Scrap Paper

Happy Days!

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 05:45:35 GMT

I graduated! I'll miss it (some parts) but it's good to be done (for now...) So, we get a chapter of Tangled Webs, and I've started work on the next chapter of All Their Sins, which is the chapter I've been looking forward to since I started that story eons ago.

Chapter Fourteen
In which Ginny finally gets into Draco’s pants, and Ron is jealous
Thursday, December 24, 1998

It was the tremors that woke him. Even though he'd kept himself carefully on the far side of the bed as he fell asleep, at some point during the night they had both rolled towards the center of the bed, and he woke to find his forehead tucked against her shoulder blade and his arm loosely draped over her waist — a position that seemed to be becoming a favourite of his. Her back was warm against his chest, but shaking as she cried in her sleep.

"Weasley," he murmured. "Weasley." She curled into a tighter ball, but gave no indication of hearing him, nor of waking. "Ginny." She murmured something softly in response to that, so he tried again. "Ginny, wake up."

"'Raco?" she mumbled, sleepily trying to twist to look at him. The morning light that peaked through a crack in the curtains made something on her cheeks glimmer. Tears, he realized. His arm tightened around her instinctively, forcing her to stay facing away from him so that he couldn't see those tears.

"You woke me up," he said, then realized it made him sound both petulant and harsh. "Nightmare?" he asked, as gently as he could. He wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he'd been able to sleep in his own bed last night: that way, he wouldn't have woken to these tears he couldn't face.

"S'nothing," she answered, trying to draw away from him.

He held her firmly where she was. "Happens a lot, does it?"

The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. "Just... keep remembering his face when I put the knife on him." He could scarcely hear the words, she whispered it so quietly.

"You're not worried about repercussions, are you? The memory charm..."

"But I remember." Her voice was plaintive and weak, not a tone he associated with her. He wondered how many times she'd awoken like this — and how many times she hadn't awoken, but stayed trapped in some nightmare memory. Not my concern, he told himself firmly. Weasley was a strong woman — this was only a moment of weakness, one that he ought to forget as soon as he could. Somehow, he didn't think he would be able to.

She tried to roll over again, and this time he let her, biting back his instinctive protest when her arms went around him in a desperate hug. He lay there, silent and resigned, and let her clutch him as she fought for a semblance of her normal composure. When at last he thought she was calm, he said, "You're cutting off my air. I'd like to be able to breathe, if you don't mind."

The glaring eyes she turned towards him were red-rimmed but dry. "Don't be more of an arse than you have to, Malfoy."

From somewhere else in the house, there came the distinctive crack of Apparation. "Ginny?" a voice called. Weasley's eyes went very wide, as did Draco's own.

Half rolling over her, he snatched her wand from the bedside table. "Kreacher, hide my things," he ordered, having no idea whether the elf could hear him. "Hold on," he said quietly to Weasley, who still seemed too shocked to move. Then he Apparated away.

"That's strange. She doesn't seem to be here," Hermione said, peering around the dimly lit entrance hall.

"She might still be asleep," Ron pointed out. "It's early."

"It's almost ten, Ron," she answered, just the littlest bit impatient. She herself had been up since just after six.

"Ginny's not a morning person." 'And neither am I,' was added implicitly.

"It's the holidays, anyway," Harry said, peeking into the kitchen. "Nothing wrong with sleeping in."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Even if she was sleeping in, she'd be awake now, what with you two rampaging around like a pair of hippopotamuses. She's not here."

"Where is she then?" Ron challenged.

"I don't know. Somewhere else. Diagon Alley, maybe," she added, hoping that would curtail the storm of brotherly worry that was brewing on Ron's face.

"I'd like to go to Diagon Alley," Harry said thoughtfully. "I know we only told McGonagall we were coming here, but... it's not a big deal, right?"

Hermione hesitated. They were all legally of age, now, and it wasn't like Diagon Alley would be dangerous. And after a year on their own, moving all around Britain, the halls of Hogwarts were somewhat stifling. A side trip really couldn't hurt. "Of course," she agreed. "But we're stopping at Flourish and Blott's."

Once again, Minerva was assailed by doubts. She was, technically, breaking the law by allowing Draco Malfoy his continued freedom. Ginny Weasley was seventeen, and therefore an adult, but that was hardly enough to qualify her as a warden for a convicted Death Eater. It was the sort of flagrant disregard for the law that had been so typical of Albus, bless his soul, and that worried Minerva somewhat. On the other hand, there was little in this world that would convince her that it wasn't right.

She'd been as surprised as anyone when Malfoy had taken the school up on its open offer of an eighth year. Her resolve to keep an eye on him had been prompted more by her worry over his reception — she would not tolerate fights in her school — than by the Ministry's request.

He got up to little enough, anyway. His marks were excellent — the best they had ever been, now that he didn't have Quidditch or evil schemes taking him away from his studies. All the teachers reported that he was quieter, more reserved, and that if he spoke in class it was to ask a relevant and insightful question about the course material in a way that bespoke a genuine desire to learn. Flitwick in particular seemed to have taken a shine to the boy over the last few months, and now considered Malfoy a favourite pupil; but then, Flitwick had always had a soft spot for ready intelligence.

Despite his apparent turn-around, Minerva had still been shocked when the boy fell in with Ginny Weasley. According to the Bloody Baron — who knew the most about Malfoy's activities, and told Minerva the least — the two studied together often, and occasionally met on a more social, but strictly platonic, level. There was no romance, no evil plots, just the strangest friendship that Minerva had ever encountered.

Sometimes, Minerva thought she should send the pair of them to visit Poppy so they could have their heads examined. That anyone should apparently take such joy from a series of vicious, and sometimes violent, fracases simply boggled the mind. Well, Ginny Weasley is related to the twins, Minerva thought, and perhaps all that Dark Magic scrambled the Malfoy boy's brains. It wasn't the most reassuring thought, but it might explain why they acted as they did.

However strange their relationship, it was solid, and Minerva had had only a few slight misgivings about letting the pair of them escape to Grimmauld Place. Perhaps she had been right to do so: according to the monitoring charm the Ministry had placed on him, and given her, he hadn't used magic at all this week. Such restraint, she thought. For a Pureblood who had grown up positively swimming in magic, not using a wand would be nearly torturous.

And now I've sent Potter to them. It would have seemed strange if she had told Potter and his friends that they couldn't go to Grimmauld Place, and likely they would have gone anyway. But she worried about what would happen when those three found Malfoy there. I hope I did the right thing.

They landed with a crash on the edge of a bed, and fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. "Cliodne's cunt, Malfoy, do you even have your license?" Ginny demanded when a bit of air found its way back into her lungs. She'd noticed that her language had become a bit more colourful over the course of her association with him, and at times like this she was glad.

"I do too," he snapped petulantly, disentangling himself and looking around the room. "I was rushed, was all. Oh, I see. Mother rearranged the furniture."

"She... where are we?" Ginny demanded, glaring at him as she stood. It felt like her body, especially her knees and elbows, were covered in bruises. It was a miracle he hadn't splinched them both, Apparating like that.

"Malfoy Manor. Wiltshire," he added, somewhat unnecessarily. Seeing her glare intensify, he added, "I panicked, alright?"

Knowing what the admission cost him, and not particularly caring, Ginny said, "So now what?"

"Breakfast?" he suggested, shrugging.

"Not dressed like this," Ginny told him, indicating her dishevelled pyjamas. She was about to elaborate, when she heard footsteps rapidly approaching.

"...Apparated in... unexpected..." she heard.

Malfoy heard it too, and his eyes widened. "Bathroom. Go," he ordered, jerking his chin towards a door. Ginny fairly flew across the room, getting the door closed behind her just as the door to the corridor opened. How much longer is this going to keep up? she thought, tired and annoyed. She'd wanted to sleep in but, failing that, she was willing to settle for breakfast — but she didn't look to be getting that any time soon, either.

Willing her breathing to stay quiet, she pressed an ear to the door. "...doing here?" a voice she almost recognized was saying.

"I decided to come home," came the answer in Malfoy's unmistakeable drawl. "I still live here."

"Does Minerva McGonagall know you're here?"

"Yes." Ginny wondered if Malfoy had also come to the conclusion that McGonagall had let them go, or if he was simply telling a barefaced lie.

"We didn't receive any notification that you'd be arriving."

"Maybe I was suddenly overcome with extreme homesickness," Malfoy retorted. Oh, please don't be an arse, Ginny thought at him, willing him to somehow hear her. For once in your life, pretend you care what someone's saying.

"You're alone?" the man asked suspiciously. If they had detectors for Apparation, no doubt they could identify the number of people, and would know if Malfoy tried to lie.

"No. Ginevra Weasley's with me." He said it calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And to some extent it did feel that way, although it wasn't quite enough to counter the strangeness of suddenly finding herself in Malfoy Manor, of all places.

"Where is she?"

"The loo," Malfoy answered dryly. "Is that all? I was in the middle of changing."

There was silence for a moment, then the man said, "I'm watching you, Malfoy."

"Not while I'm changing, you aren't," Malfoy retorted firmly. There was the scuff of feet, and then the sound of a door closing. "Weasley, you can come out now."

"Who was that?"

"One of the Aurors." Malfoy was rooting through a deep wardrobe, so his voice was slightly muffled. Even so, Ginny knew that his expression would have a wry twist to it when he said, "They keep a constant watch to make sure we behave ourselves."

"Sounds like a boring assignment."

"One nearly got eaten by the topiary last week." His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug. "Mother warned them, but of course that just made them think she was hiding something out there."

Ginny felt a slight smirk tugging the corner of her mouth. "Perhaps not so boring."

"Perhaps," he agreed, emerging from the wardrobe. "Here. They'll be a bit too big, but they're the closest I have." He handed her a shirt and a pair of worn Quidditch corduroys. "You really ought to learn some tailoring charms."

"What makes you think I don't know any?" Ginny said, a bit defensively. She didn't, but that was entirely besides the point.

He gave her a withering look. "If you did, your clothes might actually fit. The only other explanation is that you have absolutely no taste."

She glared at him, but turned back to the bathroom without comment. Her looks and her family's financial situation were two topics she never wanted to discuss with him, and this conversation threatened to include both.

After she'd washed and dressed, and he'd taken a turn in the bathroom, he led her out of the room. "Mother's probably in the conservatory," he told her. "We can take breakfast there." That brought Ginny's attention rapidly away from the architecture, which she had been studying. The Manor was built elegantly, on a grand scale, but it seemed that that only served to make it feel empty.

"Your mother..." she murmured, suddenly unsure. She knew that Narcissa Malfoy had saved Harry's life during the Battle of Hogwarts — hence the clemency towards the family — but the only time she'd seen the woman up close had been at the Quidditch World Cup. Then, she had seemed imposing, aloof, and hopelessly aristocratic. Malfoy wasn't as bad as he first seemed (although in some ways he was perhaps worse), but that didn't mean the same would be true of his mother. And she dreaded the thought of meeting Lucius Malfoy.

