Your Bitch (pravoxian) wrote in archiv_obscurum,
Your Bitch

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Heya all..I know its been a long time sice this communities been updated...sorry

But hey..heres some stuff for you to read...

I cooked em up while I was VERY VERY VERY sick..So if they sound a bit off..pls tell me

Story 1-Fade to light Part1 (harry potter)
Summary-Its a story I wrote after much thinking and pondering about OotP...It sorta fits the new angst way everyone is in this book...Part 1 is set in the train to Hogwarts

The setting is post OotP...So spoilers included for those who have not read it

Story 2-Allegiance(Lotr drabble)
Summary- Haldir comes to Helm’s Deep to honour an allegiance to Aragorn, forged during one night they shared in Lórien.Kinda slashy...but still cool

Fade to Light

Harry never wanted to be alone.

He sat quietly in the train compartment by himself; Ron and Hermione had gone to see to some younger students farther down the corridor. He watched the landscape outside the window pass by in a blur, like smudged paint spun together by a careless brush; and in his mind he counted all the things he had lost since he had last sat here, watching the ruined palette of colour pass him by.

Sirius. His faith that goodness would eventually win out. A place to call home. Sirius. His belief that what he did would ever change the way things were. A sense of himself. Sirius.

He thought it wouldn’t matter, to have lost what he never really had.

But he was wrong. Again.

It did, and it hurt. So much that he wanted to scream, to cry, to grab his broomstick and leap out of the window of the moving train, fly to the Ministry of Magic, find his way back to that wretched room in the Department of Mysteries. He wanted to fling himself through the arch, through the pain and grief, and find Sirius or die trying.

A part of him had already fallen through that black veil along with Sirius, lost forever — and the only comfort Harry could find was that it made him slightly less human. One piece at a time.

"If it isn’t Harry Potter."

Harry snapped out of his reverie and looked up — only then did he realise his compartment door had been ajar. Draco Malfoy now stood in the gap, looking down at him with an amused sneer. "The Boy Who Moped."

"Do yourself a favour, Malfoy." Harry sounded more exhausted than hateful. "Fuck off."

Draco ignored him. Sliding open the door, he stepped into the compartment and walked over to Harry.

"As a Prefect," Draco put on an infuriating calm tone, "it’s my duty to see to the welfare of the students. I couldn’t possibly just pass you by when you’re sitting here all alone, licking your wounds," Draco paused significantly, "could I?"

Something in Draco’s knowing tone made Harry bristle. He looked up sharply, a black rage gathering deep inside him. Draco stood directly above him — from the cruel grin on his face, Harry could tell that Draco knew he had struck a nerve. Harry hated that.

"Three steps will take you to the door, Malfoy," Harry said in a thinly controlled voice. "I suggest you take them."

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused. "Are you threatening me?"

"Not so much a threat," Harry answered, "as a promise of what I will do if you don’t get the hell out of my compartment. Right now."

"What are you going to do?" Draco let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Hex me?"

"I landed your father in Azkaban," Harry said, his voice as hard as his gaze. "It certainly won’t be much of a problem landing his son on his arse in a most unflattering manner." He gave Draco a thin, mocking smile. "Flat on your back in the middle of the train corridor, with your knickers showing. Just imagine what the first-years would think," Harry paused for effect, "after all, you are a Prefect."

Harry saw Draco’s eyes narrow, and a faint blush crept onto Draco’s pale cheeks.

"Think you’re clever, don’t you, Potter," he said quietly. "My father says one day that’s going to be your downfall. He says you’re a lot like your father — and look what happened to him."

Harry gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain composure. "Your father sure has a lot to say for someone locked up in Azkaban."

"At least he’s alive," Draco said succinctly.

Control was a swiftly diminishing concept in Harry’s mind; a smart retort choked in his throat, and he clenched his fists tightly, feeling his fingernails dig sharp crescents into the flesh of his palm.

Draco noticed his lack of response, and gave him a serene smile.

"With the Dementors having abandoned Azkaban and Fudge scrambling to suppress a rebellion, I’d say things around here have gone to the dogs." Draco languidly emphasised the last word, and smirked at Harry. "So to speak."

That did it.

Harry snatched out his wand; Draco reacted quickly, diving into his robes for his own, but he wasn’t fast enough.

"Accio wand," Harry snapped, raising his other hand to receive Draco’s wand as it arced gracefully through the air into his open palm. Draco blinked at his empty hand, startled.

Harry pointed at the compartment door. "Colloportus." It slid shut with a loud bang, sealing itself.

