard. When we were little, I used to want to play out there, but the door was always locked.” Harry glanced outside; he saw an overgrown yard, including an empty, neglected fountain, and a shadowy building in the background. “Can’t see why I thought it was so great,” Sirius muttered. “Useless overgrown rubbish, like the rest of this place.”
“What’s that building?” Harry asked.
“Hmm? Coach house. Don’t use it anymore. Reg said he got out there once- got to play in the fountain; he never told me how he did it, though. Mum said he was lying, but I saw him there, waving at me... he got to go outside. But... I never knew how to get out there.” Sirius stared out the window as he said this, looking upset; there was an awkward silence.
“Well,” Harry finally said, “you could Apparate out there, couldn’t you? This house doesn’t seem to be blocked against it; Fred and George have...”
Sirius laughed, and mussed his hair. “Good lad- now, you’re thinking like a Marauder. James’d be proud.”
“What’s that?” Harry asked, looking at the frame, as Sirius took another drink.
“Mmm? Photo- nothing important.” He set it aside. “What’s got you awake, anyway?”
“I... I was having a nightmare,” Harry said, suddenly feeling like a child.
“Voldemort?” Sirius asked sharply.
“No- no, nothing like that.” Harry said. “I was just... it was about... mum and dad.”
“Yeah,” Sirius said quietly. “I dream about them a lot, myself.”
There was a silence. “Will... will you tell me something about them?” Harry asked.
Sirius looked surprised, then nodded. “Yeah- I should have before now.” He assumed a look of drunken concentration. “Let’s see... something... aha!” He grinned. “Something I’ll bet you didn’t know about your mum- she was an Animagus, too.”
“She was?”
“Yeah,” Sirius grinned. “Once Prongs finally got her to go out with him, he badgered me until I helped him turn her. Took bloody forever, too.”
Harry grinned back. “Really? Brilliant- what did she turn into?”
“A cat,” Sirius snickered. “Just like McGoogles. I think it embarrassed her; she didn't do it often, but every now and then, she’d say she was going to have Wormtail for afters, then I’d pretend to chase her up a tree... ahh, those were fine times,” he said, sighing. “I wish they could have lasted longer.”
Harry stared at him for a moment; they could faintly hear the song Harry had heard earlier, echoing through the yard.
“Bloody Muggle rubbish,” muttered Sirius, aiming his wand. “I’ll take care of...”
“No, wait,” Harry said, catching his arm.
“What...?” Sirius asked, looking down at him.
Harry felt shy suddenly. “I don’t know- I just... there’s something...”
“All right, all right,” Sirius said. He waved his wand, and the song became more clearly audible. Harry sat, listening to the song melody again, the strange note of yearning in the singer’s voice...
“Seashell eyes,” snorted Sirius. “Sounds like a cockup in a bloody Transfig exam.” He laboriously got to his feet. “Got to have a slash,” he muttered, leaving the room.
Harry paused, listening to the song; it ended, then, after a moment, began playing again. The frame caught Harry’s eye; he leaned over, and picked it up. In it, three young men and a woman were posed around a motorcycle; Harry smiled, recognizing everyone. Sirius’s easy grin, as he leaned back in the seat and pretended to rev the throttle... James, pushing his hair back as he put his arm around Lily, and stole a kiss... Remus, laughing and shaking his head...
“Oh, that,” Sirius muttered from the doorway. He leaned forward, and took the picture from Harry. “Wormtail tries to sneak back into the picture now and then, but we always chase him off. Serves him right.”
Harry nodded, then closed his eyes, listening to the song. “Sirius?” he said, shyly.
“Yeah...?”
“Do you ever wonder why people listen to songs the way the do- if they hear the same things from them that we do?” Now that Harry had voiced it, the words spilled out. “Do you ever wonder what the story is that the song’s trying to tell, and if it’s the same one for you as for me? Or what the story is that made the person write it? Or why that Muggle is playing it so much, and what he’s hearing from it, and what it’s telling him, and what it isn’t...?”
“No,” Sirius said, finishing the firewhiskey. “Mostly, I wonder why I had to spend twelve years in Azkaban. The rest of the time, I wonder if I’ll ever get out of this bloody house, and get my life back, or even a piece of it.” He sighed, as he saw the look on Harry’s face. “I’m sorry, Harry- some guardian I make.” He forced a wan smile. “I guess dogs just have no ear for music.”
"Don't worry," said Harry, crestfallen. "I'm exhausted, and it's late- we probably won't even remember this in the morning."
