anythingbutgrey | HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON

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HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON

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Harry Potter Non-Canon Ships Comment Ficathon

THE RULES ARE THUS:

1. WHAT MAKES A NON-CANON SHIP? Anything that is not at least one-sided in the books. This means that Snape/Lily is canon, even if she may (or may not) have ever reciprocated. Bellatrix/Voldemort is canon. Lavendar/Ron is canon. Obviously everyone who's married and/or dates is canon. OBHWF is canon, Harry/Cho is canon. Ships that are not stated as fact in the books are not canon. That means UC ships are good, slash is good, femslash is good. For our purposes, we are not counting JKR's interviews as canon. That means that if you wanted to prompt, say, who knows, Hannah/Neville, you could, because it's not in the text itself.

2. You leave a comment with a pairing and a prompt. You respond to prompts that you like. Your prompt must pertain to a non-canon ship. You may specify a character within that ship if you want the fic written from that characters perspective. You may also specify a timeline if you'd like, or if you want it to take place in the movie!verse.

3. When writing fic, put in your title SHIP - TITLE OF FIC (rating optional). This will help us archive if we later archive things. I don't have time to archive anything right now, but if someone wants to volunteer, we can make that happen.

4. LEAVE FEEDBACK. Comments are the lifeblood of the internet.

5. NO WANK. I'll delete your ass. And we're dealing with ships and I am deletion happy, so watch yourself.

6. There will be spoilers for the movie all over this post, I am sure. You have been warned.

7. Promote this if you please. You can use this code:

For text link:

In the image code box, you can use any of the banners below or the lead banner at the top of the post.

They're all uploaded to tinypic, so you can just copy/paste the source code:

eleusis_walks

superkappa

by

lenina20:

If you want to make your own banner, please post it here.

Have fun!

ETA:

effingeden has graciously offered to archive our prompts and fic here. Thanks so much!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

no pressure but I would love to see what you could come up with...

oh, animal collective.
oh, this pairing.
i am so tempted.

Sirius/Regulus - You're going to watch out for yourself / and so will I.

this is amazing, now i have to ship it..

i.

You are five years old and you are curious, impossibly curious, so when you watch Mary Poppins for the third day in a row it seems perfectly natural to wonder. So, like a miniature scientist you devise an experiment. You retrieve your father’s grand black umbrella from its stand in the foyer, carefully climb onto the porch roof from your bedroom window, and jump. It is not until your knees are bloody with gravel and your parents are screaming that you realize your curiosity may have led you astray.

Later, after your mother has washed and bandaged your knees, your father pulls down a large book from the shelf (an encyclopedia, he calls it, and the word is tricky on your tongue but you practice it again and again). He lets you turn the pages, stopping finally on gravity, and your tiny mouth hangs open because it seems almost magical that the answers to all of your questions are right there on those crisp white pages.

Waiting for you.

So you beg your father to take down all of the encyclopedias from off the shelf and that night you diligently haul them up to your bedroom, two by two. You choose one from the pile (‘H’ for Hermione) and climb up onto your bed, propping your pillow against the headboard. Then you carefully, painstakingly remove the bandages from your knees (your mother’s fretful words ring in your ears: you are going to be left with scars), and prop the book up against your angled thighs.

(When you look at the matching blemishes on your knees you can still hear the crack of the spine as you split the pages to reveal hummingbird. It is a perfect memory.)

ii.

You catch yourself staring at it in the mirror again and again. After you shower, as you dress, before you go to sleep: the puckered pink star that glows against the white expanse of your chest. You can still feel Dolohov’s curse hitting you -- crushing against your chest and stealing your breath -- and sometimes you are amazed that this is all you have to show for it.

You’ve been fighting this battle (war, you think, it will become a war) with Harry for years, but this time you have the mark to prove it -- a talisman of sorts, seared directly into your flesh. You wonder how many more marks your skin will earn as you step forward to fight with Harry over and over again.

As long as he needs you.

Until the very end.

You wonder if someday you will die for this boy who lived. They will bury you in satin, you think, and your scars will bear a silent witness that you were, perhaps, in love with an impossible boy who (somehow) taught you so much more than books ever could.

You press your palm against the star -- against your heart -- and you take a deep, full breath. You remind yourself that there are things worth dying for.

iii.

