I was dismayed to find that I'd made some unnecessary duplications in trying to get all the words/ideas into the drabbles, at least once, but I keep reminding myself that it's "Fifteen minutes and NO BETAS" on these things. Meh.
Plaintive, Luminary, Susurrus -- Remus/Sirius (challenge by cluegirl)
The nights are hell.
Remus knows what hell is now: Hell is not Sartre's other people; it is not even the absence of people. Hell is not brimstone or flame or nice geometrical divisions of sins and punishments.
Hell is dusk, when the candles in the parlor are poor luminaries to replace the comfort sunlight brings during the day. Hell is evening, when every susurrus of the old house is the voice of a ghost pleading to be heard, and gone the next moment. Hell is night, when there are no barriers between oneself and one's thoughts, and might-have-beens and should-have-dones and never-will-be-agains.
"I didn't get to tell him good-bye," Remus says plaintively to the quiet air.
There is no one to hear, and no one to witness him weeping.
Ornamental, taste, windowpane - Harry/Ron (challenge by isolde)
"Ginny had fun," said Ron.
"I think so." Harry was uncharacteristically hanging his robes up instead of tossing them on the floor, but then, these were formal and rented. "At least a dozen older witches told me how good we looked together."
Ron's reply came around a mouthful of toothpaste, but Harry understood it anyway: "You jus' go' a thing for re'heads."
"You're sure she didn't mind?" Harry asked for the thousandth time. "Being...you know...window-dressing?"
"Don' be--" *spit*--"daft. She's happy to do us favors. And she likes dressing up."
"Besides," added Ron. "she's still my little sister. I can put a toad in her bed if she refuses. D'you want to open that window; it's stuffy in here."
Nighttime rituals nearly completed, the two climbed into bed.
And, too tired for anything more that night, shared the last one:
"'Night, Harry." Kiss.
"'Night, you sexy redhead."
Draco/Ron, forgiveness, accident, delicate (challenge by goseaward)
"I've come to beg your forgiveness," said Draco.
"Why?" said Ron.
"Because it was an accident."
"No, I mean, why should I forgive you?"
Draco thought. "Because it was an accident," he repeated, stressing the first word just a bit differently.
"And I have very delicate feelings. So you should forgive me before I go and throw myself off the astronomy tower."
"Draco--" Ron shifted in the infirmary bed. "--it is very hard to cast a furnunculus charm onto someone's bum by accident."
"I know. Very, very hard. I had to practice for weeks before I could manage it accidentally. Am I forgiven yet?"
"Jesus. You know--"
"Right. Astronomy Tower. Tell my father I never loved him." He turned to go.
Ron caught Draco's sleeve. "Git. Give me a kiss. And don't mess up my pillows. It still hurts to sit."
Limpid, Apotheosis, Surcease -- Snape/Harry (challenge by cluegirl)
And so it has come to this.
Two days ago, Potter reached a hand out for his, and used what was surely his last conscious act to curl his fingers about Snape's.
Snape has not moved his hand in those two days. None have tried to make him do so.
He sees the remainder of his own days stretching out before him: untroubled, limpid. No one to disturb their neat order. No one to make a beloved nuisance of himself within that calendar.
No boy less than half his age climbing in and out of his bed, his rooms, his life.
Such a hideous apotheosis is not to be borne.
He watches Potter's chest rise and fall in breaths that come with ever more space between them.
Snape waits, not for death, it seems, but mere...surcease.
For both of them.