He turned his attention back to Draco, who was standing in front of him, wandless; Harry saw a flicker of uncertainty and fear flit across Draco’s face. The surge of adrenaline rose in his veins, like a dark, sweet heat, and Harry raised his wand again.

"Impedimenta!" he said forcefully, and Draco was flung up against the compartment door. The back of Draco’s head struck the glass with a loud crack, and Draco winced.

Harry advanced swiftly, taking three deliberate steps forward, which brought him within inches of Draco, who was pinned against the compartment door as if by an invisible force.

"I did say three steps would take you to the door." Harry’s lips curled in dark satisfaction. "Shame you didn’t take them yourself."

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco spat, and Harry relished the trapped fury in Draco’s voice.

"Not so brave now, are you?" Harry leaned in; he and Draco were about the same height, and he felt an irrepressible shiver run through Draco’s body, so close to his.

"I thought you would’ve known by now that there’s nothing you or Dumbledore’s little running dogs can do to change things," Draco hissed, his eyes flashing. "But obviously, I overestimated your intelligence. My wrong."

"Still doesn’t explain why you’re the one stuck up against the door," Harry continued; he savoured the harsh pleasure he derived from taunting Draco, felt it twisting through him like the essence of every raw emotion that he had ever known.

"Don’t be a fool, Potter," Draco snapped, although something in his eyes betrayed a deeper shade of desperation. "You think this is just a stupid game? The Dark Lord has returned. He is calling all the Dark creatures to him, and when he has gathered them, nothing that old crony Dumbledore conjures will be able to match the Dark Lord’s army. Things are changing — and you, unlike me, are fighting on the wrong side."

There was a heartbeat of silence, tense and expectant.

"Who do you think you are, Malfoy," Harry said in a deadly soft voice; it wasn’t even a question. "Coming in here, giving me advice — as though I ever gave a damn about anything you had to say." He paused, and looked directly at Draco. His green eyes were like dark emeralds, reflecting nothing. "Think you know a lot, don’t you?"

"Well," Draco shot back, "that happens when you actually use your mind."

"Really," Harry said, and an odd, thin smile curled the sides of his mouth. His hand shot out, and he pressed the tip of his wand to Draco’s forehead. "Then I suppose you won’t mind if I take a look."

Draco looked stunned; before he could even react, Harry uttered, "Legilimens."

His gaze locked with Draco’s for an eternal moment, and he saw Draco’s eyes fill with shock and terror — then Harry’s mind exploded with light and darkness.

It was a familiar feeling, the blistering pain as if someone had cleaved his head in two and his mind was now profusely bleeding memories. Against the endless spinning background of white and black came a crimson stream of images, indistinct figures outlined as if in blood — and only when his panic subsided briefly did Harry realise that these thoughts were not his own.

As if from a great distance he heard faint pounding on the door, and voices calling out —

But these thoughts were being scorched upon him, like a bowl of molten fire emptied over his mind in a frantic rush of blinding images. His scar exploded with pain, and Harry let out a yell of anguish; distantly he could hear Draco screaming as well, but he couldn’t tear himself away — it was as if a greater force was holding them together, him and Draco, sharing this dizzying, perversely intimate moment that was only theirs —

- then vaguely he heard Hermione’s voice shouting, "Alohomora!"

Suddenly Harry felt a rush of cold air hit his face, and Draco fell away from in front of him. Their intense contact broke like a branding iron being lifted away — Harry threw himself backwards, forcing his watering eyes open, and the images forged in red wavered and disappeared.

Sweet relief flooded over him, and as he staggered away from Draco, a streak of silver light sprayed from the tip of his wand into the air and vanished. Harry blinked as the train compartment swam back into view.

In front of him the compartment door had been forced open, and Draco had fallen through and was now lying on the floor just outside. Looking around, Harry saw a small crowd of people cramming the narrow train corridor, Hermione and Ron standing in front. Everyone was staring at them in amazement

"Harry?" Ron looked nonplussed as he turned from Harry to Draco and back again. "What the hell is going on?"

Harry’s jaw was slack; he tried to form words, but failed.

Someone tried to help Draco up, but Draco wrenched his arm away and leapt to his feet, snarling. Everyone backed away in alarm. Harry had never seen Draco like this before — Draco’s hair was tousled from when he fell over, his eyes wild and bright as he spun around, as if disoriented.

"Malfoy," Harry finally choked out, the first word he could manage.

Draco abruptly stopped, and looked at him — their gazes met and held for a split second, and Harry saw undisguised horror dawning in those pale silver eyes, now warmed to the colour of charred grey.

