There once was a little girl. Though perhaps little was the wrong word, for while she was small in stature she was nearing adulthood. Now this girl had a doll. He was her most prized possession of them all and she loved him far more than perhaps she should. This girl wanted to be a photographer, and her doll was always her model. “Riseon,” she would say as she positioned him this way and that. “That is not the proper pose for somebody attending a wedding. You look far too somber. Come and smile, at least a bit.” And while his expression would not change -for how could it?- she would always feel as though he had done exactly as she requested.

Now this story is not set in a far away land with dragons and knights, nor is it set long ago with prophets and miracles, or even slaves and dreams of freedom. No, this story is set here and now; in this very day and age. Why, perhaps the girl once stood where you are standing now. It is a lovely thought is it not? But that is not part of the story that you wanted me to tell is it?

The girl was plain; no extravagant looks or anything remarkable about her appearance. Her hair was long and black; her eyes were hazel. She was, as I have mentioned, rather small at a mere five foot and two inches. But her imagination -her mind- was extraordinary. She was smart and quick witted, with dreams and fantasies that would have any author weeping with envy. She attended a high school and received top marks. She could have any college she wanted, and indeed many were pursuing her as she finished her final year. But what she wanted had nothing to do with books or brains. She wanted to capture beauty as she saw it and share it with the world. And she wanted to do so with Riseon by her side.

Her home life was not perfect, for whose truly is? Her parents worked far more than they should have, and she wanted for nothing money could buy. Indeed she was seen as spoiled, and those who said it were not far from the mark. Things held little value to her. People, toys- they were mostly worthless. She had always thought this. When something broke she could get one again, usually far more splendid than the last. When one person disliked her, two more were there to befriend. And the years past this way, until she saw Riseon.

Riseon was not his name when she first saw him. He was nameless and naked like the rest of the dolls lining the shelves. But she was drawn to him and wanted him badly. It was the one thing her parents would not buy, for what use is a doll to a girl who is almost a woman? Why would she want that when she would soon be off to college with her nose in a book, studying medicine or perhaps psychology? Surely this, like the photography notion, would pass in the next few months. But she wanted him. Enough so that she sold her services and photographed events; her first true job. He was the very first thing she had ever bought with her own money, and she could not explain the ache or sense of happiness and freedom it gave her. 

She bought him clothing and wigs, though his eyes she could not change. They seemed a part of him and she sensed it would be a shame. When the money ran out she continued her work, for now that she had tasted independence why would she go back? She bought outfits for him: a tuxedo and then leather; here some jeans and now a kilt. He could be anything she wanted him to be. British, Scottish; it didn’t matter. He would do it with a solemn expression and only a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that she convinced herself she was imagining. Soon her dark room was filled with photos of him; now by the lake and then in the school. She was content.

But the girl was also lonely, for friend was not a word she truly knew. She tried and oh how she tried. But money or status seemed synonymous with her name. Every night she would hold the doll to her and cry. He became her confident and her friend. She would not let him from her sight. All too soon the year ended and she was suddenly an adult; expected to choose a college her parents approved of. They were not happy with her choice. There was screaming and fights. She would not become a lawyer or a doctor or whatever it was they wanted. She would be a photographer. They would not allow it, and while she was under their roof they would make the decisions and the first one was the doll had to go. 

So the girl packed a bag for both her and Riseon, took her camera, and left. She returned a few days later with a moving truck. Her parents begged. They apologized. Her mother cried. She turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to it all and packed everything she owned to take to the apartment she had rented. It would be hard, for the girl refused to touch her parents’ money any longer, but she would make it. When she told Riseon this, he seemed to smile and agree. And so the girl and her doll became independent.

Five years passed and the girl was turning twenty-two. She was graduating college, worked as a freelance photographer for the newspaper and several magazines, and still had Riseon. Riseon, as the girl, had changed. Gone was the kilt and the leather and in its place was a tie and crisp white shirt. He was no longer Scottish or British or a treasure hunter; now he was an American writer. But some things would not change. She would not speak to her parents. She still took pictures of him every chance she got. And she still loved him and showered him with gifts until his closet was almost the size of hers. The doll is an unhealthy addiction, her parents told her. The only response they would get would be a cold glare or the sound of the phone being disconnected. But the girl knew this was true. 

Riseon had become her obsession and she knew it was not normal. But something about him continued to entrance her and she still felt safe with him. They would talk long into the night. “Rye,” she would say as she brushed his white hair to get the knots out. “I wish you were real.” And he would gaze back at her with his deep blue eyes with silent agreement.

Things were far from perfect for the girl, but she liked the way her life had turned out. Her career was beginning to blossom, she had moved into a bigger apartment and begun saving money, and Riseon was beside her every step of the way with his silent, supportive glances. Until one day, quite suddenly, he was not.

The girl tore her apartment apart looking for her beloved doll. She re-traced every step she had taken that day and eventually called her parents to see if perhaps they had taken him. “Please tell me you took him from me and he’s safe,” she begged, but the answer was no. They drove down to help her search, but a week later she was forced to admit the chances were slim. She fell into a slight depression. Her appetite went away, as did her hours of sleep. Her love of work left as well, for where once there had been beauty now she saw nothing. Her mother stayed with her and coaxed her to eat. They were still resentment to one another, though an understanding had perhaps entered as well. The months passed this way, and soon she received a call to photograph models for a magazine. She accepted.

