FIC: Teaser from my HP-fic
Sep. 9th, 2004 01:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321I have been writing my epic-length HP-fic for so long that I am starting to feel very isolated. So I decided to post a short teaser fragment of the fic. This comes about half-way through the plot, in the form of a flashback.
Author: Lobelia
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Well, this fragment has in itself no real pairing as such. The fic as a whole revolves around Draco (also Harry), though not this fragment which centres on Dudley.
Warning: NC-17. Rape. Chan. Second-person pov.
Note: There are four named non-HP characters in here. They are not, strictly speaking, OFC; they fall more into the category of cross-over. Perhaps you can identify where they are from. I myself will not divulge until the fic is posted in its final format. ;-)
Feedback: Welcome, of course. Whole point of posting.
Length: Not very. 840 words.
There are two types of tile, a large square type and a smaller, also square, type. Both are white and shiny. The grouting between the tiles is off-white and matt. The large tiles cover the walls and the floor, and the small ones form a frieze, like a narrow ledge, along the border where wall and floor meet. The ratio of small tiles to large tiles is 4:1. They are modular. But they have not been laid one hundred percent correctly. Their edges don't quite match up. Sometimes it is 3 3/4:1, at other times 4 1/4:1.
You know these tiles well. You spend a lot of time looking at them. You spend a lot of effort calculating the ratios and counting how many large white tiles there are between left wash basin and right wash basin, ten large tiles and 42 small tiles. When you've finished counting them all once through, you start again from the beginning.
You count tiles so that you won't have to think about what else is going on in this bathroom. In this white and shiny world.
The first time they made you do this you threw up on the white tiles. That was not good. They forced you to rub your face in your sick and then they laughed their dirty laughs and called you barf-eater and vomit-bag and Denson screeched, "So fat and so desperate for something to stuff down his gob he'll bolt his own puke." Then they kicked your bum and said, "Get up and bend over, lard bucket."
So you've learned not do that again. You swallow your nausea and you count tiles.
They always start with the whipping first. They're not called whips for nothing. They're Fortinbras, Denson and Rowntree, all upper sixth, all whips, and then there's Galloping Foxley who's nothing at all. He's not even a prefect. He's just a gangleader and a brute. He doesn't need a badge. Everyone is already terrified of him.
They don't call it whipping. They call it 'disciplining'. "Come down to the basement washrooms to be disciplined. Tonight, nine o'clock sharp." They don't need to lock the washroom doors even. Everyone knows better than to barge in when there's a disciplining going on.
"Drop your trousers, fat arse," they say, "and bend over."
You know the routine by now so you always obey straight away. There's no point in struggling or crying out; it just makes it last longer. You bend over, and it's difficult for you to bend over because you are thirteen years old and you weigh fifteen stone and you're not very fit at all. You wheeze on the stairs and you huff when you have to put on your socks. When you bend over, your knees wobble and your shoulders hurt because you have to hold your arms so high. You have to put your hands on the wash basins, left hand on the left wash basin, right hand on the right wash basin. The wash basins are too far apart for comfort. They are ten large squares apart, 42 small squares, many squares too many.
Galloping Foxley is always first with the whipping. He takes a run-up from the other side of the washroom. You can hear him draw breath, and then his leather soles come clop-clopping across the tiles, then thwack.
That's the first stripe of the birch.
The others take care to lay their stripes precisely across that first cut. They jeer when one of them misses.
"Need glasses, Rowntree?"
"Not on form today, eh, Denson, old boy? Been drinking too much?"
Rowntree has a sloppy way of flogging, and Denson whacks the birch as if it were a cricket bat. Fortinbras is fussy and precise. It's Foxley who's the worst; he hits with the full force of twenty-four feet of run-up.
You try not to flinch but you do every time. You also try not to blubber but that's impossible. All you learn to do is to sniff when they're talking so that they can't hear you do it.
After the whipping comes the buggery. 'Cornholing', they call it, in mock hillbilly accents.
"Spread those fat arse cheeks of yours, lardy."
