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Better late.
I... have a feeling I'm late for WIP amnesty day. But so what, yeah? It's such a fine and liberating idea, too good to ignore. So here's a WIP.
Title: Daily Algorithm
Fandom: Harry Potter. :-O!
Pairing: Harry/Ron. PG13ish.
Summary: Originally written for a![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
multifandom1000 challenge, but I forget if it was the 'faith' or 'disaster' one. Probably the former. Anyway. The war has started, the wizards keep watch over an abandoned Muggle city, and Harry finds a rosary. I think this can actually hold itself up alright, as a one-shot. I want to babble about the characterisation for a while, but that won't be very cool. So, heeeeeere's amnesty!
-
Daily Algorithm
Sitting in the back of the cathedral, Harry Potter tries to believe in God. The rosary feels strange in his hands: grimy, clunky, and cracked. (The last part is his fault. He stepped on it; it was how he found it.) He doesn’t know how to use a rosary, but he doesn’t want to let it go.
Three weeks into the ceasefire and everyone is going a bit stir-crazy. The doors to empty buildings yawn and swallow light. People feel compelled to patrol the streets until a noise or an unbidden shadow sends them to the nearest flickering Lumos spell. Magic has become an elusive creature. (“I think I can feel the magic seeping out of me,” one soldier whispers.) Their wands leave splinters in their fingers.
They are losing.
In the cathedral, Harry mouths the words to half-remembered prayers and feels like a charlatan. The saints and angels seem to stare at him from where stained glass used to be. A lifetime of disregard and suddenly you’re asking for favours?
He closes his eyes when he prays, and when he can’t remember the rest of the prayer, he moves on to another. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy will be done. The Lord is my Shepherd. The words are like stepping stones at high tide. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil.
We shall fear no evil.
Harry opens his eyes and realises that is all the Scripture he knows. The invisible stained glass frowns of God’s disciples deepen. He looks down at the rosary as if the 23rd Psalm would be written on the beads.
Please, God, he improvises. Let it end.
And, feeling a certain dissatisfaction, he clicks the beads together and goes back to the beginning.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
+
Ron sits on the cathedral steps with his wand in his back pocket and his eyes turned to the sky. The collapsed doors creak as Harry walks over them and Ron turns around.
“How was it?” he asks.
Harry shrugs. He stuffs the rosary in his pocket.
“Was it what you expected?”
Harry shrugs again and stands next to Ron, watching the road slope down into the square. The cathedral was built on a hill, perhaps to be closer to heaven. Perhaps, once, the bells chimed clear and loud, soaring boldly over rooftops. The bell is rusted in place and can barely move. Harry has checked.
From the steps, they have an unobstructed view of the street. A car has crashed into lamppost. No one has made a move to get it off the street, because why should they. Harry can see Seamus Finnigan sitting on the boot, exchanging words with Colin Creevey, who leans against the car door. A handful soldiers and people too young to be soldiers are scattered here and there in the shadows of buildings, and the sun is generous with shadows this late in the day.
“I wish you had come in with me,” says Harry. “Prayed with me.”
“Ah,” says Ron, feigning flippancy. “Wouldn’t have felt appropriate. I hear they don’t take in folk like me.”
“What do you think I am, then, you idiot?.”
Ron smiles weakly.
“It’s just the building now, Ron,” says Harry as he starts down the steps. “The priests have gone, the altar boys been sent away, the zealots preaching Apocalypse in another county. There’s no one left to label you a pariah and burn you at the stake.”
“Well, that’s always a good thing,” Ron mutters, catching up with him.
Harry continues as if Ron hadn’t spoken. “Strange, isn’t it, ‘cos we’re the ones protecting them. Well, if there’s any non-magical persons still alive in this city at this point, that’d be amazing. But ‘if’ is the keyword, isn’t it?”
They cross the street without looking both ways. These days, you can nap in an intersection without looking both ways. Their forces are few and far between.
Who naps in the middle of an intersection?
Constant vigilance.
“You never showed any sort of religious bent before,” says Ron, who has never become comfortable with silences. “Why the sudden churchgoing?”
“I don’t know.” Harry gestures to their surroundings. “This, maybe?” He sighs. “I don’t know, really. It’s not really a ‘why.’ More of a ‘why not?’”
“I remember talking about this with Herm in sixth year. I don’t know much about Muggle religion, but she was telling me about it anyway…”
At the mention of Hermione, Harry’s jaw tightens. The nausea is psychosomatic. His heart clenches, struggles to be the smallest thing in his body, and his hands feel naked, suddenly wanting something to hold, beat, caress.