The job would take a week, as she was the only photographer, and she was taking pictures of semi-nude men in groups. After the third day, and the third group, her mother and her employer jokingly wondered if she was asexual, as she did not bat an eye at the toned chests and easy smiles. Then came the sixth day, and he entered. She couldn’t breathe and suddenly it was very hot and the lights were very bright. Her hands were shaky and she knew, without a doubt, had she been holding something it would have fallen. Her employer noticed. “That’s our newest member. He just appeared about three months ago. His name’s Ryan and god isn’t his hair the best?” She could do nothing but nod dumbly and excuse herself to the washroom in an attempt to regroup. Ten minutes later she exited, much more composed but still just as inwardly flustered. They were just beginning, and she began the shots. “Ryan if you could please lift your leg...Yes exactly like that. Now flip your hair. Perfect. Last frame and we’re through. Look at the camera.” 

He looked up and caught her eye. She stopped breathing and was vaguely aware of the click signaling the shot had been taken. Neither of them looked away as she stared into his eyes and read the emotions; wonderment, incredibility, happiness, and joy. Then he looked away and the spell was broken, except it wasn’t because the feeling wouldn’t go away. It was like she was on her own all over again; overwhelming but exhilarating.

He was there the next day and then, when the job was stretched even longer, continued to appear. She didn’t know if she wanted to kiss him or kill him because he looked just like her Riseon. His name was even similar and it was too much. She went home in tears several days, though when her mother asked why she could give no answer. Every day she was faced with him; his eyes that were exactly the same shade, the way his gaze was both solemn and mischievous, and the way she would tell him to do an emotion and even though his expression never changed, she felt like it did. He was there even he shouldn’t have been, and they worked well together no matter how her emotions wrecked havoc inside her. Which was why, she tried to tell herself, she had accepted a permanent position there. It wasn’t so she could see him every day and be reminded. It was a lie but she wouldn’t admit that to a soul. And so the months passed.

“Ryan that is not the proper expression for somebody at a party; you look far too somber. Come and smile, at least a bit.” And he stopped and he looked at her and she froze, for there was something there she could not identify. And then he gave a small smile and she smiled in return and they returned to the shoot. During the break he sauntered over to her, his expression once again solemn. She had become use to the way her heart would pound against her chest and her breathing would quicken. She learned how to deal with the heat that pooled between her thighs and act as normal as possible, so she gave a small smile but continued to fiddle with her camera. “You said the same thing six years ago, only then it was a wedding, was it not?” She dropped the camera, and it was only his reflexes that saved it from smashing against the counter. How did he know that? “You should not tease.” She said, hands shaking as she reached for the camera. He held it away from her. “Did you buy another one when he went missing?” She shook her head, feeling dizzy and drowsy as she reached again. He pulled the camera closer. “Did you even care?”

And the feeling was gone, replaced with anger and humiliation. How did he know about Riseon? How dare he say it in that scornful tone? Before she quite knew what was happening, the girl had reared back and slapped him across the face. Her hands still shook, though this time it was more from anger than shock. Shock like what was on his face. She had never felt so angry in her life. “How dare you imply I did not care?” She hissed the words through her teeth, eyes boring into his. “How could you even think I did not care for my Riseon?” She wasn’t sure what she was saying, but he was still looking shocked. “I still haven’t given him up and I would never buy another. I loved him.” And the anger was gone again, replaced by sorrow and heartache that she still did not understand. “Damn you for thinking that.” Her voice was thick with tears and sounded almost slurred to her as she reached once more for her camera, eyes still locked with his. Her hand wrapped around the device.

Suddenly she was against his chest, camera clutched in one hand as his wrapped around her and his face buried in her hair. “You didn’t forget me.” He mumbled. She pulled away, confused and he smiled and took her hand. “Come.” And she did, not knowing the reason. He led her to the bench used for outdoor shoots and they sat, him still clasping her hand and her clasping the camera. And he told her. He told her of seeing her for the first time as she walked by the shop and wanting her to buy him. He told her of the happiness he felt when she returned and the anger at her parents. He told her of the happiness when she spoke to him and the joy he felt even years later. He told her of his wish and of the way it had been granted. 

“You wished I was real.” He murmured as she sat unresponsive. “I wished the same. And it was granted.” And she looked at him and knew it was true. It explained everything. And he smiled at her and she smiled back, and when he pulled her in for a hug she turned and their mouths met. The camera dropped, forgotten, as six years of emotions ran their course.

 The young girl giggled at the end as the boy scowled. “Poppa, that can’t be real. Doll’s don’t come alive.” The child sighed dreamily. “But Bryce it’s such a romantic story. I wish my dolls would come to life.” Bryce, the boy, scowled again, this time directing it to the adult who had finished talking. “Poppa, she wanted to know how you and Momma met, not about some silly fairytale.” His father smiled as his daughter bolted from the room. “At least now Briar won’t bother you.” Bryce perked up. “True.” He mumbled with a grin, also leaving the room with haste. A woman entered, laughing. “What on earth?” He smiled. “They wanted to know how we met.” She smiled as she was pulled into his lap. “And did you tell them?” 

He smiled back, softly stroking her cheek. “What do you think?” She leaned down and kissed him, letting it linger as long as she could. “I think you hate to lie to our kids Rye.” Riseon smiled as he stood up. “I think you’re right Leah. Are the pictures done yet?” She laughed as she allowed herself to be led from the room. “Yes, and you look as wonderful as you did seventeen years ago.” He grinned cheekily. “Hopefully better, since I’m not porcelain.” Her laughter echoed after they had left.

Bryce and his sister Briar slowly crept from the doorframe, disbelief written on their faces. “I can’t believe Poppa was a doll.” She murmured, holding the porcelain doll beneath her arm out for inspection. “Do you think Cole will be one?” Bryce shook his head and shrugged. “I think anything’s possible now.” He said softly, looking out the window as darkness settled. “This will be something we tell our children Bree.” Briar nodded as she sat the doll in his bed. “I know.” She murmured back. “And I’ll tell it just the way Poppa did.”

