kerravonsen | Works, in-progress and not (Reply)

Quotes from some of my works-in-progress (and works not-so-much in progress).
Guess which ones I've put up for the finish-a-thon! Guess which ones I'm horribly stuck on!
Guess what the rest of the story is about!
Say things!

1.

Mrs. Hartigan noticed. Not that she said anything. She would quietly put books down on the table next to Harry; interesting books, fiction as well as non-fiction. Thus was Harry introduced to the adventures of Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy the dog; he sailed through space with the trade ship Solar Queen; he learned about the power of Laran and wished he had red hair; he marched along with the Roman Eagles; and he shivered with the deep, deep cold of Between. He imagined exchanging riddles in the dark; he stepped with Lucy through a wardrobe door; he delighted with Charlie and his golden ticket; he foraged with Ayla and practiced being still and silent. Dudley wasn't a lynx, but Harry certainly wanted to avoid his notice just as much.

That was one thing, but none of her friends, not even Hoggle, had visited her since she'd moved into her dorm. At first, she'd thought it was because she had a roommate instead of a room to herself, but she had still managed to get alone often enough to call for them, and they hadn't come. Was it like in the Narnia stories? Was she too old? Did they think she didn't need them any more?

It never occurred to her that it was no longer possible for them to come.

The walls between worlds are thin on All Hallows Eve; between past and future, between dead and living. It was no coincidence that Tom Riddle had murdered the Potters on Halloween, seeking as he was to overcome death. One year after their deaths, Severus Snape had pretended illness to avoid the festivities. His pain was still too raw, his self-control too thin. He wanted to rage at them, Dumbledore most of all. Instead, he nursed a Firewhiskey in his chambers, the fire in his throat mirroring the flames in his grate.

As the last stroke of midnight chimed, Snape noticed something flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned his head slowly. The apparition lay on the floor, bleeding silver. Paler than a Patronus, it was obviously a ghost. He opened his mouth to snarl at the ghost to be gone. He paused. It was familiar. Very familiar. It was himself. Haggard and worn with age, but still himself.

His velvet coat was midnight blue, spangled with stars. White lace showed at his wrists and throat. He danced gracefully with his partners, never placing a foot wrong. His blond hair was straight, and carelessly cut. He danced in an eternal now, with no past to remember, no future to fear. He smiled like a boy.

"May I have this dance?" the woman asked. Her gown was blue, dark velvet and shimmery satin, her eyes a blue to match, her hair as blond as his.

"That's out of place," he said.

"So are you," she replied. "You don't belong here."

His memory-self stepped up to the Dark Lord. Despite his resolutions, Draco couldn't look away.

"Draco Malfoy," Voldemort hissed, "do you pledge your allegiance to me?"

"I do."

"Will you follow me in life and death?"

"I will."

"Will you destroy my enemies?"

"I will."

"Then bear my mark upon you, as a true eater of death."

Memory-Draco screamed as the black brand appeared on his skin.

He'd been such a fool.

Prador's got us out chasing fairy tales. I notice he didn't actually explain why he thought that the piece of space-junk was of Dalek origin. C'mon, Daleks don't exist! Fine, he said they'd paradoxed themselves out of existence, but in that case, there shouldn't be anything left at all. Still, paradoxes are tricky; you can never be certain what will be remembered and what won't, what will stick and what will vanish. So maybe Prador's right. He's certainly worried enough about the "artefact". Just a bit of metal, but the security on the case... you don't see duralloy bio-locked strong-cases all that often.

"Doctor?" Jo said, reaching out for him. It wasn't the Doctor. Not the Doctor she knew.

His eyes widened with recognition. "Miss Grant," he said. "How ironic." His legs gave way under him, and she grabbed him before he fell, easing him to the ground.

"Doctor!" she said. He might not be the Doctor she knew, but she'd already met other versions of the Doctor who looked completely different from each other. This must be yet another one. "What's wrong?"

He grimaced with pain, teeth clenching over the syllables, "Dy... ing." He shut his eyes.

"No!" Jo said.

"You..." he gasped, "fool... ish..." And he stopped breathing.

Green grass, blue sky, much paler than the indigo-blue of the deceptively mundane doors she'd just stepped through. How could this TARDIS-thing be a space-ship? She glanced to her right, and froze. There was a corner there. There shouldn't be a corner; inside, there were no corners in that round cathedral of a room. She touched the corner; it felt like ordinary painted wood. Keeping her hand on the surface, she walked all around the outside of the TARDIS, her other hand in front of her to ward off potential invisible obstacles.

As she came around the last corner, the Doctor was already standing in the grass, grinning at her.

"It's smaller on the outside!" Buffy said. "Neat."