|snarrymod (snarrymod) wrote in snarry_games,|
@ 2008-05-14 08:29:00
|Entry tags:||entry, fuschia, team phoenix|
TEAM PHOENIX ENTRY: Fuschia "Playing Azkaban"
Title: Playing Azkaban
Prompt(s): Pensieve, Ménage à Trois
Rating/Warnings/Kinks: R, * incest (Harry/Lily/Snape), underage (between those of like age). *
Word Count: 6,200 words
Summary: Using a pensieve confiscated during a raid, Harry enters two memories of Snape and Lily that Snape has left behind.
A/N: Thank you to Millari for the early talk-through and feedback, Lefty for the line-edits, Treewishes for the endless encouragement and for the beta, and the mods and my team for their enduring patience!
At fifteen, his mother doesn't kiss at all the way Ginny does.
Or, at least, the version of her that exists in Snape's memory, in the oversaturated textures of the foreign pensieve, doesn't. She presses her lower lip more strongly against his than Ginny ever has, and when she opens her mouth she does not press her tongue forward but draws his inwards; inside her mouth, her misaligned teeth catch him unaware, like unseen rocks catching his foot beneath the surface of a river he once thought familiar.
Even with all the pictures of Lily he has seen, has hoarded, when he sees Lily now, he knows that own memories have blended so slowly, so surreptitiously over the years that he never noticed when Ginny's strong, even face had blurred into Lily's sharper jaw line in his mind, or when her ginger braids intermingled with Lily's loose ponytails. Lily's hair isn't ginger at all, but darker, the deep red of some potions ingredient he always confused with another – chokecherry, matrimony vine? – a plant whose dark, hard berry he could never crush the right way, that would always leave its gluey red residue, tacky as pitch, on the tips of his fingers, on the pages of his potions books.
At fifteen, Snape doesn't kiss much like Ginny, either, but Harry is not ready to think about this, yet, not even as Lily breaks her kiss with him to draw Snape's face in closer. In the pensieve, Harry is no older than they are, the back of his hand burning with half-healed cuts that ooze a memory of myrtlap essence, and it is not difficult for Lily to push all of their mouths together at once, her hands tangled in both of their hair, the three of them even in height as they kneel in the Forbidden Forest, roots and needles painful beneath their knees.
Later, Harry thinks that his mother's hair, as it was then, in the Forbidden Forest, in Snape's memory, was the exact color that lined hood of her Gryffindor cloak, deep inside, where it folded into shadow.
But now he cannot think of cloak or color, not with her body pressed to his, not with both of their bodies pressed to Snape's.
A greenish light flickers at the edge of Harry's vision: a snake scale, the slide of a sickle moon, then grows stronger, luminous as the remnant of an unforgivable spell.
Harry pushes his mouth into both of theirs, urgent, as the light grows stronger.