The conservatory, like the rest of the house, was enormous and beautiful. Carefully tended plants lined the room, filling the air with a warm, earthy smell that was cut by the humid freshness of a slender waterfall. The high glass ceiling seemed to amplify the winter sunlight, aiding the illusion that they had been transported somewhere exotic and tropical when they stepped through the doorway. In the center of the room, a grand piano held the place of honour, looking as though it had grown there rather than out of place.

Seated at a delicate table, in a chair that looked as though it had been made of spun glass and spider silk, was a tall, stately woman. She might have been beautiful once, and some would probably still think her so, but to Ginny she looked careworn and tired. She looked up as they approached, and her smile made Ginny think that maybe she was still beautiful after all. "Draco. And Miss Weasley." She stood and kissed Draco lightly on each cheek, then repeated the greeting to Ginny. "I was just about to begin breakfast. Won't you join me?"

"We'd be glad to, Mother," Draco said gently. His firm grip, which suddenly appeared on Ginny's elbow, cut off any protest she might have made. He steered her to a seat at the table, likely looking gentlemanly and considerate, even as he gave her no option but to do as he wanted.

"Ginny." She started at the deep, rich voice, and looked around quickly to locate the speaker. Kingsley Shacklebolt, one-time Auror and now Minister of Magic, was watching her over the top of the Prophet. His strong frame was comfortably ensconced in a deep armchair that looked no less elegant for all its apparent comfort.

"Kingsley," she said, so surprised she nearly missed her chair as she tried to sit, no longer sure her legs would take the weight. "What are you... I mean..." Perhaps Malfoy had noticed him, and that was why he'd been so forceful about making her act as though nothing was wrong — but Ginny hadn't even realized there was anyone else there.

"It's very nice to see you too," he said, a cheerful, amused smile splitting his dark features. Now that he no longer looked so severe, Ginny managed to smile in return. "You look well."

"As do you, Minister," Ginny responded, finally recovering herself. "I hadn't expected to see you here."

"That much," he answered, "is evident. The reverse is true as well." His eyebrows raised slightly. "I am here bringing holiday wishes to the Malfoy family."

"Checking up on us, he means," Malfoy grumbled next to her. At least he had the sense to say it quietly.

"Malfoy — that is, Draco — said I might be able to use their library for my NEWTs research," Ginny said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy go very still when she called him by his first name, but by the time she mentioned the library he was nodding as though this was the reason they had come here all along.

"He didn't mention that the library was forfeit?" Kingsley asked, his voice tinged with something that might have been suspicion. Ginny saw Narcissa Malfoy's expression tighten slightly.

"But it's still here," Malfoy said, his bored arrogance dismissing the Minister of Magic as easily as it did an annoying first year. That's quite the trick he has, Ginny thought to herself. It'll probably get him killed one day. "Might as well make use of it before it goes. Oh, Mother — do you know if we have the first two volumes of Anecdotes of the Great Accountants?"

"You'll have to ask Anton." Any woman with less poise would have shrugged, Ginny thought, but Narcissa Malfoy's manner implied that such an action was beneath her dignity.

A bearded man that Ginny thought she might have seen before — at the Ministry, maybe, or with the Order — came in then. Kingsley looked up at him. "It's all in order, then?"

The man nodded. "She nearly took my head off when I asked if she was sure."

"Of course she did," Kingsley agreed, rising and folding his paper. "That's what you get for questioning Minerva's competence. She wouldn't let Malfoy escape."

Despite a brisk wind from the north that promised snow before nightfall, Diagon Alley was packed with last-minute holiday shoppers. The air, which tasted to Ron of pollution and freedom, seemed to fairly hum with tension: both excitement for the coming holiday, and stress from shopping under a tight deadline. After so many long months at Hogwarts, with only classes and Quidditch to distract him from the memories that seeped from the very stones of the building, it was glorious.

Harry seemed to have found new energy, too. He'd cheerfully recalled their adventure in Gringotts, and spoken kindly to everyone who had come up to shake his hand and wish him well. There had been one moment, when Harry had wanted to buy Christmas owl treats for Hedwig, when Ron had worried that things might blow up in their faces, but the treats had been purchased without incident. There would be some difficulty in disposing of them later, but Ron didn't want to think about it.

He hadn't seen Ginny yet, which was another worry. He'd agreed to come as much because Hermione had said his sister would be here, as much as because it was important to Harry. But though he'd looked and looked, craning his neck to see over crowds and straining his eyes to see through shop windows, he'd still found no trace of her.

It worried him, far more than he liked to admit. Too often these days, it seemed that Ginny was leading a life separate from theirs; almost as if she were purposely distancing herself from them. He'd first noticed it years ago, when he was in his fifth year, but he'd put it down to her growing up. After she'd started seeing Harry, things had seemed to go back to normal. But these past months — or perhaps even longer, perhaps since they had first left to find the Horcruxes — the space between them had grown alarmingly. Sometimes he thought he didn't even know her anymore.

But all that was probably just his brotherly worry, as Hermione would say. They'd find Ginny, and he'd realize that his paranoia had made things seem worse than they were, and everything would be fine.

Anton, Ginny learned shortly after breakfast, was the dour-faced ghost who served as the Malfoy family's librarian. Born in the seventeenth century to the wayward lady of the house and a village lad, he'd soon been shipped off to a monastery, only to be called back some years later to keep the house accounts for the incompetent heir. The ghost had glared in a dull, resigned sort of way as Malfoy related the tale, as though he disliked being reminded of his personal history. Whatever his attitude towards the house and the family, though, he clearly loved the library, and knew the name and origin of every volume it contained.

He was waxing nostalgic about Abraxas Malfoy, whose love of rare books had nearly doubled the size of the collection, when Ginny's eyes became drawn to the portrait that overlooked a small cluster of reading chairs. It was a still portrait, as though painted by a muggle: it must be very old indeed, because Hogwarts contained portraits from as far back as the fifteenth century, all of which moved. There was a curious flatness and lack of proportion to the woman's face as well which, had she paid more attention in History of Magic, Ginny would have recognized as typical of pre-Renaissance works.

With a shock, as though suddenly stung by a skrewt, Ginny recognized the woman. Though the style differed significantly from the portrait at Hogwarts, which had been painted several hundred years after the woman's death, with that dark hair, pale skin, and those sharp, thoughtful eyes, the woman in the portrait was unmistakably Rowena Ravenclaw.

"Malfoy," she said, not noticing the glare Anton sent her as she cut him off, "why is there a portrait of Ravenclaw in your house?" Some small part of her wouldn't have been surprised if it were Slytherin — indeed, she had half expected to see one somewhere in the house, perhaps above an altar.

"We're descended from her," Malfoy answered easily, as though this meant little to him. "At least, that's the story."

She looked at him sharply. With his personality, she would have expected Malfoy to have bragged to everyone who would listen that he was descended from Ravenclaw herself, despite being in Slytherin. "The story?"

"Have a seat," was his answer, coupled with a jerk of his head towards the chairs beneath the portrait. "It's a bit long. We'll call if we need you, Anton," he added, in clear dismissal. The ghost gave him a snooty look — perhaps arrogance really was genetic in this family — and drifted away.

"None of this is in the histories because no one can prove it — although enough of my ancestors have tried. It's just a story," Malfoy began. His gaze move from Ginny's face to the portrait of Ravenclaw, and then intensified until it seemed he looked through the canvas to the past. The Founder's time, Ginny wondered, or when he learned the story? It was an irrelevant thought, but she continued to watch his face as he spoke.

"In 1050, when Hogwarts was founded, Ravenclaw was still a young woman. The youngest of the four, actually: about twenty years old, while Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were in their thirties, and Slytherin was close to sixty. So of course, it's understandable that Slytherin was thought to be the greatest of the four, as well as the most set in his ways." His tone was thoughtful: he wasn't needling her, only mapping out how things appeared to have stood. "Ravenclaw was married, with a young daughter."

"The Grey Lady?" Ginny asked quietly, afraid to interrupt but unable to keep herself from doing so.

Malfoy didn't even glance at her, but continued to speak to the unmoving portrait. "I suppose. Ravenclaw's husband died, at some point. That part's a bit unclear, but it's not really important. Then, after Edward the Confessor died, William of Normandy came to claim the throne of England, and Geoffrey Malfoy came with him. Ravenclaw was at Salisbury when the town fell to them. Geoffrey asked William for land near the plain, and to be allowed to chose a wife from the conquered women, in recognition of his service. Decent of him, perhaps, considering that rape and pillage were more common. It probably seemed like a small reward to William, so he gave it easily.

"What William didn't realize was that Geoffrey was the most powerful wizard of the small handful that had come from Normandy, and it was his goal to be the founder of a line of the greatest wizards in the world." Ginny thought his smile at that was slightly rueful. "A home near a powerful ancient site, and an exceptional witch as a wife: those were what he needed, and by marrying Ravenclaw and building Malfoy Manor, he gained them. Everyone else probably thought he was insane, marrying an old woman like that."

"She wouldn't have been that old," Ginny protested. "Only..."

"Thirty-seven or so," he agreed. "Old, for that time — it was a miracle she survived giving birth to Geoffrey's heir. But she always hated him, and after the son was born, she put a curse on the family. Only one heir would be born to each generation. The family would never grow, as Geoffrey had wished, and it would die entirely if a son died without issue."

"No wonder you're such a brat," Ginny muttered. "Ridiculously coddled because of an old story."

Malfoy ignored her. "She died of a broken heart soon after. Well, that's the story, anyway. It's a thousand years old: it's just as likely she was madly in love with Geoffrey, and was broken hearted when he died. Or that neither of them ever existed. The curse is real, though."

"That's rot," Ginny informed him. "A curse that lasts a thousand years? Especially one that specific... it can't be done."

"There's curses on the pyramids that have been there for several times that," Malfoy pointed out dryly.

Ginny shook her head firmly. "Those are on objects, not bloodlines. Magic sticks better. And anyway, they don't last as well as you think — they start to mutate, or fall apart, which is why there's so many nasty things in there. Bill said the worst thing he ever saw was a spell that was supposed to preserve grain, which went bad. Anyone who went near the tomb would start to rot, only they wouldn't die or fall apart entirely." She waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, the curse is impossible. It's just that no woman wants to bring any more of you arrogant bastards into the world than she has to."

The look he gave her was so intense, and went on for so long, that for a moment Ginny feared she had actually offended him. But then he smirked, and said, "But we're so handsome. What woman could resist?"

"Albino ferrets aren't nearly as attractive as you seem to think," Ginny countered, feeling inexplicably relieved that he had not been offended by her easy dismissal of something which he genuinely seemed to believe. She could remember his anger before, when she'd suggested that his family was so small because they all turned gay, and he'd first mentioned this ridiculous curse.

But now he actually laughed at her comment. "That's far more recent. My great-grandfather wanted to marry a beautiful woman, so he married a veela."

"Has anyone ever told you that your family is incredibly shallow, Malfoy?" One had married for magical power, one for looks, and though he hadn't mentioned it, there had probably been at least one that had married for money.

"Never to my face," he said with an inexplicable smirk.

"Anyway, I didn't think veelas liked marrying wizards." Fleur's grandmother was a veela, but she'd admitted to Ginny that neither she nor her mother knew who her grandfather had been.