“…fear, maybe, is why,” Ron is saying. “And the Church uses the fear…”
“I’m not afraid,” Harry snaps.
Ron shoots Harry a wary glance. “I didn’t say you are.”
“Why are you talking about Muggle religion,” says Harry, “when you said yourself you know shit-all about it?”
“Fuck you, mate, I was just saying what Hermi—”
“Yeah, what Hermione said. Have you got no fucking thoughts of your own?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
They’re not walking anymore, and not facing each other either. Harry’s first instinct is to walk away. Leave Ron to become a silhouette that becomes smaller with every step Harry takes until he reaches a corner, until Harry turns that corner, and Ron is gone. Fucking callous bastard.
But where would he go? In this grey-swathed, hollowed-out city with people to match, where could he go? Claustrophobia and agoraphobia breed side by side. All roads lead to what you’re trying to leave until you become man enough to swallow it and move on.
The human condition is obsolete.
This is why, when Ron begins walking, Harry falls in step with him. They walk the length of the street, passing Seamus and Colin without even so much as a hello. At the T-intersection, they pause, regarding the waterless fountain.
Harry says, “You talk a lot of shit.”
Ron says, “Fuck you, you’re not the only one who misses her.”
After that, of course, there is nothing left to say, and Ron just has to deal with the silence.
+
All traces of colour fade from the sky as the sun disappears. Harry and Ron are late for supper, but then again they usually are. No questions will be asked.
Harry can count on one hand all the people he has kissed. There was that time in fifth year with Cho, and a few sloppy ones in sixth year during an ill-fated affair with Parvati Patil. There was even the time half the seventh years got drunk on contraband spirits after the Leaver’s Ball and he (almost), as Americans would put it, got to second base with Dean Thomas. The Dean thing had been a source of deep shame at the time, but now—considering the circumstances—it didn’t seem so bad.
Harry isn’t sure if Ron is a good kisser. Experience has been so few and far between that he doesn’t feel himself qualified to judge. Ron’s tongue is rough and bold, and Harry is clueless. He doesn’t know what to do, how to rise up to the challenge of a bold lick, or if there is, in fact, a challenge at all. It’s always a surprise to Harry how wet the kisses are. When they break off, his lips are coated with saliva and he resists the undignified urge to wipe them on his sleeve.
Robes fall to the floor, followed by tunics, followed by Ron pushing Harry to the bed and raking his teeth along his shoulder as his hands fumble with Harry’s trousers. The feel of Ron’s mouth on any part of Harry’s body other than his mouth has become less uncomfortable with time, but Harry is self-consciously unmoved as Ron kisses the base of his throat.
“Why are you so fucking tense?” says Ron.
“I don’t know,” says Harry, “anything,” he finishes.
“Yeah, well. I’m not surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to--“
“Shut up for a moment, will you?”
So Harry does. He lies back on the bed as Ron straddles his hips, tugging at the zipper of his trousers. Ron pauses. He feels a lump in Harry’s pocket, and after what looked like a moment of hesitation, took out the thing inside. “What’s this?”
Ron sits back on Harry’s legs, holding the object in front of him.
“It’s called a rosary,” says Harry. “It’s what I was praying with. Christ’s sake, Ron, put it away.”
“Sorry.” Ron crawls forward, hovering over Harry’s body as he stretches to drop the beads on the night table. Harry hastily kisses his neck.
Ron goes back to his sitting position, but when nothing happens, Harry is forced to ask, “What is it now?”
“Your religion doesn’t like this, does it?”
“Did Hermione tell you that, too?” Harry snaps, sitting up. “Fuck it, Ron.”
“Harry--”
“You’re not the one trying to suck up to God. Get off my legs.” Ron does, and Harry continues: “Why is this worrying you?”
“That’s exactly my point,” says Ron. “Not me. You. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to have a fuck,” Harry says, pulling up his pants. “That’s all. I’m trying to have a fuck, and never mind religion, honestly. I found the rosary on the fucking floor. And whatever Muggle religion says about… about my fucking you, well, I don’t know. People say it’s written somewhere, but I’ve never seen it. I’m not into the fine print.” Harry slides off the bed and pulls on his tunic and robe. “Know your proverbs, Ron. It’s the Devil who’s in the details.”
“Where are you going?” asks Ron.