Harry sets the jar down on the bedside table gingerly. You can feel his gaze travel over your curled up frame, but you keep your eyes hidden against the pillow.
“It’s Essence of Murtlap,” he says, his voice raw and uncertain. “I remembered that you gave it to me during fifth year.”

He hesitates when you don’t answer, then sits down gingerly on the bed next to you. His weight pulls down the edge of the mattress and your body tilts toward him, knobby knees digging into a too thin back. He is about to reach for the jar when you stop him, your cold fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“It will make you feel better, Hermione,” he insists, his voice gentle.

But you don’t want to feel better. You don’t want to be soothed. Your arm throbs with bone-deep pain and the warped letters burn scarlet against the backs of your lids when you close your eyes, but you don’t mind. Because that is how you remember.

So you pull Harry’s hand away from the murtlap and slowly, carefully begin to trace out the letters on his hand with the pad of your thumb (you think you hear his breath catch when you linger over lies). Then you lift your hand to brush aside his hair and trace the jagged bolt with your fingertip.

“I don’t want it to fade,” you whisper, finally lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t want to forget.”

He stares at you for a long time before nodding in understanding. Then he squeezes your hand gently, and you sit with your fingers intertwined until Fleur comes to fetch you for dinner.

iv.

It happens in a muggle library, of all places. Your mother has been begging you to join her book club (it’s a kind of magic we can share, she insists), so there you are, searching the stacks for Mrs. Dalloway while Harry peers at you from the other side of the shelf. He’s not much for libraries (many, many things have changed but that is not one of them), and you are certain that Ron has begged him to keep an eye on you while he’s away on business for the day.

Then it happens. One moment Harry is catching your eye between the books, and the next moment you are doubled over with a sharp oh.

“I think I’m going into labor,” you manage after a few seconds, trying to keep your voice even.

In the space of an instant, it seems, someone has called for an ambulance and you are being whisked away to a muggle hospital (we could apparate to St. Mungo’s, Harry suggests with an anxious whisper, but you both know it’s far too dangerous). And suddenly you are in a sterile white room and Harry is holding your hand tightly and it is all happening so much faster than the books ever told you it would. Somewhere amidst the haze of pain you hear the word breach and your head begins to buzz with a sharp sense of panic.

“I think I should send Ron a Patronus,” Harry whispers in your ear, his voice heavy with fear.

“Don’t leave me,” you beg frantically, your eyes wide. “Please don’t leave me Harry.”

And so he stays and you lock your eyes with his as doctors and nurses and scalpels whirl all around you. He threads his fingers through yours and your wedding rings clink together (it feels, for a moment, as if you’ve used a time-turner to go back and right all of your life’s wrongs) -- and then she is there. Flawless and warm and so unbelievably small in your arms that it takes your breath away.

Harry beams through tears as he leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your damp forehead. I love you, he breathes, a whisper meant for just the three of you.

(Years later you can still feel his words against your skin. Rose is perfect just the way she is, you think as you run your finger along the scar that rests just below your navel. But sometimes it seems almost impossible that her tangled mass of curls is not jet-black and that her eyes are not a deep shade of green.)

v.

It happens just once. It’s the night before the fifteenth anniversary of the war and both of your families have gone to the Burrow. It’s a Weasley tradition, this gathering, but you and Harry have your own traditions as well. On the day of the anniversary you are public heroes and you make all of the proper appearances, say all of the proper things, lay all of the proper flowers on the (too) many graves. But the eve of the anniversary is just for you. Just for the two of you.

“Fifteen years,” you muse quietly as you pull down a mug from the cupboard. “It seems like only yesterday.”

When you turn around Harry is standing mere inches from you, his eyes unreadable. You open your mouth to say his name but it dies on your lips as he takes another step forward, pressing your back against the countertop. His lips hover mere inches from yours, and the world feels upside down and (finally) right-side up all at once.

“Why now?” you manage to choke out after a moment, the time for pretenses and pretending long past.

“Because we are fools, Hermione,” he whispers, his eyes pained. “Because time is making fools of us.”

Then he is crushing his lips against yours and your fingers are weaving through his hair and you are both desperate (so desperate) to claim each other’s flesh as your own that it makes your bones ache. His lips and hands are everywhere as you shudder against him, your own hands pulling him closer with every ragged breath. It is passionate and frenzied and perfect.

It is over far too soon.