Sirius turned, and started to walk out; he softly called, “Don’t be up too late,” over his shoulder. Harry nodded, and sighed, as the song played through again. He listened to it over and over, feeling a strange, beautiful sadness wash through him, until he knew every note, right to the singer’s last, drawn out “Juuuu...lia.” Finally, he yawned, and shook his head, and got to his feet to go to bed. I hope that the song says as much to you as it does to me, he thought to the anonymous Muggle next door. I hope that it brings you some comfort.
omniocular, I've taken the titles of two Beatles songs, and written stories around them. (I suppose one of them could technically be termed a songfic, as I quote a couple of lyrics, but it's not necessary to have entries in songfic form.) Should anyone be interested, the contest remains open to the end of January; posting rules for nonmembers (such as myself) are included in the entry to which I've linked. At any rate, two Harry Potter stories below, with appropriate spoiler warnings; for things written in haste, I rather like them.For No One
It is a purely wizarding cemetery- well known, as it is the only such within the UK; nonetheless, it is empty of visitors when the man and the woman arrive. The first snow-covered grave he stops at, on his annual visits, is quite impressive: clearly, its owners have money. It doesn’t have all the elaborate wizarding accoutrements one would expect for the plot of an old family such as the Malfoys, and there’s no family tree proudly advertising the purity of the family’s blood; it’s quite a new family plot, in fact, only three or four generations old. Still, respectable enough, all things considered. October 31st, the twin dates on the stone read.
The second is somewhat less impressive, as though its user had fallen on harder times, or rejected the use of a family plot. The date on this stone reads June; there are many other graves clustered around it, as though huddled together for warmth. Several of these bear a common last name, although it’s unusual for a family not to have its own plot; he stops at each one of these. The woman beside him weeps quietly, and brushes her fingers along one particular stone.
The third is set back well away from the main area; on his first visit, he had to search to find it. There is only a small, irregular cluster of unnamed stones here, all donated; he knows the one he seeks, however. A grave for no one, he thinks, looking at the stone, blank save for a date. January, the man reads, green eyes squinting behind thick glasses. His shoes crunch on winter snow, and he muses yet again upon the fact that this is the date by which he times his visits to this place.
“I brought firewhiskey, as usual- you lot were always fiends for drink,” he says, voice cutting through winter cold as he opens and upends the bottle. “Some chocolate this time, too- I remember how you were always one for foisting it on us.” He bends stiffly, and lays the Wonka bar on the grave. Although the other tombs in this section are all bare, this one carries a small pile of flowers, notes, and other gifts.
“I keep telling the Ministry they have to change their policy,” he says at last. “If they’re going to have the Boy Who Lived running the show any longer, they can bloody well put the demi humans... damn it, you were the one who finally... ah, hell.” He turns to the woman by his side, vision blurry now. “You always had the words,” he chokes out. She shakes her head, then finally says, in a small voice, “Professor... you taught me more than anyone else ever had. Not just in school- you taught me about friendship, and duty, and sacrifice.” She takes a deep breath, and says, in a steadier voice, “You taught me what it truly means to be human.”
Julia
Harry was almost relieved, when he jolted awake in the middle of the night, and found himself within the stifling confines of Grimmauld Place. For once, it hadn’t been the nightmares that had been making him wonder whether he was losing his mind; instead, it was just... A woman’s voice. Laughter, high and cold. A sudden, painful flash of green. Ron snored on, but Harry couldn’t get back to sleep in this strange, gloomy house, with its faint smell of mold. Finally, he pulled his robe on, and headed downstairs. He hesitated for a moment; the Muggle house next door was playing music, and sometimes it spilled through the walls into number twelve.
Harry paused, and listened to the song; he rarely listened to music, and he didn’t know what to make of most of the words, but there was something about it... The song started over; then, he heard a noise from downstairs, and decided to investigate. Moonlight spilled through the window; a thin form sat in front of it, staring outside, drawing from a bottle, some sort of picture frame in the other hand- “Who’s there?” Sirius hissed, drawing his wand.
“It’s me,” Harry whispered, walking up. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Uh? Oh- Harry; thought it was a Death Eater. First War- bad memories." He blinked owlishly. "You shouldn’t be down here this la- ” Sirius broke off, and took another pull on the bottle. “Oh, sod it- you can be here if you like.”
Harry nodded. “What’re you doing?”
“Looking out at the courtyard. When we were little, I used to want to play out there, but the door was always locked.” Harry glanced outside; he saw an overgrown yard, including an empty, neglected fountain, and a shadowy building in the background. “Can’t see why I thought it was so great,” Sirius muttered. “Useless overgrown rubbish, like the rest of this place.”
“What’s that building?” Harry asked.