‘And that is why, my darlings, you are being told this story.’ The children looked up in awe at the gray haired woman smiling down at them. Her brown eyes sparkled as she finished. ‘Because I promised I would tell the story of my parents. I would tell how Riseon went from doll to man. I would show that anything is possible.’ They looked amazed as their parents behind them shook their heads. 

“They’ll believe anything,” One remarked to another. He smiled. “Briar is just like her mother.”Briars’ eyes glanced up and met with his and she smiled before turning back to answer questions. “I never did catch your name sir.” The woman called as he walked from the shop. He turned and gave a small smile. “Cole.” He said and allowed the door to close with a tinkle. Shaking his head, the old man walked away, pausing just long enough to admire the shop’s sign that, despite the store changing its stock frequently, had yet to change after sixty years.

Cloud Nine
Where anything is possible

He hated her. He hated her flaming red hair that went horrible with most colors. He hated the way she simpered at her husband while making eyes behind his back at anything that moved. He hated the way she clung to him as they waved to their two oldest.

She hated him, just as she always had. She hated the way he was obsessed with him. She hated how she would always come in second. She hated the fact that their eyes would always be drawn to each other and he would come alive in a way she couldn’t do.

Greed
He was greedy. Everybody knew this. He was a Malfoy, and everyone knew how they hoarded their money. It was only natural that he be just as bad when he finally fell in love. No, that wasn’t what had them shocked.

He wasn’t greedy. He gave his money away to whoever needed it. His time was anybody’s for the taking if they wanted. Anything he could give was yours; all you needed to do was ask. They thought it would stay the same when he got with Draco. They never thought he wouldn’t let the blond out of his sight.

Gluttony
He knew this was bad for him, but he couldn’t get enough. It was as if his hunger for this was never satiated; even if he had thought he was finished that enticing smell would waft up and his mouth would water and he’d have to have some right now. He didn’t care what time it was or even really who was around to watch him lose himself in this wonderful pleasure as he filled his mouth again and again. Because Harry was the one thing he would die before giving up. Harry was the cause of his sin. Gluttony.   

Lust
Frantic mouths pushed together as hands claw wildly against each other. Rumpled sheets and husky words to combine with harsh breathing and needy moans. The marks that have to be hid and the pleasure that can never be seen. Snuck glances when nobody is around; promises whispered against sweaty skin again and again. The yearning and secrets; the desires and the lies. The pain that accompanies love, made worse by the need for secrecy. The need; the want. The smoldering looks and heated words.  The constant need, never to fully be satisfied. The one sin they will always commit. Lust.

Pride
It was ironic, he thought as he stared unseeing at the stone walls. All his life he was a coward; hiding behind his Father or Goyle. Yet the one time he truly needed help ad his pride decided to kick in. So maybe he was an idiot for spitting (literally) at the one person who saw through the façade and tried to help him. He groaned, though whether at the pain or the fact that he had admitted he was unintelligent he wasn’t sure. He let out a slightly harsh laugh as the blackness began to close in. Damn pride.

Sloth
“We have to get up.” A muffled groan answered his statement. “We really do you know. We can’t lay in bed all day.” This time he was rewarded with sleepy eyes. “Why not?” He sighed. “It’s lazy.” A shrug and then a pleading look. “Dray, come back to bed.” The temptation was overwhelming, and when he held his arms like that and made that face that was both debauched and innocent it suffocated him until he was curled under the covers once more. One day in bed couldn’t hurt; he thought as he nestled into the warmth that was Harry. 

Wrath
He could always make his blood boil. A single look and he was instantly on edge with heat and adrenaline mixing and pumping through him. One word and he was beyond rational conversation. He was the only one to make the normally level-headed so irrational. And he still is. May Merlin help whoever insults Draco.

He always made him lose control. One look from those bright eyes and he wanted to shut them permanently. One word and he was livid. A touch and all thoughts fled his mind. That was then. Now he’s like that to whoever touches his Harry.

A/N I was seeing how I could do with a set word limit and these are the results. Eventually I hope to have different pairings have their own Seven Deadly Sins. And now I'm finally  off to bed.

Name: More than Enough
Rating: G
Warnings: Fluff
Summary: Hated by all, loved by one. And really, that’s more than enough for him.

Nobody liked him. He knew this, and most of the time it didn’t bother him. He could ignore the snide comments and heated glares directed at him and, for the times worse came to worse, he could give as good as he got. 

The entire wizarding world hated him for who he was and what he did, but he could ignore it. Because every night he went to a house and to that one wizard with the entrancing green eyes that loved him more than everyone, himself included, felt he deserved. And really that was more than enough for him.

“Do you even care?” The softly spoken words, so different from the screams that had just recently ended, froze him as he stepped out of the house. He turned slightly and looked back, wincing at the silent tears streaming from hurt blue eyes. With only slight irritation at the thought of missing work he stepped back inside and slid the door shut. “Of course I-“ A scoff cut him off before he could finish the gentle (for him) statement. “I don’t think you do.” He opened his mouth to respond but the words didn’t come fast enough as the shutting of a door reached his ears. A moment later it opened again. “I’m staying with a friend tonight.” The door was shut again. He sighed and went to bed.

His dreams were filled with memories. He remembered their first kiss; the one that, no matter how accidental, had sent shivers running down his spine. He remembered their first fight, and how he was impressed that the so called idiot could ever even come close to him. He remembered the vow to become stronger, and the silent promise he made to himself to always be better. He remembered when he first acknowledged the other as ‘friend’ and the easy smile that spoke more than words ever could. 