As you struggle to catch your breath you find yourself wishing for some sort of evidence of his hands on your skin -- some sort of mark. Your eyes are frantically (illogically) traveling over your unblemished flesh in disbelief when Harry speaks, his voice achingly tender.

“We could have been extraordinary,” he says, pressing one last kiss against your lips.

(You’ve got scars that the whole world can see. But this one is only for the two of you.)

omg, this is- brilliant. I love love love it. Oh Luna... ♥

This is gorgeous. I do love them, and this is so beautifully tragic ♥

I love it, some parts are really lovely *sigh*

he expects her to shout, to slap him, to say harry, you fucking moron, what were you thinking, why would you even do this but there's only the silence. it swallows them whole, leaving two people, on the stairs, left waiting for each other to move.

This part killed me ded <3 great work!

This is lovely. Such rigid, contained women. I love what it between the lines here.

Oh, this is lovely. It's a quiet moment that speaks volumes for the two of them because yes - this is exactlty how it would be after the war. Personal canon right here. Thank you ♥

It shouldn't be this easy, but it is, or at least it seems, when, in Shell Cottage, Luna climbs into bed with her, wrapping her arms around Hermione's waist and hugging her tightly. Normally Hermione would protest gently and try to wriggle free, because honestly, she likes Luna just fine, but she's not really this okay, generally speaking, with this sort of closeness. At least, not with Luna.

But it feels surprisingly nice and Luna is warm and soft and her hair is tickling Hermione's nose and it's just the first real moment of peace that Hermione's had in a long time, so she just sighs and lets herself be embraced.

How's your arm? Luna asks, after a while, pulling back so that she can look at Hermione's forearm, where there's still the bright scar of Mudblood written on her skin.

Better, Hermione tells her and flinches when Luna reaches out to stroke her fingers along it curiously; she'd half expected it to hurt, but of course, it doesn't. It just looks worse than it is, she says. It's going to take a bit of time to heal, I think; I mean, I'm not sure. It's not just a regular injury, you know?

Luna smiles, stares at her with wide, blue gray eyes that are soft, like dove feathers, almost. I think it's nice, she says, which is not at all what Hermione was expecting, but then again, it's still Luna, and she shouldn't be surprised.

It is nice, Luna says. It's sort of like a mark of bravery.

Hermione snorts.

No, really, Luna says, and reaches up and waves at the air above their heads. Sorry, she says, distracted. Wrackspurts.

Yes, Hermione both thinks and says. Of course.

They're more likely to show up around bedtime, you know, Luna tells her, temporarily distracted. That's why your brain gets all fuzzy just before you fall asleep. But really, she says, serious again. I think you're quite brave. And your scar, well, what it says isn't nice at all, but what it means is.

Hermione smiles, sighs, leans her head on Luna's shoulder. Thanks, she says, after several long moments.

Of course. Luna's hand slips down, finds Hermione's, intertwines their fingers. And it shouldn't be this easy to forget, at least for a moment, about everything that's going on right now -- Voldemort, the Horcruxes, her parents, and so much more that she can't even begin to list everything -- but it is. It is, with Luna's hand in hers, her thumb slowly stroking back and forth across the back of Hermione's hand.

Thanks, Hermione says again, after a long while. She's not even really sure what she's thanking Luna for, she just needs to say it. For some strange reason; she doesn't quite understand it. Her brain does feel a bit fuzzy; for one wild moment she entertains the idea that Luna may actually be right about wrackspurts and she grins, amused at herself.

What? Luna looks at her through hazy, half-closed eyes. What are you thinking about?

Nothing, Hermione says. Just, well. You.

Luna smiles sleepily at her. Good things, I hope, she murmurs and leans forward to press a kiss to Hermione's forehead, through her hair. Are you going to leave tomorrow?

And there she is, yanked right back into reality. Maybe. I don't know.

Well, we'll just stay like this for tonight then, Luna says. We can worry about tomorrow when it comes.

- -

Don't know if this is what you wanted, but it's what came to me when I read your prompt.

Edited 2010-11-30 13:39 (UTC)

Okay, hope you like it. I rarely write something but this was an itch I wanted to cure :P

--
The end is eminent. The creatures of the world are in uproar and despair rules the air. There isn't much time left now, one must chose to take the path of the living, or fall to the clutches of sure death.