"They don't. She killed him." He shrugged, a slightly wicked smile on his face. "She ate his liver, too."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not. Well, the bit about the liver, yes. They never proved that she tried to eat him, but I'm sure she did."

Ginny shook her head. "Suddenly, so much about you stands explained."

"I'll take that to mean my dashing good looks and stunning intellect," he drawled in return. Ginny rolled her eyes. The stories themselves hadn't been that revealing — interesting, yes, but they were just stories. But his current good cheer, and the thoughtful way in which he had told the stories had fully shown her a side of him that she had previously only seen flashes of. How uncomfortable he must be at Hogwarts, if this is how he acts at home, she thought. But she'd never say as much out loud: it would be an unpardonable voicing of his weakness, which he was loathe to show to anyone. Besides, it wasn't as though this was his true face, and his being an arrogant bastard was just a front: that was as much him as this relaxed, thoughtful young man. It was interesting, and somehow pleasant, to see this side of him, but she wasn't so foolish as to believe that he was inadvertently revealing a soft, squishy center that had been hidden under that prickly shell all along. There's absolutely nothing soft about him.

She suddenly became aware that he was speaking again. "...even listening?" he was saying.

"Yes, yes," she said irritably, waving him off, even though she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

"Liar. You were completely lost to the world. Flitwick could have done a naked Irish jig right in front of you, and you wouldn't have noticed."

Ginny winced. "I could have done without that mental image."

"Pervert," he answered, not sounding the least bit sorry for causing her mental pain. "What I said was, we should find those books for you."

"That was just an excuse for Kingsley," Ginny pointed out.

"I know." He looked up at the high shelves that ringed the room; sadly, Ginny thought. "But the books really are forfeit and I just..." He grimaced. "I don't want to lose them all," he admitted, grudgingly. He was probably afraid the sentiment sounded sappy, but Ginny understood.

"I can't take that many."

"Some of the oldest and rarest books in the collection are Dark Magic texts on almancy and sangremancy."

Ginny felt herself pale a little. "Malfoy, I can't... books like that are much too..." Precious was the word she wanted to use, but in her flustered state she had very nearly said 'expensive', which would have given him entirely the wrong idea about her objection.

"Come here," he ordered and, hesitantly, she obeyed, moving to stand in front of her chair. He reached up and gripped her hand, as though to shake it. "I, Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, its titles, manor, fortune, and all its possessions, do grant permission to you, Ginevra Weasley, to borrow, indefinitely, any items or parts of the Malfoy library collection, and to have unrestricted access to them, as I would have." He released her hand, but his eyes remained steady on hers.

Ginny took a shaky breath, worried by the strange stirring she had felt when he'd held her hand, as though the very air around them was charged. "That sounded unbelievably pompous, you know."

"I can't help it," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't write it. But it's the only way for you to get through the protections on the books. Ah, Anton," he added, as the ghost approached in a way that as much resembled a purposeful stride as was possible for someone who floated. "I didn't call for you."

"You released the wards on the collection," the ghost said angrily, no longer even slightly deferential. So that's what that feeling was, Ginny thought, inexplicably relieved to learn that it had only been magic. Just the wards. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What I can," Malfoy snapped. "We'll be wanting the books on almancy and sangremancy, Anton — the best volumes, please, and any that you cannot bear to have confiscated by the Ministry."

Ginny saw the ghost's transparent eyes widen. "You are protecting the library?"

"The best and most important, Anton. We cannot take many."

"Yes sir."

"And see what we have on accountancy and business. I'd like to sneak a couple of those, if I can." Anton was rapidly floating away, apparently elated by the imminent salvation of his precious library. "He's such a twat," Malfoy muttered, once the ghost was out of earshot. Ginny snickered.

"What do you mean, I can't fly?" Draco demanded. The bearded Auror just shrugged, as though he didn't care that he was denying Draco the thing he had most looked forward to ever since he realized all the opportunities that being home afforded him.

"Can't supervise you properly if you're on a broom," the man said. "It's Christmas — not enough manpower."

It was surprisingly difficult to resist the urge to reach over and throttle the man. Beside him, he felt Weasley twitch, and suddenly realized that they'd been standing with their shoulders touching. Sweet Circe, that's bad, he thought. At some point he'd become comfortable enough around her that he didn't even notice the contact. It was worrying: not only did it mark a dramatic change from his old self, but it was dangerous for him to be so unguarded, even if it was only Weasley.

"And why should he have to be supervised?" Weasley demanded, before Draco could stop her from interfering. "He's not a baby." The Auror muttered something about escapes, and Weasley growled in frustration.

"It's alright," Draco said quietly, putting a hand on her arm, although he wasn't sure if it was an attempt to calm her or preparation in case she tried to bodily attack the annoying man. "You go on to the shed, and try out the new Blaze. I'll just watch."

The eyes she turned to him were troubled. Worryingly, he felt a wave of annoyance towards the Auror because the man had upset Weasley like this. "It's not fair," she told him, as though she still believed, after all this time, that anything in the world was fair.

"It happens," he said. "Go on. You probably won't get another chance to ride something so expensive." Normally, he would have expected her to glare at him, or snap something in return. Instead, she just rolled her eyes at him, as though she knew he was deliberately trying to annoy her so she would stop being upset over the injustice done to him. Without a word, she went into the shed and grabbed the new broom, kicking off while she was still inside.

She passed through the door with a whoop of joy, the broom already flying at her old Comet's top speed. Draco found himself grinning a little bit as he watched her spiral up high above the Manor, although a part of him ached with the wish that it were him up there, feeling the rush of cold winter air against his face.

"It's a wonderful broom, isn't it?" Lucius said, coming up behind him. "The reviews don't do it justice."

"That idiot from the Prophet can't fly worth beans, that's why," Draco responded. The incompetence of the Prophet's staff — and most especially its Quidditch columnist — was one of Lucius's favourite topics.

His father hummed in agreement. "It would seem Miss Weasley can." The words were carefully approving. Draco didn't doubt that his father still harboured some grudges, against the Weasleys especially, but they all knew to play nice now that the fate of their family rested in the hands of the Weasleys and their friends. Too, Draco knew that in bringing Weasley here, and letting her ride the new broom that even he hadn't had a go on, he had sent a clear signal to his family that this was one Weasley that was not to be spoken ill of, at least in his hearing. He doubted much would be said, in any case — his mother had seemed quite charmed by Weasley's quick wit and unrefined politeness at breakfast.

"I haven't seen you yet today, Father. A new project?" Draco asked. Banned from many of his old activities, and unwilling to return to Bargles with a guilty verdict and an Auror guard, Lucius had turned his hand to a number of projects over the last few months, trying to stave off boredom. Narcissa's letters had described attempts at guitar, golf and once, disastrously, gardening. Lucius, previously an aristocratic man of leisure, now resembled a working stiff forced into early retirement and unable settle down to a life of quiet relaxation.

"I thought I'd make myself scarce. Miss Weasley has no cause to like me, and I thought it best not to jeopardize your efforts." While he appreciated his father's desire not to upset Weasley, Draco disliked the insinuation that their was an ulterior motive to his association with her. He enjoyed Weasley's company for its own sake, for much the same reasons he appreciated their enmity — if such it still was — and not because her friendship might benefit their family with the Ministry. In fact, he was sure many people would disapprove of his spending time with her, thinking, as Lucius did, that he was only doing it because he had an ulterior motive.

Instead of correcting his father, though, Draco simply said, "Thank you. I doubt the Aurors would be quick enough to protect you if she decided to hex you."

"A talented witch, is she?"

"Well..." Draco paused, thinking back over the hours he had spent studying with her. Weasley wasn't a brainy know-it-all, the way the Mudblood was, but she wasn't stupid like her troll of a brother, either. She was intuitive and bright and, unfortunately, very quick on the draw when he annoyed her. "Yes, I suppose she is," he said. Lucius, he felt instinctively, was not ready to hear more good of a Weasley than that. He'd been more invested in the Dark Lord's schemes than Narcissa and Draco, and had lost more, so it was understandable that his resentment would run deeper.

"Hmm. Pity about the red hair," was all Lucius said. Draco turned away, ending the conversation before his father could suggest that he marry Weasley for the benefit the match would bring their family, as he was sure Lucius would. Draco knew his parents loved each other, but their marriage had been a matter of business as well. Realizing, suddenly and horrifyingly, that he was thinking of marriage and Weasley in the same context, Draco quickly asked about his fathers attempts at gardening to distract himself. He really couldn't think about his enemy like that, even if it would only be a match of convenience.

He was waiting for her when she landed, leaning against the doorframe of the broom shed and watching her with what looked, at first, to be arrogant indifference. She spotted one of the Aurors standing guard in the shadow of the house, and realized that Malfoy's posturing was likely for the sake of his guard. Malfoy, arrogant little swot that he was, would never allow someone as crass as a mere guard to believe that they could discomfit the Great Poncy Ferret. She smirked a bit at the thought. She'd noticed how he tensed the moment he caught sight of one of the guards.

"How was the ride?" he asked, taking the broom from her. "Drat it, Weasley, you got fingerprints all over it. Don't you ever wash, or can your family not even afford soap?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Auror frowning, obviously disliking Malfoy's tone. Could the man not tell it was a joke, if a rather poor one? "Malfoy, if you could actually fly, instead of buying your way onto the Quidditch team, you'd know that it's hard work."

"That's why I don't do it, then," he countered.

The Auror had relaxed again at his post, but he was still watching them carefully, not realizing that it was all bullshit. Malfoy hardly ever made jokes about her family's poverty, now — the Ministry's attempts to seize his family's property and fortune had made that a touchy subject for him, too — and she knew he'd earned his own place on the Quidditch team — if not initially, then many times since, keeping up with Harry in games. She knew that his hands, which looked so thin and aristocratic from a distance, were hard with calluses, although she couldn't for the life of her remember when it was she'd noticed.

"Thanks, by the way," she said quietly, and was pleased to see him look shocked to hear her say it.
He grunted. "Merry Christmas," he joked softly.

"Oh." Realization hit all at once. It was Christmas Eve, and she was spending it with Malfoy, of all people, at his family's opulent and soon-to-be-forfeit Manor, not with Ron and his friends, who were almost family, or with any of the rest of her family. She should say something about that, but what she heard herself saying was, "I didn't get you anything."

His eyes were a deep, strange grey when he said, "Freedom." He looked away awkwardly, and said, "Your brother's probably missing you. You should go see him at Hogwarts."

"But how will you get back?"

"I'll manage."

He wouldn't, she knew, not with Aurors watching his every movement. He wasn't expected on the train back to Hogwarts, and he didn't have his wand. And what was she to do, just swan up to Hogwarts with a box of stolen books on the Dark Arts under her arm? "No," she said, reaching a decision. She spoke loudly enough for the Auror to hear. "I'm going to head back to Hogwarts to see my brother and Harry." She thought he flinched a little when she mentioned the black-haired boy, but decided she must have imagined it. "Then I'd like to come back here and have another look at the library, before New Years. Maybe we could go back to Hogwarts together after that?"

"Alright," he said, watching her closely. "You'll have to floo, though. You got through the Apparation wards because you were with me this time, but next time..." She flinched at the idea that she might splinch herself. "Just call ahead so the bastards can let you through." The way his eyes flicked to his guard left her in no doubt about who he was referring to.