“Dinner,” Harry replies, snatching the rosary from the table. “We’re late as it is.”
[not quite the end, maybe.]
Title: Daily Algorithm
Fandom: Harry Potter. :-O!
Pairing: Harry/Ron. PG13ish.
Summary: Originally written for a
multifandom1000 challenge, but I forget if it was the 'faith' or 'disaster' one. Probably the former. Anyway. The war has started, the wizards keep watch over an abandoned Muggle city, and Harry finds a rosary. I think this can actually hold itself up alright, as a one-shot. I want to babble about the characterisation for a while, but that won't be very cool. So, heeeeeere's amnesty!Daily Algorithm
Sitting in the back of the cathedral, Harry Potter tries to believe in God. The rosary feels strange in his hands: grimy, clunky, and cracked. (The last part is his fault. He stepped on it; it was how he found it.) He doesn’t know how to use a rosary, but he doesn’t want to let it go.
Three weeks into the ceasefire and everyone is going a bit stir-crazy. The doors to empty buildings yawn and swallow light. People feel compelled to patrol the streets until a noise or an unbidden shadow sends them to the nearest flickering Lumos spell. Magic has become an elusive creature. (“I think I can feel the magic seeping out of me,” one soldier whispers.) Their wands leave splinters in their fingers.
They are losing.
In the cathedral, Harry mouths the words to half-remembered prayers and feels like a charlatan. The saints and angels seem to stare at him from where stained glass used to be. A lifetime of disregard and suddenly you’re asking for favours?
He closes his eyes when he prays, and when he can’t remember the rest of the prayer, he moves on to another. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy will be done. The Lord is my Shepherd. The words are like stepping stones at high tide. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil.
We shall fear no evil.
Harry opens his eyes and realises that is all the Scripture he knows. The invisible stained glass frowns of God’s disciples deepen. He looks down at the rosary as if the 23rd Psalm would be written on the beads.
Please, God, he improvises. Let it end.
And, feeling a certain dissatisfaction, he clicks the beads together and goes back to the beginning.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
+
Ron sits on the cathedral steps with his wand in his back pocket and his eyes turned to the sky. The collapsed doors creak as Harry walks over them and Ron turns around.
“How was it?” he asks.
Harry shrugs. He stuffs the rosary in his pocket.
“Was it what you expected?”
Harry shrugs again and stands next to Ron, watching the road slope down into the square. The cathedral was built on a hill, perhaps to be closer to heaven. Perhaps, once, the bells chimed clear and loud, soaring boldly over rooftops. The bell is rusted in place and can barely move. Harry has checked.
From the steps, they have an unobstructed view of the street. A car has crashed into lamppost. No one has made a move to get it off the street, because why should they. Harry can see Seamus Finnigan sitting on the boot, exchanging words with Colin Creevey, who leans against the car door. A handful soldiers and people too young to be soldiers are scattered here and there in the shadows of buildings, and the sun is generous with shadows this late in the day.
“I wish you had come in with me,” says Harry. “Prayed with me.”
“Ah,” says Ron, feigning flippancy. “Wouldn’t have felt appropriate. I hear they don’t take in folk like me.”
“What do you think I am, then, you idiot?.”
Ron smiles weakly.
“It’s just the building now, Ron,” says Harry as he starts down the steps. “The priests have gone, the altar boys been sent away, the zealots preaching Apocalypse in another county. There’s no one left to label you a pariah and burn you at the stake.”
“Well, that’s always a good thing,” Ron mutters, catching up with him.
Harry continues as if Ron hadn’t spoken. “Strange, isn’t it, ‘cos we’re the ones protecting them. Well, if there’s any non-magical persons still alive in this city at this point, that’d be amazing. But ‘if’ is the keyword, isn’t it?”
They cross the street without looking both ways. These days, you can nap in an intersection without looking both ways. Their forces are few and far between.
Who naps in the middle of an intersection?
Constant vigilance.
“You never showed any sort of religious bent before,” says Ron, who has never become comfortable with silences. “Why the sudden churchgoing?”
“I don’t know.” Harry gestures to their surroundings. “This, maybe?” He sighs. “I don’t know, really. It’s not really a ‘why.’ More of a ‘why not?’”
“I remember talking about this with Herm in sixth year. I don’t know much about Muggle religion, but she was telling me about it anyway…”
At the mention of Hermione, Harry’s jaw tightens. The nausea is psychosomatic. His heart clenches, struggles to be the smallest thing in his body, and his hands feel naked, suddenly wanting something to hold, beat, caress.