It's nearing midnight and the castle is already fast asleep. Let them get their last moment of true rest... for the next day, a destructive dawn will cement the inevitable.

She can't possibly fall asleep now, knowing that time is running out. She can't let him go, she loves him too much. Curse the day he trapped her with his perfectly manicured claws and silver eagle eyes. Curse the day she finally lost the better part of her judgment and let him become a part of her self, intertwined into an impossible melody that hurt so bad, yet felt so good.

No. She was far too gone now and she'd be damned if she was just going to stand there like he ordered her and let him go.

He didn't get to decide for her. He didn't get to dictate how she felt about him and he did not get to lie to her about how he felt for her.

She was going to get that stick he had shoved up his ass and yank it out of him if it was the last thing she did. That insufferable git was going to get what was coming for him whether he liked it or not.

With new found purpose, she got up from bed, wincing as her feet made contact with the frozen ground and careful as to make no noise, tip toed out of her dorm and out of the portrait hole into the dark.

---
He was laying down on his cold hard bed, staring aimlessly at nothing in particular. The knot in his throat and the sting in his guts would not lend him a moment of peace. Red occupied his head.

How had he been so stupid as to let things get this far? She was just supposed to be a distraction, call it fun time if you must. And it didn't hurt that she was the sister and friend of his enemies.

She was gorgeous and fun, he'd foreseen no complications there. She was going to make him forget what he was. Forget about his destiny and what he was brought up to do. Serve the Dark Lord.

But unlike his father, he did not care for the Dark Lord and his crazy ideas. No, he'd rather not take part in a silly unnecessary war.

He was Draco motherfucking Malfoy and he didn't give a damn about anyone but himself.

Or so he thought...

He hated her. He hated her for making him fall in love with her. Love, what was love? It was such a foreign word to him that even saying it burned his tongue.

Curse her for planting the seeds inside of him and nourishing them until they finally sprouted and grew into beautiful magnolias.

Curse her for breaking him down with her thousand suns smile, for breaking him down with her fiery chocolate eyes. Curse her for kissing him like if it he was the only thing in the world that mattered to her and making him feel like this thing called “love” might actually be true.

He cursed at himself now for the way he had ended things. He was finally admitting it: Draco Malfoy was fucking in love with fucking Ginerva Weasley and he didn't give a fuck about anything but being with her. The world could crumble in seconds and he didn't give a damn about it.

He pushed himself out of his bed with tremendous force that it crashed into the wall. He didn't give a fuck.

and the continuation because it didn't fit in the first post!!

--

He was out the dorm and out into the dungeon corridor so fast that he missed the blur of red that crashed into his chest.

Flowers. That's the first thing that went into his head the moment he could produce a coherent thought. He knew that smell, he knew the outline of the body that was pressed into himself as he knew himself.

Ginny.

She had been running so fast, trying to get to Draco that she had missed the figure coming out of the dungeons.

Draco.

They stared at each others eyes for what felt like an eternity. Gray with Brown, silver and chocolate melting together into a pool of destruction.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry for the lies that he'd said and that he was an idiot, a fool to think that he could go on without her. He wanted so bad to kiss those rosy lips and tell her how much he loved her and how much that scared him because he'd never loved before. He wanted to tell her he didn't care what would happen now as long as they were together because nothing else mattered to him but her. He wanted to hold her like this until the end of the world.

She felt him tighten his hold on her and could do nothing more than stare into those dark silver shining eyes that only shone that way for her.

And in that moment she knew. She knew everything he wanted to tell her, everything he couldn't articulate into words and it was at that moment that she finally released the stinging droplets from the confines of her eyes.

“I know.” was all she said as she slipped her hands up his neck, crashed him to the wall and kissed him with an inferno so intense, that the torches surrounding them rose with the heat. She kissed him with everything that was her and he gladly absorbed it all like a sponge. He kissed her back like he never thought he could ever do, spilling into the kiss emotions he wouldn't have ever dreamed he'd be capable of feeling.

---
The clock was ticking. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The moon was dimming as dawn taunted the horizon. The Dark Lord grew closer, thousands at his command. They could see the gates a few miles ahead.

The castle was fully alive by now, chaos everywhere. The professors, older students and their allies were pressed together inside the Great Hall. The boy who lived and his two best friends were barking orders left and right to their respectful battalions, getting them ready for battle, motivating them for showdown.