"So, I'll see you in a couple of days," she said, awkwardly.

"Yeah."

"Have a good Christmas," she offered.

He sounded even more uncomfortable than her when he replied, "You too." Then Ginny walked into the house and went to find a fireplace to floo back to Hogsmeade, leaving Malfoy standing by the broom shed.

Even before the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, Ginny could sense the malevolence, like a dark cloud, that was spreading from the Gryffindor Common Room. Stepping through the portrait hole, she saw Ron and Harry sitting in armchairs near the fire, their hands like claws on the armrests and fierce scowls on their faces. Hermione stood nearby, her expression tight, as though she were fighting to keep a scowl from her face as well.

"What's happened?" she asked, panic building suddenly in her chest. Surely nothing bad could have happened. It couldn't have. Please, let everything be alright, she thought.

Ron's head jerked around, and Ginny saw a torrent of emotions sweep across his face before his features settled into an expression of utter relief. "Ginny!" he cried, jumping from his chair and sweeping her into a hug. "We were so worried." Harry and Hermione followed close behind, taking their turns embracing her. Ginny was too shocked to do anything but stand still while they crowded around her. Would happened? Any moment now, she would be unable to control her panic, and it would break from her like a river bursting its dam.

"We went by Grimmauld Place, and you weren't there," Hermione said, and Ginny felt her panic subside. Nothing catastrophic had happened — they had only been worried because they hadn't seen her at Grimmauld Place. Although if they had seen her, and Malfoy besides, probably something catastrophic would have occurred. "And we looked all over Diagon Alley, too, but we must have missed you."

"Yes," Ginny agreed, gratefully accepting Hermione's explanation. She would have been hard-pressed to think of another excuse for her absence. The only other place she might have gone was the Burrow, but perhaps they would have checked there — and, if they hadn't, they would want to know how George was doing, and she couldn't have lied about that.

"What's that you're wearing?" Ron asked suddenly, and Ginny froze. She had completely forgotten she was wearing Malfoy's old clothes. And trust Ron to finally notice what she was wearing, now of all times. "Those are... blimey, Gin, those are McCormack Cords." Unable to stop herself, Ginny looked down at her trousers.

"Which cords?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"McCormack. Designed by Catriona McCormack herself. I've always wanted a pair, but they cost an arm and a leg. Where'd you get those, Gin?"

Thinking frantically, Ginny said, "I found them. In one of the bedrooms. They looked really comfortable, so I just..." she shrugged, her imagination failing her.

"They're just quidditch cords, Ron," Hermione said, obviously disappointed that there was nothing truly exciting about Ginny's new trousers.

"Just..." Ron spluttered. "Hermione. McCormack makes the best quidditch gear in the world. Those trousers are supposed to be tougher than normal leg guards, and they've got these temperature charms on them that..."

"Alright, Ron," Ginny said, afraid that he might go on like this for some time.

He subsided, then said longingly, "I wish I'd found them while we were there."

"They wouldn't have fit you, anyway," Harry pointed out. He, too, was staring at Ginny's trousers, and it was making her feel a bit uncomfortable. Drat Malfoy, being a spoiled little rich brat — there wouldn't have been nearly this much fuss if he could wear normal quidditch cords like everyone else.

"I'm so glad you're back for Christmas," Hermione said, a bit more loudly than necessary, as though trying to make it clear that the conversation was to move away from quidditch and Ginny's trousers.

"So am I," Ginny responded, relieved to be rescued, once again, by Hermione. "Have I missed anything exciting the last few days?"

I'm Still Alive

Thu, 21 May 2009 04:45:52 GMT

But once again, there's some irony in that subject heading, because there have been some close calls. So I'll mostly just be lurking over the next while, but rest assured that I'm still out there, somewhere. And I'm still writing, because everyone needs a hobby. Especially those who don't want to do their overdue schoolwork.

Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Thirteen (In which the past rears its head)

Chapter Thirteen
In which the past rears its head
Thursday, December 7, 2017

At 6:58 each morning, a secretary put an early copy of the Prophet and a cup of hot tea at the center of Mr. Malfoy's desk. Any important mail that had arrived overnight was set at one of the corners in a neat stack, to be addressed or not as the president saw fit. By 6:59, both secretaries on duty would be behind their desks, appointment books open before them and burning floo fires at their backs. At 7:00, with the uncanny precision that had led one outspoken muggle-born secretary — who had quit entirely of his own accord to take a position with Greenpeace, and not because he'd pissed off his boss — to accuse him of being a robot, Draco Malfoy would appear in his office, sit down, and read his paper.

It was a quarter to eight, and Mr. Malfoy had yet to appear. The secretaries were getting nervous, and the president's high-strung assistant had already made fire-calls to the head secretary (who was in Belgium overseeing a transaction), Mr. Malfoy's London flat, Saint Mungo's, and the Ministry, desperately looking for her wayward boss, who was nowhere to be found.

Draco knew precisely what was going on because the same thing had happened exactly one week ago, after he'd stayed overnight at Hogwarts. He'd been overtaken with such a feeling of schoolboy mischief, on learning the distress he had caused, that he had resolved to do it more often. It wouldn't do any good to wait about much longer, though, because he suspected that very soon his poor assistant might try to mobilize the army to find him, just so that he could be in time for his nine o'clock meeting.

Chuckling to himself, Draco folded his paper and stood. He nodded to Tom, who had grown too old to work behind the bar but would still likely be in the Leaky Cauldron every day until he died, and grabbed a pinch of floo powder. The flames were burning a merry green, waiting for him to announce his destination and step into them, when he stopped. A ratty pile of newsprint, the cheap paper and ink making the words smudge, had been left on a table.

The fire and work forgotten, Draco turned and picked up the newsprint. It was the Inquisition, a notorious rag that was always trying to pin something or other on him and Malfoy Enterprises, probably as a result of some old grudge held by their Managing Editor, that odious little creeper Creevey.

Malfoy's Secret Son, read the headline. Below was a picture of himself and Jimmy Potter the day they had come to Diagon Alley, trudging side by side through the slush, their faces all but obscured by the angle of the camera. A skim of the date — yesterday's — and the article told him how badly things stood. The Inquisition was a rag, so it would take a bit longer for the rumour to spread than had it been in the Prophet but, on the other hand, it was sold at newsstands all over the country, and there he was, squarely on the front page.

"Self-sodomizing Circe and mother-sucking Maeve," he muttered. He'd left his more colourful profanities behind with his youth, but they returned with extra shades in the face of this. "Creepy can bend over and get fucked up the arse by a re'em if he thinks he'll get away with this one."

The fire had returned to its normal flickering orange and yellow. Snatching up the tabloid, Draco threw in another handful of floo powder and snapped, "The Three Broomsticks," before stepping into the flames. It looked like his assistant would have to panic for a while longer.

-----

Pomona had just tucked into her porridge when the tall figure swept into the Great Hall in a swirl of black robes. For one heart-stopping moment she thought Severus Snape had returned from the dead and just walked in on breakfast. But though the man who strode towards the Head Table bore the same icy expression and angry dignity as Snape at his most royally pissed-off, there the resemblance ended. Draco Malfoy's features had lost their childhood delicacy, but they remained clean and thin, lacking the brooding, sallow strength that had been so prominent on Severus's face. Too, Draco's hair had a sheen that came from it's natural lightness, rather than the greasy complexion that Snape had been afflicted with.

"Perhaps we should let him live here," Neville commented thoughtfully from his place beside her. "He's certainly here often enough."

"And what would you suggest he teach?" Pomona asked. Not that she could imagine Draco Malfoy as a teacher, despite his undoubted proficiency in most subjects. She could still remember how shocked everyone had been when he placed first in all his exams during his final year — Hermione Granger had actually shrieked in shock. He would be a good Defence teacher, especially, although he had an indisputable talent for Potions as well.

"Prancing About Like You Own the Place," Neville said, a bit more loudly than necessary. "Oh, hello Malfoy, I didn't see you there."

"I'm sure you didn't," Draco returned dryly. Neville just smiled, and tucked into his sausages. "Weasley. A word. Now." By the time he was finished rapping out his sharp order, his voice had gone from icy to utterly glacial. Pomona stared at him in shock, and from the corner of her eye she could see Neville doing the same.

Ginevra, for her part, returned his gaze with a look of mild puzzlement. "Alright, Malfoy. Excuse me please, Pomona. Neville, I'll talk to you later about those bulbs." She set her napkin aside and followed him out of the Great Hall without a further word.

"Did you understand that?" Pomona asked Neville quietly. He was an astute boy, she'd found, and she'd come to rely on his insights, especially with troublesome students — not that these two were troublesome, but they were certainly a quandary.

With a slight grimace, Neville shook his head. "Not a bit of it. But since it's those two..." he sighed. "It's probably best if the rest of us just take cover and wait out the storm." Thinking of the chunks of masonry on the sixth floor that, after almost twenty years, still hadn't been replaced since those two had wrecked havoc there, Pomona was afraid he was all too right.

-----

"Wards?" Ginny asked, surprised. She'd brought him back to her room — it was closer than the Infirmary, and they had less chance of being overheard than anywhere else she could think of. She'd known, when he'd arrived with that look on his face, that something urgent and very nearly catastrophic was happening, but that he would put up wards against listening spells as well... it didn't bode well.

He pulled a grungy piece of newsprint from his cloak pocket. "This."

She took it and glanced at the headline. As soon as she saw it, and the photo below, she felt her knees growing weak, and sank, boneless, into the armchair. No, she thought. Not now. Not this, of all things.

For a piece in the Inquisition, it was startlingly factual. The author — Dennis Creevey, that little kneazle-fucking bastard — kept speculation to the minimum, sticking almost entirely to easily verifiable facts. On the day after Harry Potter's arrival at Saint Mungo's, his eldest son had been taken to buy a wand by Draco Malfoy, with whom the boy had no known connection. "Despite many available relatives, including war heroes Ronald and Hermione Weasley (neé Granger)…" the article continued. The reader's attention was very politely drawn to the photograph, and the striking resemblance between its two subjects. It was all the more damning because it lacked the Inquisition's usual ranting conspiracy theories.

"Snake-raped Delphi," she breathed, offering the page back to him. He waved it away. "When did it come out?"

"Yesterday."

"I will murder that little..."

"Ginny." She looked up at him. "Later. Right now, we — I — need to deal with this. And I need to know, Gin — is it true?"

-----

"It's all bullshit, anyway."

Fabian resisted the urge to groan and drop his head onto his book. They have their own bloody Common Room. Can't I have some peace to study in mine? But no, it would seem not: Gabby had invited Rosie over, and James was, inexplicably, present as well. Ensconced as he was in the tall armchair next to the fire, his head bent regally as he talked quietly with Griflet about something — something completely mad, probably, Fabian thought — he would have looked positively royal if only his legs didn't dangle so far above the floor.

"Give it a rest, Rosie," Fabian told his cousin. It wasn't like anyone cared, anyway, and she was only here to rant because everyone in Gryffindor was sick of listening to it. "It's not like it matters."