“…fear, maybe, is why,” Ron is saying. “And the Church uses the fear…”
“I’m not afraid,” Harry snaps.
Ron shoots Harry a wary glance. “I didn’t say you are.”
“Why are you talking about Muggle religion,” says Harry, “when you said yourself you know shit-all about it?”
“Fuck you, mate, I was just saying what Hermi—”
“Yeah, what Hermione said. Have you got no fucking thoughts of your own?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
They’re not walking anymore, and not facing each other either. Harry’s first instinct is to walk away. Leave Ron to become a silhouette that becomes smaller with every step Harry takes until he reaches a corner, until Harry turns that corner, and Ron is gone. Fucking callous bastard.
But where would he go? In this grey-swathed, hollowed-out city with people to match, where could he go? Claustrophobia and agoraphobia breed side by side. All roads lead to what you’re trying to leave until you become man enough to swallow it and move on.
The human condition is obsolete.
This is why, when Ron begins walking, Harry falls in step with him. They walk the length of the street, passing Seamus and Colin without even so much as a hello. At the T-intersection, they pause, regarding the waterless fountain.
Harry says, “You talk a lot of shit.”
Ron says, “Fuck you, you’re not the only one who misses her.”
After that, of course, there is nothing left to say, and Ron just has to deal with the silence.
+
All traces of colour fade from the sky as the sun disappears. Harry and Ron are late for supper, but then again they usually are. No questions will be asked.
Harry can count on one hand all the people he has kissed. There was that time in fifth year with Cho, and a few sloppy ones in sixth year during an ill-fated affair with Parvati Patil. There was even the time half the seventh years got drunk on contraband spirits after the Leaver’s Ball and he (almost), as Americans would put it, got to second base with Dean Thomas. The Dean thing had been a source of deep shame at the time, but now—considering the circumstances—it didn’t seem so bad.
Harry isn’t sure if Ron is a good kisser. Experience has been so few and far between that he doesn’t feel himself qualified to judge. Ron’s tongue is rough and bold, and Harry is clueless. He doesn’t know what to do, how to rise up to the challenge of a bold lick, or if there is, in fact, a challenge at all. It’s always a surprise to Harry how wet the kisses are. When they break off, his lips are coated with saliva and he resists the undignified urge to wipe them on his sleeve.
Robes fall to the floor, followed by tunics, followed by Ron pushing Harry to the bed and raking his teeth along his shoulder as his hands fumble with Harry’s trousers. The feel of Ron’s mouth on any part of Harry’s body other than his mouth has become less uncomfortable with time, but Harry is self-consciously unmoved as Ron kisses the base of his throat.
“Why are you so fucking tense?” says Ron.
“I don’t know,” says Harry, “anything,” he finishes.
“Yeah, well. I’m not surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to--“
“Shut up for a moment, will you?”
So Harry does. He lies back on the bed as Ron straddles his hips, tugging at the zipper of his trousers. Ron pauses. He feels a lump in Harry’s pocket, and after what looked like a moment of hesitation, took out the thing inside. “What’s this?”
Ron sits back on Harry’s legs, holding the object in front of him.
“It’s called a rosary,” says Harry. “It’s what I was praying with. Christ’s sake, Ron, put it away.”
“Sorry.” Ron crawls forward, hovering over Harry’s body as he stretches to drop the beads on the night table. Harry hastily kisses his neck.
Ron goes back to his sitting position, but when nothing happens, Harry is forced to ask, “What is it now?”
“Your religion doesn’t like this, does it?”
“Did Hermione tell you that, too?” Harry snaps, sitting up. “Fuck it, Ron.”
“Harry--”
“You’re not the one trying to suck up to God. Get off my legs.” Ron does, and Harry continues: “Why is this worrying you?”
“That’s exactly my point,” says Ron. “Not me. You. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to have a fuck,” Harry says, pulling up his pants. “That’s all. I’m trying to have a fuck, and never mind religion, honestly. I found the rosary on the fucking floor. And whatever Muggle religion says about… about my fucking you, well, I don’t know. People say it’s written somewhere, but I’ve never seen it. I’m not into the fine print.” Harry slides off the bed and pulls on his tunic and robe. “Know your proverbs, Ron. It’s the Devil who’s in the details.”
“Where are you going?” asks Ron.
“Dinner,” Harry replies, snatching the rosary from the table. “We’re late as it is.”
[not quite the end, maybe.]