Then before Harry could say anything else, Draco shoved past everyone and bolted away down the train corridor. Heads swivelled around to watch him go. Without thinking, Harry darted forward, pushing through the crowd — but before he made it out to the corridor he heard a compartment door slam loudly.

Harry stood still, staring down the corridor after Draco. The shock still hadn’t worn off — but then the memory of those vivid images rushed through his mind again, and his scar blazed with a searing pain. He swayed for a moment, but Ron quickly caught him, steadying him.

"What happened in there, Harry?" Hermione’s voice was unusually quiet, but filled with a tone of fearful disbelief.

"None of your business," Harry replied brusquely. He felt a sick churning in his stomach.

"Harry, what did you do?" Hermione persisted; and it was no longer a question of what he had actually done, but what he had allowed himself to do.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted forcefully, and Hermione actually jumped a step back, looking stung.

Without waiting for her response, Harry pushed past her and shrugged Ron’s hand off his shoulder. He ran down the corridor, straight into the toilet cubicle at the end of the train. He slammed the door shut, locking it.

Then he leaned over the sink, and threw up.



As you see him again, proudly leading the elven army through the gates of Helm’s Deep, you remember what you left behind in Lórien. You remember your grief, and the comfort he gave; how, in that starless night beneath the silver branches, through guilt and regret and loss, you walked not alone.

He came to you, in the crystalline silence of the night. He took your hand and pulled you aside, into the embrace of darkness. And he spoke to you, but what you remember most is the sound of his voice as it caressed your ear. You whispered to him that your strength had failed you, that the burden was too much to bear. He gave you no reply, except to raise his hand and stroke your face.

You gazed into his eyes; and it was not sympathy you saw, but an unequivocal trust, faith beyond the slightest shadow of doubt. Then he spoke; and in your mind you still hear his words.

You will succeed, Aragorn of the Dúnedain. And when you claim your victory, I shall be there with you.

Then you leaned in, and kissed him. He remained perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble — cold, beautiful, flawless to the touch, as you ran your hands up his arms to pull him closer. His mouth was warm, and his lips parted as you kissed him deeper, and he kissed you back.

Now you gaze at him in amazement, as he once again brings relief unlooked for. He looks splendid, arrayed in the royal red cloak upon his shoulders. He sees you, and his lips curve in a small smile. You know he remembers that night in Lórien, as you will always remember his promise: I shall be there with you.

His eyes hold yours; and as he speaks, his words echo in your mind, and your heart: "We come to honour that allegiance."

His voice breaks your stunned silence, and you call out a greeting as you hasten down the steps to him, with an eagerness you have not felt in a long time. He smiles as you halt before him; perhaps he sees the disbelief still in your eyes, at the stroke of fortune you never even imagined would come — that you would have the chance to see him again.

You have so many things you want to say to him, words that can only begin to describe how you feel. He watches you calmly, a hidden smile curling his mouth; and your words falter on your tongue, because you do not know how to begin.

The next thing you know, your arms are wrapped around him in a tight embrace, your face buried in his shoulder. Even he is slightly startled; you feel his body stiffen, and then his arms go around your back somewhat awkwardly. But it still feels like the most natural thing in the world.

When you pull back, he is looking at you with an amused expression on his face. You gaze at him, and suddenly you are filled with renewed strength, a determination to win this battle and make him proud.

"You are most welcome," you say fervently, stepping away to allow Legolas to greet his kin. At that, the elven army snaps to attention, and awaits his command.

He turns to Théoden, but his eyes are upon you as he speaks: "We are proud to fight alongside Men once more."

You cannot turn your eyes from him. You want to take his hand and pull him away so you can speak with him alone, just like the way he took you aside in Lórien.

But words can wait. Time will not.

Théoden calls for space to be made on the battlement for the elven archers, and everyone scatters to carry out their duties. You will lead the front lines, and there is much to be done. In the distance, the glaring torches of your enemies move steadily closer to the fortress, like a fire-crested tide from the dark horizon.

As you turn to leave, he touches your arm. You look at him, and he smiles with such pride in his eyes. You feel a surge of emotion rise in your chest.

"You will succeed," he says. "Do not fear."

Then he turns away from you, his velvet cloak billowing grandly behind him, and walks to give instructions to the elves. You watch him go; a smile lifts the sides of your mouth. At that moment, you know exactly what you want to say to him — the articulation of your respect, gratitude, and love.

And when it is all over, you will tell him.

So pls R&R

Thank you
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