"That's exactly my point," Rosie said, choosing to take his words as support. "Purebloods aren't any better than the rest of us. We're all just wizards and witches." She glared pointedly at Gabby. "So I don't see why you make such a fuss about tracing the family tree."

"Because it does too matter, and anyway, it's interesting," Gabby said petulantly. She wasn't arguing very hard, though, because it was Rosie (who never listened to the other side, anyway) and these days it was hard to argue for blood purity without sounding like a neo-Death Eater.

Over by the fire, Griflet was talking rapidly, punctuating his words with emphatic hand gestures. James, looking thoughtful and severe, was nodding. As Rosie opened her mouth, no doubt to tell her cousin exactly what she thought, James held up a hand to forestall Griflet. "Enough, Rosie. Gabby is correct in this."

"Fat lot you know," Rosie said, her attempt at a sneer wavering under the force of James's flat stare. "You're just as much a half-blood as I am."

I wonder, Fabian thought. James's grandmother had been a muggle-born, it was true, which excluded him from Pureblood status by many systems of reckoning. But there were times, looking at James, when it didn't seem to matter: sometimes the boy exuded an aura of power and magic so tangible it burned away any connection with the mundane. Rosie, like so many of their generation, had embraced muggle culture and technology as much as was possible within Hogwarts. In contrast, if you'd dropped James into the middle of Britain as it had been five hundred years before, he would have blended right in amongst the wizarding aristocracy. Perhaps being a Pureblood is a state of mind, rather than something genetic, Fabian mused. He'd never given much thought to it before: everyone in his family had magic, and that was just the way things were.

James was smirking down at Rosie, as though he knew something she didn't. "Have you ever thought about where our magic comes from, Rosie?"

"Then how do you explain muggle-borns?" she snapped in return.

"That would be a 'no,' then." He sighed, as though he would dearly love to hex her for being unbearably stupid but was holding himself back through sheer dint of will. "There are a number of theories. One is that magic is genetic, like blue eyes. We all share a common ancestor or, more likely, a group of common ancestors. Some muggles are carriers for the gene, but don't express it themselves — depending on whom they marry, their children might, however."

"That doesn't explain Squibs," Rosie interjected.

James shrugged carelessly. "Mutations, perhaps. Interference from other genes. Flaws in the embryonic development. It doesn't really matter, does it?" He raised one thin eyebrow. "It's still blood. The other theory, of course," he continued, before Rosie could speak, "is that all humans have the potential for magic. It's like another sense, if you will. Children from magical families are exposed to it from birth, and so are more aware of it. Some never get a handle on it — those would be the Squibs."

"And muggle-borns find it for themselves," Gabby cut in, excited.

"But then blood doesn't matter," Rosie said, as though this proved her point.

James looked smug, but didn't answer. "Non, Rosie, but it does," Gabby told her. "Being raised in a magical environment will give you a stronger sense of magic. Most Pureblood families have ancestral homes. Some, they have nearly as much magic as Hogwarts."

"It's not blood," Rosie retorted, petulant.

Gabby waived her away. "Where did you learn this, James?"

"From Mum. She has a book by a witch who went to Cambridge to study genetics after Hogwarts."

Gabby's eyes went very wide. "Do you think she would lend me this book? Oh, I must see it!" Where on earth did she get these bookish tendencies? Fabian wondered. Curiosity was natural in their family, but both of their parents seemed to prefer working on instinct and experience rather than booklore, much as Fabian himself did.

"I'll get it for you later," James promised. He wasn't quite smiling, but Fabian thought the younger boy might be happy to see Gabby so excited. It was hard to tell sometimes, though.

"Jimmy," Griflet murmured, "about the Mascian Field..." His mouth closed abruptly as he realized that he had spoken loudly enough to be overheard.

That caught Fabian's interest. "I've heard of that. Dad used to say it was a myth." The Mascian Field was an old puzzle, his dad had said. The idea was that if you correctly connected a series of dots, which represented significant sites in Britain, the intersection of all the lines would lead you to the Holy Grail. "There was some muggle that proved you can't get all the lines to intersect."

"That's a muggle," Griflet said, in a tone of voice that, with anyone else, would have been accompanied by a roll of the eyes. "The puzzle is magical, and needs to be solved that way." Oh, right, he's a Pureblood too. Fabian never paid much attention to blood status, so the old prejudices tended pass by him unnoticed. It was only times like this that reminded him they even existed anymore.

"Grif," James said quietly. "It doesn't matter. Even if it were true — which I doubt — what would the point be?"

"But Jimmy, it's the Grail," Griflet said, as though the point should be self-evident. In this case, Fabian agreed with him. "And why wouldn't it be true?"

"It's too simple," James said, with an irritated shake of his head. "'X marks the spot?' Who would be stupid enough to hide something like that, even if the Field couldn't be solved?"

"But you could solve it, Jimmy." The firm, steady conviction in Griflet's voice, without a trace of flattery or humour, troubled Fabian.

Jimmy smiled slightly, and patted Griflet on the head in a kind, slightly condescending way. "Perhaps. But if I did find the Grail, what then? What use would it be to me?" His smile grew, wider and a bit softer. "Come on, it's about time for lunch, don't you think? You missed breakfast again."

Fabian watched his cousin lead the other boy out of the Common Room. 'What use would it be to me?' Jimmy's words echoed in his head. Who looks down on something like that?

-----

Most people, Draco thought, would not open with, "Sir, the representatives from Nimbus are in Conference Room Three," when the boss they had been desperately searching for, for nearly five hours, turned up looking shell-shocked. His assistant, however, never led with questions like 'Are you alright?' As far as she was concerned, he was here, which meant he was fit to work.

"In a minute," Draco said, studying himself in the small mirror that was normally used for intra-office communications. As he watched, his face relaxed, taking on the calm, icy inscrutability he was so known for.
"They've waited an hour, they can wait a bit longer."

"But sir..."

He shot her a stern look. "In a minute, I said. There's more urgent business. Go grab a copy of the Inquisition, familiarize yourself with their story. Ours is the usual: decline to comment, very sorry to hear that Creevey has his head up his arse again, busy with our normal operations."

She studied him for a long moment. "You're slipping a bit, sir. Take a few deep breaths before you meet with the people from Nimbus."

"Right, right." He sighed and waved her on, confident that the matter was now in capable hands. That woman could handle anything — it was part of the reason her salary was higher than the GDP of some small nations.

Whatever you do, don't give them blood, Ginny had said. They'll want to do a paternity test. I'll take care of that — we'll use Harry — but don't let them near you. The standard paternity test only looks for a blood match: even I'd get a positive result as your child. And wouldn't that raise a few eyebrows. Her laugh had sounded forced.

Even now? he'd asked. That was... he'd stopped, not wanting to relive the memory he'd been avoiding since she'd reappeared in his life last week. It had been years ago, practically in another life, and it had marked the end of that life.

Blood never fades, she told him. Even if every cell of the foreign blood is removed, there's a... a signature.

You've told me this before, haven't you? he'd said weakly, unable to think of anything else to say.

You never did listen, she'd countered. He hadn't questioned her further. But no matter how much he trusted her, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Creevey had stepped over a line this time: before, he'd restricted himself to attacking Malfoy Enterprises and Draco himself. But this time, he'd hurt Ginny too, and Jimmy. This time, Creevey had gone too far, and he was going to find out what came of seriously pissing off a Malfoy.

-----

For the fourth time that hour, Dennis Creevey was tempted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Finally, finally, it looked like he'd made his big break. He'd been getting owls and fire-calls all morning about the Malfoy article. It looked like he'd ripped the cover off the biggest secret since the War. That arrogant bastard Malfoy, who until now had remained completely untouchable by the media, was sequestered in his office, and refused to comment on the situation. He'd tried to contact Ginny to apologize — he was just doing his job, and he was sorry if it hurt her — but the fire-call had been answered by Neville Longbottom, who'd tried to send a hex through floo when he saw who was calling.

But all that was alright, because Dennis had done it: he'd made his mark, and now even the Prophet was calling him to follow up on his article. Things really were too perfect. He pinched himself: it hurt like hell, but things were still perfect.

-----
And on to the next half of the chapter...

More whinging

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 14:15:10 GMT

Stupid Photobucket, limiting bandwidth so that my layout gets destroyed (realy should have rehosted -- didn't think of it at the time)
Stupid Facebook, changing their layout

And then asking us to vote on the new layout
And then requiring access to our profiles to let us vote

The internet is annoying. If I didn't need to be plugged in to it to live, I'd leave and never come back.

Finally finished it

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 01:57:28 GMT

The saga continues... Tess makes her first foray into the strange world of the rich and brilliant.

Glamour

Chapter 3

Andrew drives a Mercedes. I forget what I said to prompt it, but he admitted breezily that it's his parents', not his. But still: it's a Mercedes with every feature imaginable, and it's only about two years old. Both the car and how easily he dismisses it are, I think, pretty indicative of his financial situation. I've never even touched one before, and now I'm strapped into the front seat of one and cruising through the city at a speed that I'm pretty sure is illegal. More worrying is how little attention Andrew's paying to the road: when he's not texting, he's flipping through songs on his iPod. But he's a pretty good driver. Much safer than Trisha, even when she has both eyes on the road — I hope.

"The girl who's hosting the party," I say, "was she at the game?" Not that I would ever know. What if she's one of the blonde girls that clustered around Ricardo? I couldn't have told them apart even if we'd been introduced.

"Nope. It's going to sound kinda stupid, but none of the girls in our class come to any of the games."

That does sound kind of stupid, especially considering how many girls from my school were there. "Do they not like sports?"

"Who knows?" Andrew says casually. "Bunch of psycho bitches."

He's definitely a potty-mouth, and it doesn't match his appearance at all. It seems to match his personality, though, which I guess goes to show that you can't judge someone by the way they dress. It makes me wonder if Greg is as perfect as Trisha makes him out to be. "That can't all be that bad. You're friends with Beezie, aren't you?"

"Marlin doesn't count," Andrew says. "Neither does Maggie." I wonder how Beezie — and this girl Maggie — feel about not being counted as girls. Gran would call Beezie a 'rough-and-tumble kind of girl,' but I bet she still wants people to see her as a girl, at least occasionally. I don't tell Andrew that he sounds like an insensitive prick, though. He's probably just laugh and admit that he is, anyway.

"They're still hosting the party," I point out, as reasonably as I can. I'm trying not to form opinions about people before I meet them, but Andrew's making that difficult.

He doesn't answer for a minute, just scrolls down his song list then selects one with a viscous jab of his thumb. "Fucking love this song," Andrew says. It's powerful and a bit angry, with whining guitars and a thumping bass underscoring the lyrics. I've heard it on the radio before, but I don't know what it's called. "Too bad it's so emo." I'm pretty sure he's trying to change the subject, and I'm prepared to let it go. But then he says, "They're kind of delusional, you know," and he's not talking about the band he just put on. "When you think of a popular girl, what do you think of?"

I'm not sure where he's going with this, so I answer as truthfully as I can. "Someone who's pretty, and dresses really nicely." I think for a bit more. "I guess she could be blonde, maybe. Decent grades?" He's still not saying anything, so I rattle on. "I don't know if people actually like her, they just kind of want to be her, you know? Like, her life seems really perfect." Only now does it occur to me how strange it is that my idea of a 'popular' girl is one that very few people like.