He remembered when he left. He remembered when he was drug back. He remembered falling back into companionship and refusing to notice the way they were changing; the way he was changing. He remembered watching the sun bounce off of golden hair and the way the eyes sparkled with every emotion. He remembered the desire to see that spark as often as possible. He remembered swimming and how he couldn’t tear his eyes from the naked chest before him. He remembered that fight, and the first kiss done almost-on purpose.

He remembered the awkward questions and uneasy dates at the beginning. He remembered the kisses and touches that he still couldn’t get enough of. He remembered when they moved in together. He remembered waking up to the smell of breakfast each morning; always the same for him and then ramen. He remembered the teasing banter that he now knew was flirting. He remembered lying in bed and listening to that soft voice talk about everything. He remembered how the other feels beneath him, breath coming in pants and making speech impossible while they gripped one another almost desperately. Even in dreams he sighed contently and never wanted to wake. And then they changed.

He remembered the first fight they had when they were dating; he had forgotten they had a date and then brushed it off. He remembered the time he worked late on their one year anniversary and the yelling that followed, though the tear stained pillow he had found the next morning had been much worse. He remembered the time he had walked in and found Sakura in a compromising position with his. He remembered how he didn’t listen to the explanations until Sakura had slammed him into a wall and shoved the pictures she had been taking in his face. ‘For you!’ she had shrieked as bemused passer-by’s paused to watch. ‘We were going to put them in different places so you would find one at random times! It was thoughtful!’ She had stormed off. 

He had looked at the pictures that would make a porn star green with envy. He hadn’t apologized. They never brought it up again. He realized every fight they ever had was his fault. He realized he never apologized. He realized one day he would lose the only person to ever challenge him and love him for the fucked up person he was instead of the God everyone thought they knew. He decided he was never doing this sell assessment thing again; the truth reared its unsightly head and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. He fought against the next memory, and he gradually woke up.

The first thing he heard was quiet sobbing, followed by his name choked through the tears. He felt the bed dip and tears splash onto his face as their owner leaned to look at him. ‘I hate you…’ His heart paused in its beating. ‘But I love you.’ It resumed at a faster pace than before. He couldn’t lose his sun. He needed it too much. After all, wasn’t the moon simply a reflection on its radiating beauty? He felt the bed move as the other went to get off, and he panicked. With a blurted something he opened his eyes as pulled the other down for a surprise kiss. After a moment they relaxed and he reluctantly pulled away.

They stared at each other, his hands holding the other in place. “I’m…” He couldn’t say it. The apology wouldn’t come out. He cleared his throat. It still wouldn’t come. He was a Uchiha dammit. They didn’t apologize because they were never wrong. Tired blue eyes shut briefly before they opened again. “It’s alright; I understand. You don’t have to say anything.” But he did, and he suddenly realized that. “I’m sorry.” Both paused as the words forced themselves out. His lover radiated relief and happiness. “I’m sorry.” They came easier and the smile grew wider, and suddenly he knew he would be content it say only those two words for the rest of his life if it made that smile come out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  

Sometime during this he had sat up and was leaning over the blond; he had never felt smaller. With a softer smile the shorter pulled him down into a soft kiss, no more than the brush of lips on lips. “I love you Sasuke, and I know you love me, but throw a guy a bone every now and then, hmm? I swear I won’t tell anyone if you actually show emotion.” He smirked at the irritated look he received and Sasuke felt his anger vanish.  

For a moment he allowed his eyes to soften as he reached up to cradle the whiskered cheeks with tenderness he hated to show. “I love you Naruto.” He pressed his forehead to the others, nuzzling the cheek and smiling at the embarrassed flush as the other jerked his head to the side with a smile. “Shut up bastard.” He grabbed the hands still on his cheeks and pulled them down, still grinning even as he kissed him again and again and again.

It was autumn, the leaves a rainbow of colors and a chilly wind blowing across the sky. Clouds hung as if made from clay, dark against the lighter blue sky which peeked through the cracks. Oh yes, I remembered that day quite clearly. Two weeks after I had confessed my love, two weeks of the excruciating pain of unknowing, we had met. ‘I’m not sure what to say about this.’ He had said under the red and gold tree that decorated the park. ‘I need to think about this, you understand?’ I had understood; of course he had. ‘However long you need.’ That had been my naïve reply. ‘Give me three months. Three months should be long enough for my decision. We can meet back here. Three months.’ With that he had turned and walked away, hands in is pockets as I stared after him.

Three months later I had been in the same spot, as soon as the park had opened. I sat under the tree, my pad in hand, and wrote about the people passing me as I waited. It was much colder then, with a soft frost on the ground. The trees were stripped bare; snow fell in handfuls from the cloudy sky. Before too long I was chilled enough to want to leave. But I stayed until the sun had long vanished beneath the hills. Only then, when it was past midnight and the day had fled like a thief, had I left. I suffered for my devotion with a rough bout of pneumonia for the next month. It was during that time I decided I would go back, in three months time.

It had been six months since that fateful day when he had requested a mere three. I was back under the tree, a blanket beneath me and an umbrella above. Not many people were out on this day, so I sat in the cold rain and waited. I reminisced as I waited, and almost before I knew it the sun had sat on yet another day of disappointment. Yet it was as if a curse had been set in motion, for even as I left I knew within three months I would return yet again. I was correct.

July was a hot month, and the park was full of people laughing and running around. Kids ran to and fro under the fountain which bubbled before me, laughing as the cold water cooled their sweating bodies. The Festival had landed on this day, and I watched as countless balloons soured to the heavens above. The smell of candy apples mingled with everything else, and that night a brilliant show of fireworks lit up the sky. As I left after the crowds of people, my only regret was being too distracted to truly enjoy myself.