So much was going on in such a small window of time that nobody seemed to noticed the curious absence of a certain arrogant blond Slytherin and the lovely fiery redheaded Gryffindor...

OMG THIS. OMG. ♥

♥

Rita Skeeter/Rufus Scrimgeour

You're all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here; I wanna kiss your skinny throat.
You're a wasp nest, you're a wasp nest.

Xenophilius/Luna

It's a common fetish for a doting man to ballerina on the coffee table cock in hand

Beautiful. I'll keep it in mind next time I write a Neville/Cho fic.

Beautifully done! Thank you so much! I love it!

Thank you so much! :)

This is a story of girl meets girl.

They came from two different worlds; one, Hermione Granger, relied on books and logic and practicality. The other, Luna Lovegood, liked to believe in ten impossible things before breakfast, and usually did. The way this story should have ended is: they met and fought and fell in love or, at the very least, it should have ended with them meeting and fighting and hating each other, if only because -- and this applies to the happy ending as well, of course, that's how these stories work out too -- they were complete opposites.

But of course, that isn't how things worked out. Those sort of stories don't account for things like death and war and the fact that really, Hermione and Luna had always been worlds apart and would remain that way forever. Even when their hands suddenly met across the table, reaching for the same book in the library or when sometimes Luna would just look at Hermione, with wide eyes the color of stones under running water, and it was obvious that there was something more there, something just below the surface, intangible and indescribable, but there nonetheless.

Even when Hermione's settled on Luna's when they were sitting side by side in the library, studying for their final exams. Even though they pretended like it was an accident, but neither of them pulled away. They had sat like that for an hour, Hermione snatching her hand away when Harry and Ron came spotted them and started walking over.

Even when Luna suddenly kissed Hermione in the girl's bathroom, because she couldn't think of a better way to stop Hermione from crying over Ron, and well, it felt like it was just supposed to happen, even if wasn't how these things usually went. A kiss, sans roses and sunsets and music swelling in the background. Just a kiss and nothing more -- but still something anyway.

Even when Hermione, while pretending not to, watched Luna dancing at Bill and Fleur's wedding, over the top of her champagne glass.

Even when, in Shell Cottage, Luna sat down on the sofa next to Hermione and they both stared wordlessly at the fire for what seemed like hours, until Luna sighed and put her head on Luna's shoulder. And their hands met somewhere in the middle and suddenly, their fingers were intertwined. Just. Like. That.

And it should have come so easily, but it didn't, because stories that end with happily ever after don't take into account things like death and war and Ron Weasley and all the complications that came with them. So the way the story should have ended -- or may have; it could have also ended with them hating each other -- never happened. There was no big conclusion or grand finale, because really, that's just how these things went and there wasn't really any changing or stopping them.

Instead, all they were left with was moments. Small moments here and there -- a glance across a crowded room; a sudden, stolen kiss; a moment of unexpected silence and softness; a realization of possibility. Like a tiny bag of diamonds, they were there; precious.

And that was (mostly) good enough.

- -

I apologize if this is a bit bleak, but when I read your prompt, this idea just came to me and I simply had to write it. ♥

Tom/Ginny, you lost the love I loved the most

Very nice! I always think of Hermione being rather intolerant of Luna's personality, and that still comes across here, but it's softened and lovely.

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Page 85 of 116

HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON

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Re: Sirius/Lily; breath of your last cigarette

harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (1/3)

Re: harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (2/3)

Re: harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (3/3)

Re: Harry/Luna, Luna Lovegood's evidence of the impossibility of true love.

Re: Fred/Hermione - A Moment in Time

Re: harry/hermione; and in the morning comes, you don't need to breathe so easy. (pg)

Re: To Wish Impossible -- Minerva McGonagall/Augusta Longbottom

Re: harry/hermione - lost amongst our winnings

with beings brighter than have been | luna/hermione | g

Burn of the tongue // D&G

Re: Burn of the tongue // D&G

Re: ron weasley/mary cattermole ; photographs ; pg

Re: severus snape/regulus black -- dear gravity

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Re: cho/neville - the heart for it (2/2)

Re: harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (3/3)

Re: Fred/Hermione - A Moment in Time

through the eyes of the atoms we're made of | hermione/luna | g

no subject

Re: with beings brighter than have been | luna/hermione | g