Andrew nods. "That's kind of what Michelle and her friends are. But the difference between your school and mine is that we feel sorry for them."

That's just weird, and I tell him so. "How can you feel sorry for someone like that?" Because, stereotypically, the popular girl has a perfect life and is also kind of a bitch; you might hate her, but there's no way you'd feel sorry for her. Especially in a school like Andrew's, where even the normal kids have a perfect life — how much better must the popular kids have it?

"They're just kind of pathetic, you know? They try so hard to be these perfect, popular princesses, but… I don't know. I guess we're just shitty subjects." His grin is a little wry.

"What do you mean?" I can tell he's looking for a way to explain, but he's struggling. I can be patient.

"Like… this winter, they organized a winter formal dance."

I can imagine what that would be like at my school: a big gymnasium, full of girls in sparkly dresses and guys sweating in their suits. There'd be balloons and bunting, and the music would be chosen to promote romance, although the teachers chaperoning the event would be doing their best to discourage it. The popular girls would swan in, looking like they'd just stepped out of a movie, and every girl in the room would feel just a bit uglier now that someone so pretty had arrived. "Right," I say. "And?"

"And no one showed up. I mean, yeah, the younger kids went, but they don't count — Michelle's crew and their dates were the only seniors there."

I can't help myself: I snort in a very undignified matter. "The dateless losers outnumber the popular kids?" I wish I could take it back as soon as I say it.

But Andrew laughs. "Damn right. Well, actually… it could have worked, you know? If the right people had liked the idea, everyone would have gone along with it."

"The right people being… Beezie?" I hazard.

"More Ricky. Marlin runs the show during school; Torres is the guy for parties. And Johan makes it sort of official."

"What do you mean?"

"Like…" He's searching for words again. "If you have two of the three of them, everyone else will go along with it. Shit, get all three and the entire school will follow."

In a way, it's both very like, and very unlike, our school. I mean, there's absolutely nothing that will get every single person in our school to go along with something: there's always someone who doesn't care enough, or disagrees, or whatever. And the people doing the leading are different. But still, the power is resting in the hands of just a few of them, and everyone else is just a lemming. But I do sort of see why they'd feel sorry for their 'popular' girls: the poor things are trying to compete with Beezie Marlin, and even though I barely know her I know that's almost impossible to do. What little I've seen of Johan and Ricky suggests they're forces to be reckoned with as well.

Still… "You're exaggerating," I accuse him.

"Some," Andrew admits. "Not as much as you think." But he doesn't say any more.

We're outside the city now, driving past enormous houses with big, manicured lawns. I wonder at what point they stop being mere 'houses' and become mansions — I think most of these buildings fall pretty close to that line. They're set well back from the road, but I still have a clear view of most of them: almost no one has bothered to put trees or any other sort of landscaping in the way.

Andrew notices where my attention is. "Awful, isn't it? Like a barns dropped in the middle of a fucking field. And they've all got those god-awful columns stuck to the front." I wonder if he knows how pretentious he sounds. "Sorry — I'm kinda a snob sometimes, I know. I just think that if you're going to spend that much on a house, it might as well look nice." Well, I guess that answers my question. "Hang on," he says suddenly.

A minivan pulls out to pass us. I can see it shaking slightly as the driver pushes it past the reasonable speed for a vehicle of its kind. Andrew slows the Mercedes to let it pass faster. As it goes by, I see something pressed against the passenger's window — they're mooning us. That's disgusting, I think.

Andrew snorts. "Fuckin' Ben." But he's grinning, and now I don't know what to think. Andrew misinterprets my shock. "I'd recognize that scrawny ass anywhere." First he poo-poos mansions, and now he's snickering like a first-grader over being mooned. What the hell is with this guy, anyway? I think my earlier assessment was right: they're all insane. "Sorry you had to see that," he adds, as though that excuses it all.

I'm about to try and answer, despite having no idea what an appropriate response would be, but another car rips past us. It's little, blue, and shiny, and that's all I see before it disappears over the crest of the hill we're driving up.

"Fuck, I love that car," Andrew says.

"What was it?" I ask, even though I'm not much of a car person: if it's too obscure, I'll just have to smile and nod as though I know what Andrew is talking about.

"A Subaru WRX." I only have a vague notion that Subaru's a car company, so that doesn't mean much to me. But it does seem a bit strange that Andrew, who drives a Mercedes, would be jealous of it. "I love that car," Andrew goes on, "but Marlin won't let me drive it 'cause it's her dad's. Mr. Marlin has good taste in cars." He says it like it’s the greatest compliment that can be given to a person.

"You drive a Mercedes," I say at last, completely mystified as to how he can be jealous of another car.

Andrew sighs. "This is an M-Class," he explains, his tone making it painfully clear that he knows he's talking to someone how has no understanding of this sort of thing. "It's a soccer-mom car. At least it's better than a minivan."

It's a Mercedes, I think, unable to understand this. When you compare it to something like my Mom's beat-up Acura, it seems almost rude to call them both cars: there's just too big of a gap. "You're right," I say at last. "You are kinda a snob."

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry. I know I kinda take it for granted sometimes. This is going to sound really conceited, but I guess my idea of normal is just different from yours."

"Well," I say, "you already told me you're conceited, so no surprise there." He's arrogant, and he's rude, but he seems like a decent guy underneath it — albeit one that puts his foot in his mouth a lot — so I want to put him at ease. He relaxes a bit, and even smiles, when he realizes he hasn't offended me.

"If you think I'm conceited, wait until we get inside," he says as he turns into a long driveway. "There's kids here that make me look downright humble. But, umm, Tess…" He's hesitating again, but at last he comes out and says it. "All that stuff I said? Mind not repeating it?"

"Of course." Who would I repeat it to, anyway? Well, maybe in normal circumstances I'd talk to Trisha about it. We’re best friends, after all, and like me she's suddenly in this crazy world that Andrew and his friends find completely normal. But while I'm still not sure what to think of these rich kids, Trisha seems determined to fit in. Maybe talking to her about my uncertainties won't be such a good thing. It's strange — I've never had anything I couldn't talk to her about before.

"Yeah," Andrew says, with a lopsided grin. "Who talks about deep shit like that anyway? Come on, all the commoners are waiting for us to make our grand entrance." He opens my door for me with a half-bow.

It occurs to me, all of a sudden, that Andrew is incontrovertibly Beezie's man. It's in the way he holds himself, in that slightly mocking half-smile that invites me to join the joke that would otherwise be at my expense. If I ever wanted to be with this boy — which I'm not sure I do, since the possibility has only just occurred to me — I would have to be on Beezie's good side. Maybe Greg would choose Trisha over Beezie, but Beezie is the centre of Andrew's universe, and no mere girlfriend is going to change that any time soon. In a way, I hope he'll start being an asshole soon so that my traitorous mind will stop contemplating what it would be like to have a boyfriend like him.

The door is opened by a woman who's probably Michelle's mother, but looks way too young for it. She's skinnier than I'll ever be, and if her yoga pants and hoodie are a bit young for her, I'm sure no one would dream of commenting. When she smiles and says, "They're downstairs. Please make yourselves at home," her cheeks don't move quite the way they should. Perhaps she's a bit older than she looks.

"Thanks Mrs. Zane," Andrew says.

"Oh please, call me Barb."

Andrew doesn't say anything, just smiles sort of awkwardly and toes off his DC's. When I bend to untie my laces, I take a look at the other shoes that strewn in an untidy pile. As I suspected, every single pair is brand name, and most of the girls' shoes have a designer's name on them. I'm reluctant to add my no-name sneakers to the pile, but I do, tossing them towards the back in the hope that they'll be overlooked.

We follow the sounds of music through a series of high-ceilinged rooms and then down a staircase which seems small, but only because everything else is built on such a large scale. I wonder how Andrew knows where he's going; Mrs. Zane didn't seem to know him, and he says he doesn’t like Michelle, so I don't think he's been here before.

Downstairs is an enormous room: there's a big screen TV, a pool table, a bar, and a walkout to a swimming pool. Pop music plays through discreet speakers, set at a level that's loud enough for a party but not so loud I can't hear what people are saying. There's plenty of people there, but nowhere near enough to fill the space, so it feels kind of empty.

I spot Trisha near the bar, pressed tight against Greg. They're talking to a couple of fashionable girls with long hair that I've never seen before. Behind them Ben and a chubby blonde are mixing drinks that seem to be ninety percent hard liquor. Outside, a couple of kids are grilling burgers on an enormous, shiny barbeque, the sort you see in cooking shows. A bunch of the guys from the soccer team are crowded around the pool table, making dirty jokes as they try to psych each other out on difficult shots. Near one of the windows, Beezie is talking animatedly with JD.

She sees us come down. "Drew, want'ta bring me a burger?" She's a bit of a spoiled princess, I find myself thinking. Otherwise she would have walked across the room to get it herself, instead of expecting someone to fetch it for her.

"You shouldn't eat before going swimming," Ricardo chides. He's talking to a pair of girls — both blonde — on the couch in front of the TV.

"I'm not going swimming." The exchange seems to have the attention of most of the people in the room. I notice that all the soccer players are paying especial attention.

Greg chimes in. "That's not the deal."

"There was no deal. That was a threat." Beezie's eyes dart from side to side, looking for an escape route. She starts edging along the wall, but JD blocks her.

"Come on, Captain, we're celebrating," Johan says, right before he and Greg grab her.

"Drew," Beezie shouts. For a second I think she's appealing to him for help, but a second later a cell phone and car keys are flying towards us. Andrew manages to catch the phone, but the keys fall to the carpet with a clink. Beezie's struggling against her captors, and even manages to clip Greg with an elbow to the head, but it's useless: between them they manhandle her out the glass doors and heave her into the pool. Twisting like a cat that's trying to land on its feet, Beezie manages to turn her haphazard flight into an almost-respectable cannonball. It's still inelegant.

She surfaces with a glare already firmly in place. "Bastards," she says, then rolls her eyes and allows herself to smile. Around the room, all the soccer players, and many other people, are laughing, and I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. A few of the kids have started shedding the clothes they were wearing over their swimsuits. Obviously Beezie's dunking has served as an announcement that the pool party is starting.

As Beezie dogpaddles towards the edge of the pool, I see Ricardo pulling off his shirt. There're a couple of catcalls, mostly from the other guys on the soccer team. Man, but he's skinny: not quite starving-African-child skinny, but I could still count his ribs, even from way over here.

"Take it off," Andrew calls. Ricardo does a bit of a dance — more a striptease — with his shirt in response.

Beezie hauls herself out of the pool and shakes her head like a dog to try and get the water off. Her ponytail smacks against her head. Ricardo drops his shirt and sprints over to her, grabbing her around the waist and launching them both back into the pool. Beezie's shriek is cut off abruptly when they hit the water.

This time she's coughing when she surfaces. When Ricardo pops up next to her, grinning, she dunks him. "Michelle, do you have a towel I can borrow?" she asks as she climbs, once again, onto the pool deck.

