Nil Carborundum Illegitimi
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,920
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,920
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Nil Carborundum Illegitimi
TITLE - Nil Carborundum Illegitimi
AUTHOR - Serpentis
RATING - NC17
FEEDBACK - Reviews would be nice
DISCLAIMER - All the HP characters are owned by J.K. Rowling apart from my OC's. Aurella is owned by Molotov Chicken
NOTES - The Elves mentioned are not Tolkien Elves, but flesh-eating psychotic British Celtic Elves. The first chapter is set in 1995 (PoA) but then is a flashback. There is NC17 Non-Con slash in here, so don't come running to me about it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To my dearest Lady Aurella,
Another year, another letter. I believe you have come to expect these every September from my hand, and this, of course, is no exception. My message is still the same. I desire you to feel the same way about me as I feel for you. For almost twenty years I have loved your very person, your soul, your everything, yet you are unable to give me a chance to woo you. I realise that it is not you who are lacking, but I. I am the one destroying my chances. But, me lady, please remember that as long as I believe I have a chance I will continue my correspondence.
I realise that I to you am but a momentarily diversion from the daily tasks that you undertake as headmistress, but I plead with you; please, for once, reply to me. Every letter that I have sent to you in the last long years has never had a fellow in return. I send you my heart, but I have not even a word of rejection in response.
I am also pleased to inform you of the position of headmaster I have taken at the school of Garn Fadryn on the Lleyn Peninsula. As you are aware, this establishment is the one that has the reputation for poaching your druids, so I will try to halt this wanton taking of talented children from your care! The Ministry of Magic made the appointment, so perhaps their policy of equal opportunities for non-human races has finally started to work properly.
All of my love,
your constant admirer, Arwarn.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arwarn Sandinista carefully blotted the inky sheet with a piece of tissue, folded it neatly, and sealed it with the trademark emerald wax that he always used. Into the warm liquid he pressed his seal; a flat disc of metal upon which was etched a sprinting boarhound. Finally, rising from the elaborately carved oak and flint chair in which he sat, Arwarn crossed to the stained scratched glass that covered the arrow slit. Opening it, he was surprised to find a small, bedraggled black and grey jackdaw waiting for the letter, so he carefully tied the parchment to the bird's leg with a piece of string and let it fly free. Being as unintelligent as it could possibly be without forgetting how to fly, the bird started to lap the room while squaw its its head off. However, a warning growl from the recently awaken Wolfie, Arwarn's boarhound familiar (why he called the grey and speckled dog Wolfie nobody ever knew) made the bird flee through the narrow slit. Sighing with indignation, the boarhound closed his pale amber eyes and settled down again before the sparking, crackling fire, moustache on his huge front paws, and started to snore quietly.
Turning, Arwarn surveyed the study. All of the furniture, from his chair to the massive desk to the washstand containing the carved granite bowl, was exquisitely worked with fruit, birds and mythological beasts. The panelling, which covered all of the rough-hewn, mossy stone walls, was also of oak. Only the barrel-vaulted granite ceiling and worn slate tiles showed the original fabric of the room. Generations of school head masters had made additions to the room; the huge fireplace; the dusty, moth-eaten tapestries; the small footspa concealed under the desk, the extremely well used mini bar. Arwarn, however, had added nothing but his drawings.
They covered every wall, a montage that showed no panels, embroideries or doors under their endless sheets. Painted, inked, pencilled, chalked, they surrounded him. The effect was to create a feeling of claustrophobia within walls of paper, but Arwarn found that they calmed him when his other nature called. To the observer they were a riot of technique and media covering every vertical surface that could be hidden. They were, however, bizarre due to one factor.
Every picture was of the same figure.
Here she sat, scarlet and black hair flowing over her shoulders. There she stood in the lashing gale, gown flowing in its tempestuous fingers. A close-up of a dark eye gazed from the mantelpiece, the curve of a lip on the cabinet. Even on the pieces of wall he could not attach the artwork to, such as the doorframes, he had carved into the wood images of the woman. Each showed her to be not beautiful, but vibrantly alive.