I did not sit down, when I returned on the three month mark. I wasn’t planning on staying long at all this time. I took a deep breath, leaning against the scratchy bark of the tree, now losing leaves as it had done a year ago. I started with that thought. Had it really and truly been a year since he had requested that time? Had I honestly waited and hoped for a year? It hardly seemed like that long, yet at the same time it felt an eternity. I sighed and let my head drop back, slowly sliding down the tree until I was seated. I pulled my coat closer to my body, seeking heat I knew I would not find. I sighed again, a weary and defeated sigh. I remembered that day quite clearly, and every three month mark after that one as well.

“It took me a while longer then I had originally asked for.” I open my eyes slowly and tilt my head; eyes squinted against the sun and staring at the man before me. “May I?” he inquires, tilting his head to the place beside me. I nod and he sits, and finally I get my first look at him in almost a year. He sighs and rakes a hand through his black hair. We sit in silence, watching as people oblivious to our coursing emotions walk on. “I came every three months.” He says finally, and I turn to look at him. “I didn’t believe you were serious, but I came anyway. I wasn’t expecting you to be there, but I stayed even when you left. The next three months I came too, again surprised you were there. By this time I believed you, but I didn’t believe you could care for me. I seem to have issues with that.” He pauses again and sighs, his green eyes finally sweeping to meet my grey ones. “But I kinda realized if you cared enough to keep coming even after a year, you could probably deal with that.” His eyes leave mine to gaze at the ground. “I know it’s too late to say this, but I thought you should know I love you too.” He stands up, but I grab his hand, forcing him back down. “So where do we go from here?” I question him, not relinquishing my grip. He smiles, relief coursing through his eyes. “Wherever you want, Dray.”

You come to me in the dark of night, silent and creeping like the spy you are. It kills me how I want you, yet at the same time am utterly repulsed. How can one have such conflicting emotions? I try not to ponder such things when you are there, as I know how little time before you must return yet again to your little friends. How soon it will be before I will become just another shadow in your life, to be ignored in the light and worshipped under the cover of the night.

So I bask in the moment we have together; memorize the words whispered against my ear. Etch each second into my memory, to reply the next day. To remember when you ignore, and often insult, me in view of everyone. I remember how your eyes look now, so when they are filled with false hatred I can replace them with what they are now.

Waiting for you is torture in itself. The minutes tick by, and since communication between us is impossible our nightly meeting are more spontaneous then anything. But you come, each and every time. Then the torture doubles itself, as I am aware of each minute as it races by. Time is a horrid thief, I remember somebody telling me that one day. I could not agree more. Then you’re leaving, apologies and promises mumbled against my lips. After that, when the door is closed firmly again and I know it will be another day and half the night before I see you again, is when the pain comes. I never asked for this, I tell myself over and over. Yet in a sense I did. That knowledge brings me little sleep for many nights.

Each time you come it becomes more difficult to keep our little secret. I don’t want you to go, and I see in your eyes you don’t want to as well. But we both have no choice in the matter. We knew starting out how intricate our relationship, if we had one, would be. People such as ourselves do not get involved with each other the way we have. But I presume that is exactly why we are in the position we are in. We have never been much for rules, you and I. That is our greatest triumph; yet also our greatest downfall. I make a pact with myself after yet another long goodbye. Next time, it shan’t be as long an ordeal.

You seem confused and a bit hurt when I tell you goodbye and turn away. You say you shall not leave until you understand what’s going on. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, and I find myself at a loss for what to do. Then the words tumble out. How I cannot do what we have been doing the past year or so any longer. You understand; I can see that. The pain I feel seems to be reflected back to me. You promise something will change. I tell you it must, for continuing our secret tryst will surely be the death of one, if not both, of us. You tell me not to talk that way. You’ll do something, you promise. Give you three days and you’ll think of something just don’t give up on you. I say I never do, nor will I ever truly. You leave much later then usual that night, and I lie awake.

The next day you are waiting by the double doors, and you fall into step with me as I pass. I glance at you curiously, yet you just smile and continue walking. We walk past my table, and when I falter in confusion you grab my head and pull me along. My table falls silent, eyes wide in astonishment. As we pass another table it too lapses into a slightly bemused quiet. Finally we make it to yours. Every eye is now on us, and all noise has ceased. You sit down, pulling me with you. “Hermione,” you say “meet my boyfriend for the past year.” Hermione smiles, slightly confused I’m sure, and offers a hand, which I manage to take through my daze. “Ron, this is Draco.” Your friend sputters slightly, turning red in the process. I manage to withhold my laughter. “It’s a pleasure.” I murmur. And suddenly, just like that, we are no longer keeping a secret.

You come to me in the dark of night, silent and creeping like you did only a few months ago. It’s killing me how much I want you, yet at the same time I’m content to simply watch your body at work. How can one have such conflicting emotions? I try not to ponder such things, and suddenly you are there beside me. It’s still a shock to know you are mine for however long I want you; all night if I feel the need. But for now I shut down all thoughts. I bask in the moment, memorizing every word whispered huskily into my ear. I etch the seconds into memory as time slips by, a thief no longer. I remember how the sheets feel rubbing against one side of my body with you on the other. I commit to memory every little detail, so I can replay them tomorrow when I’m gazing into the hatred-filled eyes of those I use to call my friends. At this thought I laugh, knowing that for every eye full of hate there is now one filled with friendship. And one brilliant green pair with love.

I remember how heavy he was, his unconscious form weighing me down until it was a struggle to even stagger. Yet I would not let go. Even as flames licked at us, their fiery bite scorching my robes the way his words had only moments before, I struggled to place us both atop a charred desk and cowered from the flames, his large body behind my lithe one as if I could stop the unquenchable fire. He had been the closest thing to a friend, even if he had been cornered into turning on me at the end. I couldn’t let go. I felt the smoke start to choke me; my eyesight started to blur with tears. Then there he was.