Despite Andrew's assertion that the two girls don't get along, Michelle quickly returns with one, and Beezie thanks her. I wonder if they're friends after all, and the enmity between factions is just in Andrew's head. Beezie ducks into a bathroom to change, emerging a few minutes later in dry clothes. Water drips onto her shoulders and back from her damp hair.

I'm distracted from that line of thought by a cell ringing. Andrew jumps in surprise, and pulls the device out of his pocket. "Marlin, your phone's on vibrate?" he demands.

"Johan not good enough for you?" Greg calls, and Trisha swats him playfully on the arm. Johan's bright red, and so is Beezie — but in her case, it looks like fury, not embarrassment.

"Just give me the damn phone," Beezie snaps, storming towards us.

Andrew glances at the call display. "Oh, fuck me — it's the führer," he groans.

"Don't—" Beezie starts to protest, but Andrew's already flipped the phone open and put it to his ear. I wonder: if he's as reluctant to talk to the caller as he sounds, why doesn't he just give the phone to Beezie?

"Hello Mr. Marlin, this is Andrew Sutter." He pantomimes a bow, even though Mr. Marlin can't see it. "I'm afraid Beezie can't answer her phone at the moment — she's just been thrown in the pool." He pauses, listening the voice I can dimly hear coming from the other end of the line. Beezie's trying to get the phone, but Andrew's holding her off with one hand. She doesn't look happy. "Oh, no, sir. You don't need to worry. They just won the game, and they want to celebrate. We're all very proud of her."

I think he's about to say more, but Beezie's fist finally connects with his stomach. Andrew gasps and bends over, and Beezie snatches the phone from his hand. "Hi Daddy," she says. I'm so shocked to hear such a sweet, innocent tone coming out of her that I almost fall over. "Drew's just being a poo-head. Don't worry, I dealt with him." She shoots Andrew a scathing look. He just laughs.

"Yes, I know, home by eleven," Beezie continues. It's a familiar conversation. I've had it with my Mom at least a dozen times, but I've never said those words in such a sweet, accepting tone. When I say them, they're surly and begrudging because, even if I know my Mom's just worried about my safety, I still want to stay out later with my friends. "I'll see you then," she says. "Bye Daddy." She flips the phone shut.

"You're Dad's fucking psycho," Andrew says. "I thought he was going to rip by balls off when I answered instead of you."

"Nah." Beezie gives him a shark-like grin. "He's getting old. He'd just blow 'em off with a shotgun." She says the last few words with a thick hillbilly accent. But she doesn't sound like she's joking.

Instead of looking worried or disturbed like I'd expect, Andrew shoots Beezie a lecherous grin. "You'd miss 'em," he says. She doesn't bother answering, just turns and walks away, the one finger salute held high to let Andrew know what she thinks of him.

Suddenly, Andrew realizes I'm still there. "Oh shit," he says. His grey eyes are filled with worry, even though the rest of his face only shows surprise. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

I could tell him it's fine. Or I could be honest. "Bullshit. You're just worried I'll think you're an ass."

He doesn't know how to answer that. "I guess…?" he tries, as though he hopes that will appease the storm of anger that ought to descend on his head.

"Don't worry, I already knew you're a jerk," I say. I don't add that, beyond that, I have no idea what to think of him.

Oddly enough, that seems to reassure him. "Thanks," he says. "Want me to grab you a drink?"

"I don't drink." Well, I do, but not here, especially since I have no idea how I'm going to get home after all this. There's no way the city buses come out here.

Andrew smirks, the normal light restored to his eyes. "Lucky for you. I can never resist the peer pressure. Hey Ben, how 'bout a Strip and Go Naked?" he calls out.

"Not with you," Ben returns from his place behind the bar.

"He means the drink, ya fruit," I hear Beezie say. She's sitting on the bar counter, viciously jabbing at the buttons on a blender. Inside it, something suspicious and purple swirls. "Vodka in beer with lemonade and sugar. Hey Drew, you want the lemonade?" she calls. "You better say 'no,' ya fuckin' pussy," she adds, before Andrew has a chance to answer. I feel a strong urge to pinch myself — there's no way this girl and the one who was talking on the phone to Mr. Marlin are the same person.

"Yes," Andrew shouts back.

"No lemonade," Beezie tells Ben.

"Wasn't going to," he answers.

Beezie brings the drink over herself. In one hand is Andrew's Strip and Go Naked. The other balances two plastic cups of the strange purple liquid. "You're going to regret that," Beezie says as she passes Andrew his cup, a jerk of her chin indicating the drink.

"I'll be fine," he says, taking a swig. He flinches a bit, like he wants to gag and only the knowledge that he'd never live it down is stopping him.

"Right," is all Beezie says. She passes me a cup of the purple stuff.

"I don't drink," I say, even as my hand reaches for the cup.

Beezie takes a sip from the other cup. "Don't worry, it's virgin. I'm driving tonight, so I can't drink either. But don't trust the refills — it'll be spiked within ten minutes." And sure enough, I glance over her shoulder and see Ben pouring an awful lot of vodka into the juice still in the blender.

I take a tentative sip. Purple and suspicious it might be, but it tastes really good. "It's great," I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding so lame in front of both Andrew and Beezie.

"What's the point in being the top chem student if you can't mix a decent drink?" Beezie asks with a grin. She toasts us with her cup. "You kids have fun. And if you sleep with him, don't share a pillow — he drools." Andrew chokes on his drink. I feel my cheeks burn.

Beezie gives a little wave and saunters off. Really, I think, she's not that bad. Then I catch Andrew's eye, and I'm too mortified to think of anything else.

Not exactly done

Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:43:49 GMT

I don't really know what to do with this, so I'm just posting it. Either I'll be inspired and keep writing, or it'll get to finally die in some sort of peace.

Title: Converts
Fandom: Gokusen
Rating: PG-13 for lots of swearing
Follows Return and Prodigal

It's times like this that make him miss high school. Yeah, going to school was kinda a pain, but things were more fun then. Like sneaking into bars. Now that he's an adult — more or less — it's somehow less fun. He's still not legally old enough to drink, but no one ever asks. They just assume he's a respectable university student. And the shitty part is, that's exactly what he's become. It makes him want to go out and find a fight, just to feel that old rush again.

There's some guys here that would be happy to oblige if he wants a fight. They're talking big, mouthing off to the staff and being general assholes. It's like they're hoping someone will get pissed enough to try and take them on, just so they can beat the shit out of the sorry bastard. Ogata wants a fight, but he's not stupid enough to get into one with this lot. Maybe with his old gang from 3D at his back, but not now. He's drinking with a couple of guys from class and, frankly, they're a pair of pansies. They'll probably run away at the first hint of violence.

"Don’t fuckin' look down on us," one of the troublemakers shouts. "We're from Sakahogigumi!" Just the fact that he's felt the need to shout it makes Ogata look down on him a bit. A glance around the room shows he's the only one who feels this way; everyone else looks terrified. Except…

"Ya done squallin', ya stupid brat?" There's a red-headed guy standing just inside the doorway — looks like he just arrived. He looks pretty much like any other young businessman out on the town, except for the red hair. He's wearing a decent suit and everything, the jacket hanging casually open for an evening at the bar. But somehow… yeah, somehow he's nothing like any other young businessman. He's slouching with his hands in his pockets, looking bored with the violent display of the Sakahogigumi, like he could kick the shit out of them if he really wanted, but right now he just can't be bothered.

There's two more guys slouched behind him. They're a bit older, and they don't look like businessmen at all. One's got dyed blond hair cut in a classic gangster style and a shirt with an awful, garish print. He's chewing on a piece of pocky. The other one is dressed more normally, except for the ladybug cap. It actually fits him, so he probably didn't steal it off some little kid, but it's still not the sort of thing an self-respecting adult would wear. He makes it look badass though, which is totally unfair. Ogata wishes he could pull that sort of thing off, but knows he'll never be enough of a thug.

"You wanna fight, bastard?" snarls one of the guys from Sakahogigumi.

Red shrugs. "Not really." He puts a hand over his shoulder towards the blond thug. "Minoru. Pocky." The blond hand him a piece, and Red sticks it in his mouth like a cigarette. He shouldn't look so intimidating, doing that. Behind him, Ogata can sense his two classmates edging away, no doubt hoping to get out of here before actual violence erupts. "Ya said ya were from Sakahogigumi, ne?"

"Got that right, bastard." There's some serious pride in the thug's voice. It makes Ogata want to hit him, just on principle. The whole group of guys from Sakahogigumi are annoying bastards, but Ogata's not nuts enough to start something with a serious gang. Red doesn't look too worried, though.

"Who'd they be, then?" Red asks, disdainful.

"Should we fuck these bastards up, banchou?" one of the Sakahogigumi guys asks the one who is, presumably, their leader.

"Nah, nah," Red says. He holds his pocky between two fingers like a cigarette, and waves it dismissively. "Ye should say, 'Oi, banchou, can't we fuck these bastards up yet?' Ye sound like a fuckin' schoolgirl." He sighs. "How 'bout we step outside, gents? Don't wanna make trouble for the ane-san, do we?" He's still casual and disdainful, even though everyone in the bar knows he can't get out of this without a serious fight.

"You piece of shit," the Sakahogigumi's banchou shouts, and rushes at Red.

Red doesn't flinch, doesn't even move. Just waits until the guy's fist is a half-inch from his head, then sticks a fist out at stomach level. Still calm, still casual, and the banchou goes down like someone hit him with a sledgehammer. It's like watching Yankumi fight all over again, and it's fucking scary — even more so because Yankumi at least shows some emotion when she fights.

"Wha'd'ya reckon, Kudoh? Just thrash 'em?"

"Unless you wanna give 'em a moral lecture," says the guy in the ladybug cap. He adds a belated, "Boss."

Red shakes his head. "That ain't me. Outside, then." He turns to leave, and his two henchmen turn with him. "Sorry 'bout the disturbance, ane-san," he calls back.

"Not at all, young master," the proprietress calls back from her place by the door to the kitchen. "Thank you very much for your help." Red waves back at her with his pocky.

"Hey, Ogata, we should be getting out of here." It's one of his classmates. The guy is obviously shaking at the knees. Ogata takes a last look at the front door, where the Sakahogigumi are rushing out to go after Red and his henchmen. Then he sighs, nods, and follows his classmates out the back door. Life just isn't fun anymore, now that he's respectable.

-----

"Ritsu-kun!"

He's five minutes early, but she's already here, and probably has been for at least half an hour. When he first started seeing her, he'd thought it was cute: she was so keen, like a young girl still in the blossom of her first love. Truth is, she's almost five years older than he is, and just likes to act young. It's why she dates younger guys, and wears such short skirts. It's like she's trying to compete with the high school girls that mill around this place, waiting for their disinterested high school dates so they can go be bored in an arcade together. It's all bullshit, anyway: the girls are only there so they can brag to their friends later, and the guys are only there because a guy that can't get a girl is a loser. Uesugi's found himself hating this sort of bullshit more and more over the years, but he can't see any way to get away from it.

"Ritsu-kun, I've been waiting." She pouts at him. On a five year old, that expression is cute; on a teenager, it's annoying but forgivable; a grown woman should not be wearing that expression. "You're late."