"Is he getting fatter, or is he just getting uglier?"
They take turns. Galloping Foxley always goes first. "I won't take soggy seconds," he announces imperiously. The others egg him on: "Faster! Faster!"
Their cornholing is probably as different in style as their whipping. Perhaps it's their cornholing that shapes their flogging: fast or sloppy or fussy or hard. You don't know. You count tiles. Thought is put on hold.
Ten tiles between wash basins, and 42 small tiles, and around four small tiles to one large tile but not exactly. There is a hairline crack in the third tile from the left. It is the only diagonal in the grid of shiny and white.
The first time round there was blood. "Eugh," the whips screeched. "Bleeding like the stuck fat pig that he is." After that, there is only a numb drum roll.
Galloping Foxley likes to pull out and shake his jism over your back. The others shoot it up you, and you'll be finding it sticking to your underpants for hours afterwards.
----
End of teaser. © Lobelia.
Author: Lobelia
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Well, this fragment has in itself no real pairing as such. The fic as a whole revolves around Draco (also Harry), though not this fragment which centres on Dudley.
Warning: NC-17. Rape. Chan. Second-person pov.
Note: There are four named non-HP characters in here. They are not, strictly speaking, OFC; they fall more into the category of cross-over. Perhaps you can identify where they are from. I myself will not divulge until the fic is posted in its final format. ;-)
Feedback: Welcome, of course. Whole point of posting.
Length: Not very. 840 words.
There are two types of tile, a large square type and a smaller, also square, type. Both are white and shiny. The grouting between the tiles is off-white and matt. The large tiles cover the walls and the floor, and the small ones form a frieze, like a narrow ledge, along the border where wall and floor meet. The ratio of small tiles to large tiles is 4:1. They are modular. But they have not been laid one hundred percent correctly. Their edges don't quite match up. Sometimes it is 3 3/4:1, at other times 4 1/4:1.
You know these tiles well. You spend a lot of time looking at them. You spend a lot of effort calculating the ratios and counting how many large white tiles there are between left wash basin and right wash basin, ten large tiles and 42 small tiles. When you've finished counting them all once through, you start again from the beginning.
You count tiles so that you won't have to think about what else is going on in this bathroom. In this white and shiny world.
The first time they made you do this you threw up on the white tiles. That was not good. They forced you to rub your face in your sick and then they laughed their dirty laughs and called you barf-eater and vomit-bag and Denson screeched, "So fat and so desperate for something to stuff down his gob he'll bolt his own puke." Then they kicked your bum and said, "Get up and bend over, lard bucket."
So you've learned not do that again. You swallow your nausea and you count tiles.
They always start with the whipping first. They're not called whips for nothing. They're Fortinbras, Denson and Rowntree, all upper sixth, all whips, and then there's Galloping Foxley who's nothing at all. He's not even a prefect. He's just a gangleader and a brute. He doesn't need a badge. Everyone is already terrified of him.
They don't call it whipping. They call it 'disciplining'. "Come down to the basement washrooms to be disciplined. Tonight, nine o'clock sharp." They don't need to lock the washroom doors even. Everyone knows better than to barge in when there's a disciplining going on.
"Drop your trousers, fat arse," they say, "and bend over."
You know the routine by now so you always obey straight away. There's no point in struggling or crying out; it just makes it last longer. You bend over, and it's difficult for you to bend over because you are thirteen years old and you weigh fifteen stone and you're not very fit at all. You wheeze on the stairs and you huff when you have to put on your socks. When you bend over, your knees wobble and your shoulders hurt because you have to hold your arms so high. You have to put your hands on the wash basins, left hand on the left wash basin, right hand on the right wash basin. The wash basins are too far apart for comfort. They are ten large squares apart, 42 small squares, many squares too many.
Galloping Foxley is always first with the whipping. He takes a run-up from the other side of the washroom. You can hear him draw breath, and then his leather soles come clop-clopping across the tiles, then thwack.
That's the first stripe of the birch.