I remember the green fire blazing in his eyes, and how the Fiendfyre seemed to dim under their very gaze. How he swooped down, amidst the flames, to reach out his hand for me to take. How he risked his life, and even his friends, to save mine. I remember how his hand felt in mine. How his large hands enveloped my slender ones; how rough they were against my own. The contrast of our skin tones, dark against light. How his jaw set in determination when my hand slipped away, and how I knew he wouldn’t stop until he had me. I remember how thrilled that made me, even amidst the fear that threatened to overpower me.

I remember how the weight suddenly left from my arms, and how I sagged as he lifted me so easily behind him. How his muscles moved so smoothly beneath my hands as he began to navigate us away. I remember how he never said a word when I clutched too tightly to him, and how he looked at me with a small, satisfied smile before turning to continue the fight. I remember how I lied, cowering yet again as the masked figure cornered me. How all I wanted was to live. Fuck my Father’s ‘master’; I wanted my mother. I remember how the figure fell, only seconds before I did, blood pouring from my bleeding mouth. How relieved I was when I saw his body-less feet running past me, and heard his horrible friend’s voice. How they seemed to pause for a moment when I gave him a confused smile. I could imagine him looking me over to make sure it wasn’t serious before nodding softly. I realize it was there I realized I was wrong about him the whole time, about him being a golden child. And I remember how I ran and hid after that incident, like the coward I would always be.

I remember watching the battles from my hiding place; behind a door with so many protection spells I knew I was safe. How the battle raged on against the ones in mask, how everyone cried when his limp form was carried in, and how I could barely see for tears cascading down my cheeks. I remember the horrible shouts, and everyone rebelling him, while the feeling of humiliation washed over me. How could they defy him while I cowered and their leader lay dead before them? But then he was gone and there was a battle yet again, so fast my eyes couldn’t follow it all. There was a Weasel fighting Aunt Bellatrix, and now there the dark haired woman was, falling to never again rise. I remember how I couldn’t summon even a bit of sympathy for her; only shell-shocked relief and mild amusement. How the voice in my head laughed at the irony; apparently muggle-born’s couldn’t be so bad after all. Minute’s later complete silence fell through the hall as our leader fought against theirs. I remember how shocked I was to hear myself thinking that; us against them. And I remember how shocked he looked when he fell, yet our leader remained upright and victorious. I remember being strangely pleased I had been able to help, even if it was insignificant. I remember the aftermath, him glancing around and his eyes resting on me before moving away with a satisfied nod. I remember how the feeling washed over me, and how only now could I recognize it for what it was.

I remember all of this in less than a second, gazing into his glowing eyes that still manage to make me forget how to breath properly; the eyes that are so foreign, and yet so familiar. I dart my eyes to his side, to his wife. His children run wild around the platform. I manage a cordial nod even as feelings I want buried resurface with surprising intensity. He returns the nod with a small smile, and I manage to look away, a hand on my own child’s head. The women beside me smiles fleetingly before slipping her hand into mine. She understands when no other can. My child’s mother, my wife, my confident, and even my friend. But she is not my love, who is currently turning away to speak to the red-haired woman at his side.

The memories rush back.  

Name: It started with an Insult
Word Count: 2,243
Rating: PG to PG-13
Warnings: Homosexual relations, mild language
Prompt: Letters
Summary: Somebody is writing to Harry.
A/N: I really don't like this, but I figured I could get feedback.






Gryffindork,

Hello you. How was the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor game today? You won of course? Honestly I expect no less. You must be wondering who I am. It must be driving you crazy. I bet you think I’m not in your house. But what if I am? I am smart enough to pull that off you know, if I am a Gryffindork. Maybe I’m not though. Have you thought about that?

I actually just wanted to tell you how great you looked today at Hogsmeade. That green sweater looked amazing on you. You should have been sorted to Slytherin. You look stunning in green.

See, the truth is I am in Slytherin. So I can’t gush about you like everyone else. I wouldn’t even if I could. Family pride you know. However, I would love to converse with you this way. Please respond immediately in the third suit of armor, on the second floor on the left by tomorrow.

The Rabbit

Slytherin,

I figured that title was enough of an insult. What the hell? I get a letter saying to look in the armor and I find…that? The game was great, and I did win thank you very much. So you have high expectations of me. I dunno whether to feel honored or creeped. Actually, I could give a damn less. You are probably another one of those stupid fan girls. But you write…different. And the envelope is odd as well. So maybe you aren’t a fan girl.

Thank you. I happen to think that shade of green matches my eyes. I do have fashion sense, even if I don’t use it often. Most like me do.

As for this ‘family pride’ I wonder: what is it like? As you doubtlessly know, I have no family to compare the feeling to. It seems everyone knows about that. I feel like an idiot responding to this, but I’ve always been an idiot, so here it is.

The Raven   

Gitffindor,

Ouch, that was a bit harsh was it not? Which I can’t say anything, as I might have deserved it. I knew you would win. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. I am not, as you put, a ‘stupid fan girl’. Actually, I’m not even a girl.

There I said it. That’s why I can’t come right out and say how great you look. That and other reasons, you do understand.

Most like you hmm? What exactly are you then, since you seem to not be classified as normal. Which, golden boy and all, you were never normal.

Family pride was invented to drive people like me, who wish they weren’t born into such wonderful families, bloody insane. If you had parents like mine you would understand, but your mother died for you so I doubt you get it. You are actually lucky; my mum would be the one killing me.

Oh, and who taught you handwriting skills? You could never pass for a girl. And I notice you told the Weasel and girl about me? The reaction was priceless.

Oh, and what is with that name. The Raven?

