The prompt and original drabble posts for this drabblethon were lost to my back-up snafu. These drabbles were written on the occasion of my 400th friending.
73. For celeria, whose prompt was "Tom Riddle/Dumbledore/Voldemort, memory, sparks, death."
Debating the Voices Within (R; Tom Riddle/Dumbledore/Voldemort; 100 words)
Tom was no more than a memory, but Albus still felt the boy's impatient mouth in dreams that flew like sparks from his conscience lest they cause his moral death.
I never should have allowed him to . . . it was wrong.
He was so needy, then. It seemed harmless enough at the time.
You knew. You knew . . . .
The look in "Voldemort's" eyes at the Ministry, well, Albus had seen this night exactly what his self-absorbed tendencies had wrought.
It is pure arrogance to believe you alone are responsible!
"But more foolish to be humble, I think."
You foolish child.
74. For qzee, whose prompt was "Ginny/Hermione, Ron: new moon, ritual, coming-of-age."
Anthropological Exploration (PG-13; Ginny/Hermione, Ron; 100 words)
It used to be that wizarding folk believed some wizards sapped the energies of virgins upon deflowering them, so maidens had learnt to preserve their magics. This was largely viewed as superstition in the modern age, but, before the new moon waned, Ron knew that many witches would partake of a certain naughty coming-of-age ritual that was meant to ensure their powers remained with them after taking lovers.
He never imagined his own sister—or his girlfriend!—would be silly enough to buy into such twaddle, but, as they touched, and he touched himself, he decided that culture shouldn't be neglected.
75. For psyfic, whose prompt was "Severus/Minerva: tears, touch, treacle."
The Lovers' Tree (PG-13; Severus/Minerva; 330 words)
He found her sobbing in the clearing just inside the Forbidden Forest that generations of Hogwarts' students had employed as a trysting place. She had wrapped her arms around the trunk of the only tree within the circle, the Lovers' Tree, clutching it as if it were an anchor and she were being tossed upon a tempest of woe.
Severus dropped his tin of treacle—he'd never been fortunate enough to bring a girl to the Lovers' Tree—and went immediately to kneel at the witch's side, touched by the poetical quality of her grief.
"Don't cry, Professor McGonagall," he entreated, bravely reaching out to brush away her tears.
They ceased to flow at his touch, almost as if McGonagall had Transfigured herself into a statue of certitude.
"Mr. Snape!" she exclaimed, flinching. "What is it that you require?"
It was a stupid thing to say, but the Fifth Year couldn't stop the words from flying off his tongue. "Just for you to be happy, my lady."
McGonagall snorted. "You've been reading romances again. Stop! They're all lies, boy."
"I'm not a boy!" Severus protested, biting back an embarrassed sob.
"There now, I'm sorry, Severus. I shouldn't have—I'm a bit out of sorts," McGonagall said, rising quickly and darting forward to give the boy an innocent peck on his cheek. "Do forgive me."
"Wa—want some treacle?" he asked, one hand closed protectively over his kissed skin.
Severus didn't feel stupid anymore, just dazed.
"Thank you—but I'm afraid I must take it with me. I've . . . papers to grade."
"Of course," Severus replied, watching her go.
Alone, the boy decided that since he'd been kissed, he ought to record it. That's what everyone else did. He conjured a knife and carved "PM & SS" into the base of the Lovers' Tree, just next to another set of initials—but Severus was too overwhelmed by the sensation of lips brushing against his skin to notice the "TR & MM" that his professor had been hiding with her body.