Aurella. The woman he had loved since he was fifteen years old.
AUTHOR - Serpentis
RATING - NC17
FEEDBACK - Reviews would be nice
DISCLAIMER - All the HP characters are owned by J.K. Rowling apart from my OC's. Aurella is owned by Molotov Chicken
NOTES - The Elves mentioned are not Tolkien Elves, but flesh-eating psychotic British Celtic Elves. The first chapter is set in 1995 (PoA) but then is a flashback. There is NC17 Non-Con slash in here, so don't come running to me about it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To my dearest Lady Aurella,
Another year, another letter. I believe you have come to expect these every September from my hand, and this, of course, is no exception. My message is still the same. I desire you to feel the same way about me as I feel for you. For almost twenty years I have loved your very person, your soul, your everything, yet you are unable to give me a chance to woo you. I realise that it is not you who are lacking, but I. I am the one destroying my chances. But, me lady, please remember that as long as I believe I have a chance I will continue my correspondence.
I realise that I to you am but a momentarily diversion from the daily tasks that you undertake as headmistress, but I plead with you; please, for once, reply to me. Every letter that I have sent to you in the last long years has never had a fellow in return. I send you my heart, but I have not even a word of rejection in response.
I am also pleased to inform you of the position of headmaster I have taken at the school of Garn Fadryn on the Lleyn Peninsula. As you are aware, this establishment is the one that has the reputation for poaching your druids, so I will try to halt this wanton taking of talented children from your care! The Ministry of Magic made the appointment, so perhaps their policy of equal opportunities for non-human races has finally started to work properly.
All of my love,
your constant admirer, Arwarn.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arwarn Sandinista carefully blotted the inky sheet with a piece of tissue, folded it neatly, and sealed it with the trademark emerald wax that he always used. Into the warm liquid he pressed his seal; a flat disc of metal upon which was etched a sprinting boarhound. Finally, rising from the elaborately carved oak and flint chair in which he sat, Arwarn crossed to the stained scratched glass that covered the arrow slit. Opening it, he was surprised to find a small, bedraggled black and grey jackdaw waiting for the letter, so he carefully tied the parchment to the bird's leg with a piece of string and let it fly free. Being as unintelligent as it could possibly be without forgetting how to fly, the bird started to lap the room while squaw its its head off. However, a warning growl from the recently awaken Wolfie, Arwarn's boarhound familiar (why he called the grey and speckled dog Wolfie nobody ever knew) made the bird flee through the narrow slit. Sighing with indignation, the boarhound closed his pale amber eyes and settled down again before the sparking, crackling fire, moustache on his huge front paws, and started to snore quietly.
Turning, Arwarn surveyed the study. All of the furniture, from his chair to the massive desk to the washstand containing the carved granite bowl, was exquisitely worked with fruit, birds and mythological beasts. The panelling, which covered all of the rough-hewn, mossy stone walls, was also of oak. Only the barrel-vaulted granite ceiling and worn slate tiles showed the original fabric of the room. Generations of school head masters had made additions to the room; the huge fireplace; the dusty, moth-eaten tapestries; the small footspa concealed under the desk, the extremely well used mini bar. Arwarn, however, had added nothing but his drawings.
They covered every wall, a montage that showed no panels, embroideries or doors under their endless sheets. Painted, inked, pencilled, chalked, they surrounded him. The effect was to create a feeling of claustrophobia within walls of paper, but Arwarn found that they calmed him when his other nature called. To the observer they were a riot of technique and media covering every vertical surface that could be hidden. They were, however, bizarre due to one factor.
Every picture was of the same figure.
Here she sat, scarlet and black hair flowing over her shoulders. There she stood in the lashing gale, gown flowing in its tempestuous fingers. A close-up of a dark eye gazed from the mantelpiece, the curve of a lip on the cabinet. Even on the pieces of wall he could not attach the artwork to, such as the doorframes, he had carved into the wood images of the woman. Each showed her to be not beautiful, but vibrantly alive.
Aurella. The woman he had loved since he was fifteen years old.