The Rabbit

Rabbit,

You are a guy? Well that does explain the handwriting and the envelope. Yes, the whole family pride thing. Most like me would be very few in the wizarding world, though I’m beginning to think you are one too. As Ron so politely put it when I told him, I’m a fag. Though I bet you are too.

So you wish you weren’t born into your family? I just wish I hadn’t lived when everyone else died. It’s a bit depressing really, having everyone rely on you all the time. I’ve never been called lucky, but I am glad to see that someone understand that not only A) Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and B) I’m actually very miserable and wish to be normal.

Yes I told Ron and Herm about you. I’ll agree their reactions were priceless. I would have paid to see them from your viewpoint.

My handwriting sucks, we all know it, deal. You wrote me, not the other way around.

I don’t want anyone to know who I am, in case someone else finds the letters.

So,

The Raven.

Raven,

So we are past silly comments now are we? It is about time. I’ll admit you are both smarter, and a bit more cunning, then I gave you credit for. It’s a rare time when somebody throws my wit right back at me. Do you have any money on that wager, because if so you just won the jackpot. Congratulations, we have a winner.

Yes, I’ve always believed you were given far too much credit for simply living. Not that it isn’t something amazing, you understand. It is. But still, I get tired of always hearing your name.

Again, your wit is stunning. I actually had to check the envelope to make sure I hadn’t written it. I always choked on my potatoes when I saw Weasel turn purple and choke. And Muddy actually dropped her book? Wow, what true friends. Wish I know what that was like.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t sarcasm, thanks. Ah, so a Slytherin is a fag just like is Gryffindors. Stunning really. What would your housemates say?

They’d be appalled.

Yes, I have always agreed with you. It’s ridiculous the amount of attention I get, honestly. It isn’t amazing, not really. It sucks and nobody can see that. And I get tired of seeing my own name on every magazine too.

Wow, you are getting better at the insults. I thank you for at least trying to be nice to my friends. True friends are something I never had before I came here, and most Slytherins aren’t exactly best friend material.

Raven

Raven,

You looked up words in a dictionary, did you not? Not that I’m complaining at all, since it’s easier to understand you now. Yes, I’m a fag. No, nobody except you knows. And you wouldn’t tell them. Or maybe you would. You are different then I originally thought.

I thought you enjoyed the attention. Apparently you hate it as much as I hate you getting it.

I figured since you hadn’t insulted my ‘friends’ or stopped replying, I could at least drop the cold front.

So what made you a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin? You seem to have excellent qualities of both.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

Yes I did and I also learned a nifty spell that fixed stupid mistakes. I would tell them, however I happen to enjoy our talks so I won’t. You are worth more alive at the moment.

Oh yes, I enjoy having every aspect of my live twisted until it doesn’t even sound like me.

Cold front huh? I have one of those. Of course, mine is a warm front so people don’t understand what I’d rather be doing then talking to them. I hate having to carry the title “Golden Boy”

Honestly, it was a person I met on the train. Surely you know Draco Malfoy? The Ice Prince of Slytherin, I’ve heard. I refused to go to Slytherin because that’s where he was. Stupid I suppose, especially since lately. Have you seen him?

So who in this castle do you like?

Raven

Raven,

Nifty? Honestly nobody but you would use that word. I thank you for allowing me to live. So our Savior does do compassion occasionally. But he wishes he didn’t? More Slytherin daily.

I can imagine. It must suck to have to pretend to be good all the time. We all know you aren’t of course.

Draco Malfoy? Who doesn’t know him? He has the title Ice Prince? I didn’t know that bit of information. It wasn’t stupid I suppose. You just didn’t take his thoughts into consideration you heartless bastard you. Yes, I’ve seen him, and yes he is sexy.

I would tell you, but you know them too well for my liking. They would find out in just me telling you.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

Yes, maybe I should have been in Slytherin. Of course, I have to hate them. It’s part of the Gryffindor Code of Honour or some shit like that.

Isn’t he though? I don’t think he is as bad as everyone thinks. I think he’s had just as shitty a life as I have. But he adapted differently. I saw him after the Quidditch game last night. He was standing on the field while the sun set and I swear he looked angelic. It was beautiful. He is beautiful and yet we’re enemies. How did that happen?

So you like me then? Why?

Raven

 Raven,

Code of Honour? Sounds like a Boy Scout troop or something. Dirty mouth mister. I’m appalled really.

He has had a bad life. Imagine it from his side of things. I mean, maybe he doesn’t want to serve the Dark Lord, but he doesn’t know how to say no to his father because when he was young he was beat when he did. I just mean, what if?

Maybe it happened when you refused his hand on the train. He was offering friendship and you refused. But maybe he shouldn’t have insulted the only friend you had known hmm? If he offered it now, would you refuse?

Why? You have that rugged, rough look. The hair that won’t stay in place and the bright green eyes makes you gorgeous.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

So you are close to him? I’m not sure whether pity or envy is in order. Maybe a bit of both. That sounds like my life, only it wasn’t my father who beat me.

No, I wouldn’t. Of course, I’d be skeptical but if he proved he was serious I would shake his hand.

Rough and rugged look huh? So somebody isn’t into romance. I never would have picked the word ‘gorgeous’ to describe me but alright.

Raven

Raven,

Yes, very close. His only true friend really. Both is certainly in order, as he can be a whiny bastard at times. It sounds like you have a lot in common really.

How could he prove himself serious?

Romance is important, it’s just not the only thing in the world you understand.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

He offered me his hand right after a Quidditch game today. I had won and was gloating, as usual, and he just held out a hand. I’m pretty sure I shook it, but my brain forgot how to function. I thought Ron was going to have a heart attack.

Yes, I actually do. Besides, who can’t be a whiny bastard at times?

