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:

<center><a href=http://anythingbutgrey.livejournal.com/774727.html>HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON</A></center>

<center><a href=http://anythingbutgrey.livejournal.com/774727.html><img src=IMAGE CODE HERE></A></center>

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:

by eleusis_walks

by 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!

Comments

[falseeeyelashes.livejournal.com]

Walburga Black/Tom Riddle, this pale green suits them well

FILL: the moss of our skins (tom/walburga, pg-13) - 1/2

[crosshair.livejournal.com]

the moss of our skins. tom riddle/walburga black. pg-13.

In a habit of childhood, Tom looks for what to keep, and: Walburga, inevitably, piquing, her habitation of familiar crooks.

He finds the composition of her here, crouched over the common room hearth; her hands over the fire stretching flesh fraught like crust over blackbird, the tideland of their drowning. Her robes dank in still-warm ash and thinning over her skeleton, and the cloth reminds Tom of the rot of his own upbringing: the dying bray of orphans, the disgusting mortality in their choir’s pastorals. His own uniform is starched entitlement, the collar of his uniform barely touched by his hair shorn the colour of unlit sable. Yes, it’s dark, from where he’s standing—he is well in it.

Here, Walburga’s face is to the fire, the stoking of it. She knows she’s not alone by now, but it is her hunched back that asks Tom unprompted: I’ve seen what you search for, Riddle. Do you want to know? Pushing the coal hobby-like, turning burnt and swallowed behind the grille. Do you want to know what magic there is buried between my sort of blood lines?

Tom does not come up to her; rather, he goes to. He observes Walburga’s here profile in its relief, the flames crackling and casting fissures of shadows, casting her face in cracks, the moult of a snake. Under this light, still, their blood flows alike: blackened, both. I already know what makes them apart from us, his voice as oblique. I would only want for the waste of it.

She agrees with him, preternatural: yes, isn’t it, the waste. This close, he can tell the odor of her spoils. The lids of her eyes are peeling calendars, her pupils unburnt holes in family trees. Dirty blood is such a waste.







There was a boy Tom had held over the sea, before school started; a straw-haired, missable, yet another one, changeable: there were many of them.

The boy was rendered wide open and soundless throughout the pain, how Tom would made outlines of his muscles in prosodies of ribbon red out of him like bark rubbings, instead on more naive gooseflesh. The boy’s mien had broken like dried glue, and his lips under Tom’s tasted of flaking albumen, and stopped hours—and Tom knew he had created for the boy a purgatory of age, had affected this control with his mere will.

Now, he has so much else harnessed than mind. He still enjoys the distillation of others to their bare pitiable pieces, the practice of it; he doesn’t have to learn, but he draws from them their essence. How he derives from Walburga, he reigns her as charmer to a snake; not merely the timbre of his voice that compels her to look up, no, but the coiled ambition of his movement, the command of his own persuading the command of lesser. A wandless lark—but no less deliberate.

Walburga asks him, passing between staircases: do you tend yourself for rust? No, he doesn’t need to answer, no; I am creating myself for greatness. Greatness that of which is the betterment of time. The house he carries is deathless, destitute of common blood, where her house is but of decay, her edges painted in swashes of tempera, older, old. Beholden to things.

But then again, another day, she walks by him again, an enlightened spur: Present yourself, Riddle, her invitation standing taller than his silence, the hood of her fathers borne and raised, embroidered with gall.

Present yourself: so, he will. He does.

FILL: the moss of our skins (tom/walburga, pg-13) - 2/2

[crosshair.livejournal.com]

The things of animals become them both. This bestirring of Walburga’s digitation, how her fingers aver the solidity of Tom’s shoulders, preying talons clinging upon sill. He is the hollower one here—peaked of bone and stolid, the office of his lap that Walburga saddles like an invertebrate, yet. Her toes curl for purchase on the seat of their chair; the man-made squat of a grotesque, poised but rendered immobile in someone else’s ordain. The fire behind them both, as unmoved as the paintings.

Tom flats the map of Walburga’s chest with one hand, his fingernails dark against her breasts. He gouges crescents between her ribs, coaxes a yowl, that she, for her credit, manages to vocalise around, asking, are we forgeries of relics, then, Riddle? Are we primitive in our ways? The stuttered exhalation of breath, once, is his only signification of the next thrust; she arches from him, throwing her hair back, makes a much louder sound. Tom's voice betrays nothing: Only by measurement of neglected standards. I am, however, a progressive for purity. Purity is not due to time. He presses up, again. Nor is it for comparison.

Like a ringing, the thighs of her quiver like sheep’s gut string as he plays them to a finish; Tom tenders the resignation of her forbearance, brings his hands into claws through the drapes of fabric tenting her knee caps. Walburga’s throat would not know a hitch, but a caw: yes. The unassailability of our continuance? The robes hang off her shoulders with her heaving breaths, appeased in her pleasures, her eating of Tom’s philosophy. Ah, Riddle, so you believe as well as the likes of us.

I am of my own ruling, he says, his hands holding their place, cold. Above all likes.

She makes a laugh like a bird now, Walburga, perched on his station; not a shrunken acquiesce, but her song is an approving one. No one who walks so far above the ground will earn my envy, Riddle, she says into his ear, a sharing. But I’ll admire the blood you will sow.

Loveless words met with their unspoken mirror: expunged of concern, Tom pulls at the errant threading by her, seams plucked out from where Walburga has endeavored to lengthen her skirt hems, unlined now where it used to be. He imagines eaten curtains hanging beyond long, draping, dripping, rich with magical blood, rendered in effigy, useless by its dust. Because Tom imagines as much as he intends—how he can use this, the untangling of these old lineages to his relevance, his uncovering of it all. To his furthering.

His teeth are polished new when they close in again, to bite, scraping at the poached fat of Walburga’s lips. She grins compliant under Tom’s pinning, opens her mouth to him; shows the cave of her webs, her ancestors: his moths.

I seem to be slowly, agonizingly filling all of your prompts. I hope this fulfills your possible expectations! D: All the impasto descriptives.