The others take care to lay their stripes precisely across that first cut. They jeer when one of them misses.
"Need glasses, Rowntree?"
"Not on form today, eh, Denson, old boy? Been drinking too much?"
Rowntree has a sloppy way of flogging, and Denson whacks the birch as if it were a cricket bat. Fortinbras is fussy and precise. It's Foxley who's the worst; he hits with the full force of twenty-four feet of run-up.
You try not to flinch but you do every time. You also try not to blubber but that's impossible. All you learn to do is to sniff when they're talking so that they can't hear you do it.
After the whipping comes the buggery. 'Cornholing', they call it, in mock hillbilly accents.
"Spread those fat arse cheeks of yours, lardy."
"Is he getting fatter, or is he just getting uglier?"
They take turns. Galloping Foxley always goes first. "I won't take soggy seconds," he announces imperiously. The others egg him on: "Faster! Faster!"
Their cornholing is probably as different in style as their whipping. Perhaps it's their cornholing that shapes their flogging: fast or sloppy or fussy or hard. You don't know. You count tiles. Thought is put on hold.
Ten tiles between wash basins, and 42 small tiles, and around four small tiles to one large tile but not exactly. There is a hairline crack in the third tile from the left. It is the only diagonal in the grid of shiny and white.
The first time round there was blood. "Eugh," the whips screeched. "Bleeding like the stuck fat pig that he is." After that, there is only a numb drum roll.
Galloping Foxley likes to pull out and shake his jism over your back. The others shoot it up you, and you'll be finding it sticking to your underpants for hours afterwards.
----
End of teaser. © Lobelia.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
oh, c'mon
Date: 2004-09-10 08:38 am (UTC)(probably Dudley, if anyone)
tiles=matte (dull surface)
man with no arms and no legs in front of a door=mat
better actor than ben=matt
*hides*
*peeks out*
*loves on Loblia's fic*
Re: oh, c'mon
Date: 2004-09-12 01:10 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading, sweetie.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-12 03:21 pm (UTC)(Meant to reply before but lost in the Awful Browser Crash of Saturday Morning)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-12 08:02 pm (UTC)Thanks. I always like hearing from you.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-12 08:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-15 10:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-12 07:18 pm (UTC)Obviously I've never been to a boy's public school, and nothing like this ever happened to me, but nevertheless this does bring back, quite strongly, the awful, plodding inevitability of being bullied at school. The way it's possible to just accept it, because it's normal. This is what these people do, and you are who they do it to. Because that's the way it is. So that aspect was actually a plus for me. I know a little bit about the fic from when you were talking about when we met up in Cambridge a while back, so I'm very intrigued to see how this plays out.
Sorry this is a bit short - still feeling crap physically. Was good to read this though. I haven't read enough fic lately.
*hugs* hope you're feeling ok.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-12 08:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-13 07:00 am (UTC)Re: Dudley telling his mother - this is an interesting point, because we've always seen Dudley as quite keen to run to mummy at the slightest provocation from Harry. But I think the key here is that he's not at home any more. He's plunged into this new and alien world and it probably doesn't occur to him that his mother would have any authority here. Certainly when bad things happened to me at school it never once occurred to me that to tell my parents - home was simply a refuge. Two different worlds. And yes, I think he probably would want to protect her, and by extension himself - if she knew about the things that went on at school then maybe home would somehow become less of a refuge from them.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-15 10:01 pm (UTC)Ah yes! A very interesting point. True!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-13 03:48 am (UTC)As regards fb, I am so accustomed to getting tiny bits of it, that I really don't know what you normally expect. Typically, I'm thrilled if more than five people respond. When I wrote a Troy RPS fic, I was dumbfounded at what seemed like a veritable flood of fb, and that maybe topped out at 20 comments. I was like, "OMG!!111!!! So this is what it's like to write in a fandom with people in it!"
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-15 10:00 pm (UTC)"OMG!!111!!! So this is what it's like to write in a fandom with people in it!"
*laughs* Thanks for pulling me back down to earth! It's always wonderful to hear from you.