Raven

Raven,

You took it. He was pretty ecstatic too. So I suppose he proved himself huh? I thought - Ron was it? - Was going to die as well. It was a funny sight though.

I suppose you are right.

Rabbit

Rabbit,

You seem to know a lot about him. I thank you for using his name. It actually meant a good bit to me. Do you suppose I could actually find out who you are any time soon?

Raven

Raven,

You do know who I am stupid git. Maybe you aren’t as smart as I thought. Lots of homework so I can’t write much.

Rabbit

Draco,

So how was the game today? You won I expect? I honestly would be ashamed if you didn’t. You are the best Seeker, next to me. See, I am smart. I just choose not to be at times.

Just so you know if you don’t respond I shall be forced to come up to you at lunch and ask why you haven’t. Or I’ll send you a Howler with our letters recorded inside. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade this weekend if you’ve been serious about all of this.

Harry

Harry walked slowly through the slushy mixture that made up the ground. How he had managed to actually ditch Ron and Hermione was still a mystery to him, yet he had managed.

The Three Broomsticks was fast approaching, and he slowed his pace. What he had been thinking when he agreed to meet Draco here was beyond him, yet it was too late to back out now.

Realizing he had been standing at the door for a good while, he took a breath and went inside. Warm air immediately hit him as he sat at an empty table.

“Potter,” A voice sounded suddenly as Harry was pulling off his scarf. He turned and gave an almost smile. “Malfoy. Have a seat, will you?” Draco sat across from him and neither said a word. “It took a lot for me to get away so you can start.” Harry said, settling back and looking at him expectantly. “What do you want me to say Potter?” Draco spat, crossing his arms. “It’s Harry, and you can start with anything.” As if somebody had turned on the heat Draco’s façade melted away. “Harry then, alright I can do that.” He swallowed and began.

“See Ron, I told you.” Hermione said with a cheeky grin as they looked through the foggy windows of the Three Broomsticks. “I can’t bloody believe it.” Was the only response she received. “Come along then, and we’ll see how your brothers’ are doing. They wanted to know when Harry was officially out after all.” Ron allowed himself to be steered off, muttering phrases such as ‘surrounded’ and ‘bloody hell’.

Name: Insecurities

Word Count: 268

Rating: PG to PG-13

Warnings: Homosexual Relations, slight cursing

Prompt: Use of a song by Aerosmith

Summary: Music may soothe the savage beast, but can it also soothe a rocky relationship?

A/N: This could possibly turn into a WIP

Footsteps echoed in the strangely quiet kitchen. It had been a while since it had been this quiet in the house. With a barely audible sigh the black-haired youth walked to the blessed coffee maker and put on a pot. He sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs that adorned the kitchen table and sighed again. This was getting ridiculous. Damn Draco and his insecurities. It was tearing Harry apart, however slowly it was happening. The pot dinged its readiness and Harry gratefully fixed himself a cup before returning to his seat. It wasn’t too long after that a blonde head bobbed beneath the doorway and into the kitchen.

His headphones were clamped firmly over his ears and his head nodded to the beat. Harry looked up hopefully. He hadn’t seen Draco since their fight almost a week before. But it didn’t seem like they’d be talking today either. His dejected form slumped further into the chair as he watched Draco start to leave again. “Draco, I love you.” He said, but Draco just continued his head nodding as he left. Harry stared at the doorway, and burst into tears.

In the hallway Draco sighed and paused his song. He shut his eyes for a blissful moment, recalling Harry’s words to him. He knew he couldn’t stay mad at Harry for much longer. Actually, he decided, he’d make it up to him tonight. With a satisfied almost-smile he returned to his music.

“'Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you, babe
And I don't Wanna miss a thing”

Name: Hidden Relations
Rated: Pg
Author: flawless_beauti {Me}
Word count: 210
Disclaimer: Harry and Draco belong to J.K Rowling, and as that is not my name, I can assume I don't own them.

Warnings: Character death, H/D, possibly angst
A/N: My first story and the plot-bunnies torture me with this angst and serious thing. >_< Comments are welcomed.

I’m losing my mind. I must be. It’s the only logical explanation for what is going through my head. These thoughts are rushing about and colliding with each other in a never ending torrent, driving me insane. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I’m losing him. I see it every time I visit. He’s gone a little more each day, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing except watch, and wish it was me. His skin is so pale now it’s unnerving. He almost fades into the white sheets. His resemblance is so strikingly close to that of a ghost it makes me want to scream. This was never supposed to happen.

No progress is being made. Nobody even looks at me anymore as I make my way to his side. I’m here so often even the other patients know me by name. I clasp his pale hand in mine as he slips further out of my reach, and pray for death in a way I never knew existed.

He spoke to me today. He awoke briefly while the bustle had calmed down, and I was alone with him. The pain in his eyes is so similair to my own I feel my heart break. And with him is the only place I can truly show it. We cry together as reality becomes too much to bear.

The funeral was today. I thought I was going to die with him, yet I’m still here. In a way I suppose I did die along beside him, but my body refuses to acknowledge it. There are no sneers or smirks today; no snide comments to be heard to anybody. Only tears and grief and sorrow; so much sorrow it makes the air heavy. He’s lowered into the ground and I go on auto-pilot. I can’t show how much it hurts. Nobody ever knew of our hidden relations after all.

I go to him everyday. I stare down at the stone, fresh, clean, and decorated with flowers that will never wilt. I talk to him, and I know he hears me. He’s always heard me, even before I heard myself. I go to him everyday, even though I die even more than I thought possible each time. I go to him, even though I break down into tears before leaving. I go to him, because I loved him. I loved the green-eyed golden boy who never knew which side he belonged on. Maybe that’s why we were so close.

We were so much alike, after all.