“Hmm? Coach house. Don’t use it anymore. Reg said he got out there once- got to play in the fountain; he never told me how he did it, though. Mum said he was lying, but I saw him there, waving at me... he got to go outside. But... I never knew how to get out there.” Sirius stared out the window as he said this, looking upset; there was an awkward silence.
“Well,” Harry finally said, “you could Apparate out there, couldn’t you? This house doesn’t seem to be blocked against it; Fred and George have...”
Sirius laughed, and mussed his hair. “Good lad- now, you’re thinking like a Marauder. James’d be proud.”
“What’s that?” Harry asked, looking at the frame, as Sirius took another drink.
“Mmm? Photo- nothing important.” He set it aside. “What’s got you awake, anyway?”
“I... I was having a nightmare,” Harry said, suddenly feeling like a child.
“Voldemort?” Sirius asked sharply.
“No- no, nothing like that.” Harry said. “I was just... it was about... mum and dad.”
“Yeah,” Sirius said quietly. “I dream about them a lot, myself.”
There was a silence. “Will... will you tell me something about them?” Harry asked.
Sirius looked surprised, then nodded. “Yeah- I should have before now.” He assumed a look of drunken concentration. “Let’s see... something... aha!” He grinned. “Something I’ll bet you didn’t know about your mum- she was an Animagus, too.”
“She was?”
“Yeah,” Sirius grinned. “Once Prongs finally got her to go out with him, he badgered me until I helped him turn her. Took bloody forever, too.”
Harry grinned back. “Really? Brilliant- what did she turn into?”
“A cat,” Sirius snickered. “Just like McGoogles. I think it embarrassed her; she didn't do it often, but every now and then, she’d say she was going to have Wormtail for afters, then I’d pretend to chase her up a tree... ahh, those were fine times,” he said, sighing. “I wish they could have lasted longer.”
Harry stared at him for a moment; they could faintly hear the song Harry had heard earlier, echoing through the yard.
“Bloody Muggle rubbish,” muttered Sirius, aiming his wand. “I’ll take care of...”
“No, wait,” Harry said, catching his arm.
“What...?” Sirius asked, looking down at him.
Harry felt shy suddenly. “I don’t know- I just... there’s something...”
“All right, all right,” Sirius said. He waved his wand, and the song became more clearly audible. Harry sat, listening to the song melody again, the strange note of yearning in the singer’s voice...
“Seashell eyes,” snorted Sirius. “Sounds like a cockup in a bloody Transfig exam.” He laboriously got to his feet. “Got to have a slash,” he muttered, leaving the room.
Harry paused, listening to the song; it ended, then, after a moment, began playing again. The frame caught Harry’s eye; he leaned over, and picked it up. In it, three young men and a woman were posed around a motorcycle; Harry smiled, recognizing everyone. Sirius’s easy grin, as he leaned back in the seat and pretended to rev the throttle... James, pushing his hair back as he put his arm around Lily, and stole a kiss... Remus, laughing and shaking his head...
“Oh, that,” Sirius muttered from the doorway. He leaned forward, and took the picture from Harry. “Wormtail tries to sneak back into the picture now and then, but we always chase him off. Serves him right.”
Harry nodded, then closed his eyes, listening to the song. “Sirius?” he said, shyly.
“Yeah...?”
“Do you ever wonder why people listen to songs the way the do- if they hear the same things from them that we do?” Now that Harry had voiced it, the words spilled out. “Do you ever wonder what the story is that the song’s trying to tell, and if it’s the same one for you as for me? Or what the story is that made the person write it? Or why that Muggle is playing it so much, and what he’s hearing from it, and what it’s telling him, and what it isn’t...?”
“No,” Sirius said, finishing the firewhiskey. “Mostly, I wonder why I had to spend twelve years in Azkaban. The rest of the time, I wonder if I’ll ever get out of this bloody house, and get my life back, or even a piece of it.” He sighed, as he saw the look on Harry’s face. “I’m sorry, Harry- some guardian I make.” He forced a wan smile. “I guess dogs just have no ear for music.”
"Don't worry," said Harry, crestfallen. "I'm exhausted, and it's late- we probably won't even remember this in the morning."
Sirius turned, and started to walk out; he softly called, “Don’t be up too late,” over his shoulder. Harry nodded, and sighed, as the song played through again. He listened to it over and over, feeling a strange, beautiful sadness wash through him, until he knew every note, right to the singer’s last, drawn out “Juuuu...lia.” Finally, he yawned, and shook his head, and got to his feet to go to bed. I hope that the song says as much to you as it does to me, he thought to the anonymous Muggle next door. I hope that it brings you some comfort.