He's supposed to make up some bullshit excuse, even though he's not actually late — is, in fact, early — and then they can act all lovey-dovey and make up. But it's like there's a voice speaking in his head, repeating the words he's heard come out of that bastard Sawada's mouth every day for the past four fucking years. "It's all fuckin' bullshit, anyway," says the voice, and it sounds amused and disgusted just like Sawada always does when he says it. He hates the fucker, but four years of classes together means he knows the bastard far, far better than he ever wanted to; and ever since that conversation yesterday, he can't get Sawada's stupid voice out of his head.

"I'm not late," Uesugi says, 'cause somehow he just doesn't care anymore. That voice, that damn voice — he hears it ringing in his head, and he can't stand this false facing anymore. They start walking, headed into the crowded night street.

She's still pouting, but there's a glare hiding behind it now. "What's wrong, Ritsu-kun?" And then she asks the last question she should ever, ever have asked him. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

'Cause he's not. Not at all. It started as a lark: she was a beautiful older woman who would giggle like a schoolgirl, and later throw herself into his arms like an experienced woman. All the other guys were jealous, and for a while it had felt good: it was one thing that fucker Sawada could never take away from him. Not that Sawada would ever want to, the fuck: he'd taken one look at her and snorted, as though he saw through all her lies and pretensions and wasn't impressed at all. He's never hated Sawada as much as he did at that moment, but right now he's coming close.

He could fix this. It would be so easy. Some lie — a busy day at the office, delays on the train, whatever — and this whole thing will be smoothed over. They'll go window shopping, get a bite to eat, and he'll get laid tonight. Simple, smooth and predictable: it's the same routine they go through every week.

He can't do it. He opens his mouth, about to finally tell her 'no', and suddenly, not ten meters away, the door of a bar opens, and out walks the fuckin' devil himself. Even in the darkness his red hair is glowing, reflecting the neon signs and bright lights of the bar signs. He's shadowed by a pair of guys — bigger than he is, but not hugely. A mass of angry teens boils out of the bar door behind them.

So he says, "Watch out," instead, and draws her away from the group. But not so far away that he can't clearly see everything that's going on. Some guy takes a swing at Sawada, who leans back, cool as you please, and lets it whistle a hair in front of his nose. Arrogant bastard, Uesugi thinks, and it's all he has time for before Sawada is moving. He kicks his assailant in the knee, hard, and the guy crumples; he meets Sawada's fist on the way down. His head snaps back, and he collapses completely.

Another guy is closing on Sawada. The devil turns, moving like a snake to grab the guy around the neck. No, not the neck: that mad fucker has grabbed the guy's windpipe, and is squeezing. If the light was better, Uesugi would probably be able to see the poor bastard turning blue. Fuck. He's always known Sawada was crazy, but this goes beyond it: Sawada looks about to do murder, and he doesn't look like he gives a shit. Where did he learn to fight like that, anyway? It's a trivial thought to be having now, given what's going on, but Uesugi can't help but wonder. There's no martial arts club in the country that teaches this kind of fighting. Not even those delinquents at Shirokin would have fought like this.

"Ritsu-kun, let's go." Now that things aren't looking so calm and predictable, she's dropped the act. Her voice is serious and purposeful: she knows this is a bad place to be, and wants out of here pronto. But he doesn't want to leave. Looking at the destruction that Sawada and his two followers have wrecked on their eight opponents, he knows he's not going to see Sawada get the shit beaten out of him tonight. But he wishes he could. Now that, that would be something worth going to the ends of the world for. Looking down at Sawada, covered in blood and bruises and finally, finally beaten… he'd sell his soul for the chance to see it.

"Come on," she insists, and this time Uesugi lets her lead him away. He'll go with her tonight, one last time, and in the morning he'll cut all ties and walk away from it all. Uesugi's found his destiny tonight, here in this garish street, and it is bloody and brilliant. Well, he never had much use for his soul, anyway.

Paranoia

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 17:10:08 GMT

I'm growing suspicious of the internet.
Livejournal just replaced two of my userpics with ones I'd never seen before.
Facebook frequently rearranges and reposts old updates as though time is bending.

Does anyone know how to make a tinfoil hat?

A Question

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 22:29:22 GMT

As I've mentioned in the past, I'm moving towards writing a full-length original piece, obviously with an eye to getting it published. So now I have another question for everyone, whether they want to answer as a reader or a writer.

I'll be honest, the existence of such works as Twilight and Eragon gives me hope because, despite the predictability of plot, simplicity of prose and vapidity of many characters, they've both been best-sellers that generated huge fan bases and even movie deals.

Now, it should be fairly obvious that I'm not a big fan of either series. I'll confess to being rather critical of Harry Potter as well — despite my love of the series, I find it painfully simplistic compared to the works of Philip Pullman, Gareth Nix, or C.S. Lewis. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I say that J.K. Rowling has surpassed all three of those authors in terms of popularity and cultural impact, and accessibility may have played a large part in that.

Still, this leads me to the conclusion that literary merit is not necessarily what sells. Well, to be honest, that should be obvious to anyone who has had to study a book they detest for English class. But let’s face it, publishing is a business: they have target demographics and the books that get the green light are the ones which specific groups will buy. And, in the world of youth publishing, those seem to break down like this:

Children’s Books
The protagonist and their friends are between the ages of 9 and 13, and predominantly male. Their flaws are limited to such things as nervousness and loneliness or slightly criminal pasts; the anti-heroes which appear in more mature literature are almost entirely absent. Adults appear as both allies and opponents. It’s rare to see a strong parental figure in these stories. Romance, too, is rare, and is generally limited to a few blushes and awkward moments.
Authors whose works appear in this category include J.K. Rowling (the earlier Harry Potter books), Philip Pullman (His Dark Materials), C.S. Lewis (Chronicles of Narnia)and Eoin Colfer (Artemis Fowl). I’m going to pick on C.S. Lewis for a moment, because I feel like he did something very interesting: at the point where Peter and Susan were ‘too old’ to fit comfortably in this category, they were removed from the series. If one considers Narnia, like children’s literature, to be a world of innocence and imagination, the parallel between their inability to return to the magical land and their removal from their roles as central characters becomes very clear.

YA Books
Personally, I think this category ought to be re-named ‘For Teenage Girls’. There’s romance, there’s passion, there’s a staggering proliferation of “omg he is like so hot i want 2 be his gf‼!1!” (In a slightly more grammatically-correct way, of course.) I’ve never been a teenage boy, so I can’t speak from personal experience, but they seem to either read children’s books or popular adult novels (or nothing). There’s some stuff out there aimed at them (like the Hardy Boys) but even that seems to be aimed at the younger end of this group.
Going back to ‘For Teenage Girls,’ then, we see such authors as Meg Cabot (Princess Diaries), Stephanie Meyer (Twilight), Holly Black (Ironside, etc), Tamora Pierce (the Tortall books) and Cassandra Claire (she of the Harry Potter fandom fame). Their protagonists are exclusively female, roughly sixteen years old, and whatever strength or self-sufficiency they have goes out the window as soon as a strapping young love-interest turns up. I can’t, at the moment, think of a single example where the story concludes with the protagonist telling her boy, “Sorry, but I have my own goals, so our relationship will just have to wait until I’ve sorted them out.”

Adult Books aka Fiction
This category is so broad that I see little sense in trying to summarize it, or even give examples (I’m sure you can think of lots on your own), but the protagonist does tend to be at least in their early twenties.

So here’s my dilemma: I have two stories that I think I could viably write, and I don’t think it unreasonable to say that I’ll write both eventually. But while I find Story A easier to write, it doesn’t fit nicely into any of the above categories. I find the protagonist of Story B vapid and annoying, but it all fits quite nicely into the scope of YA books. I know that, at first glance, the answer is obvious, but here’s why I’m torn: while I could tentatively put Story A into either the YA or children’s categories, I don’t know that the readers will be able to identify with many of the characters, which I consider to be important. Also, while the protagonist of Story B annoys me, her personality really drives the story and, quite frankly, I love the world she lives in and many of the characters around her.

And here’s my question: what do you think? I know it’s very easy to say, “Follow your heart and you’ll do fine,” or, “Remember who you’re writing for.” Yes, I may be writing for myself (and that will be true with both stories) but published work is meant to be shared. While advice is welcomed, what I’m really looking for is opinions. Have I over-simplified? Is there another way to approach this decision? How do you choose your reading material? How do you decide what to write?

Old News

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 17:37:56 GMT

Y'all remember op_fanforall ? Well, I'm confessing to a couple more that I wrote, because they really don't need to be anonymous anymore, and they're not all that long.

Ice Princess
Prompt: Explore what the hell Dr. Kureha might be doing with all that money shes exhorting from her patients. (Because there seemed to be little trace of it in the castle.) Bonus points if there are no sexual allusions for once.

There isn't a lot known about Dr. Kureha's past, mostly because everyone who went through it with her is long dead. That's not because she's old (no one had better even think that) but because most of them were pirates, and pirates tend to die young. Most of them never even reach forty, which is hardly any age at all.

One of the things that isn't known is that she was born on a summer island to a Marine corporal and his wife, whom he'd met while stationed on the most freezing hellhole of a winter island that existed on the Grand Line. They'd wanted sun, sand, and never to think of snow again, so after his discharge they moved to make sure they got exactly that.

Kureha grew up wanting an ice palace.

Every little girl wants to be a princess, and she was no different. She wanted a castle made of ice that sparkled like a carved diamond. It would have chandeliers, and a big princess bed with lots of fluffy pillows, and she would live there with all her stuffed toys and dolls. It never occurred to her how cold and miserable an ice palace might be, because she'd never seen so much as an ice cube and didn't understand what cold was.

Damn, but that's changed. Now she dreams of beaches, and fruity drinks by the pool, and good-looking young men to flirt with. But she's the only doctor left here, and after that brat of a reindeer, she's not going through the trouble of training up a new one. Most of the kids on this island have sawdust for brains, anyway, and couldn't do a tenth so well as that furry little pest. And maybe, in a way, she's grown attached to this place.

She has what she always wanted, too. Dalton might be the king, but it's her castle; her icy cold palace at the top of a frozen mountain. She's treated like a princess — better, even — because she's a doctor, the only doctor, and if maybe there's some resentment at how much she takes, she still thinks she's reached a truce with the people of the island.

So she lives in her castle, and collects her taxes (fees, that is) and lives the dream she wanted for so long. Maybe someday — someday soon, now that the kid is off being a pirate — she'll leave it all behind and move back to the beach.

Heritage
Prompt: Nami is Shank's long-lost, presumed-dead daughter/niece/sister. Well, they both have red-hair, right? Reunion time! (Especially if she's dating Luffy...)

"Ya ain't drunk yet, are ya, girlie?" Shanks snickered.

Nami held her cup out to him. If it had been full, alcohol would have sloshed over the brim, but it had been emptied yet again, so no one noticed the unsteadiness of her hand. "Not on yer life, geezer. Fill'er up."

"That's ma girl." He tried to ruffle her hair, but having only one hand to do that and hold his own cup proved too much for him. He wrapped that arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her close. "Got me a be~ooo~tiful daughter, I do. Don't I, Ben?" From the other side of the campfire came a grunt that could have meant anything. Shanks didn't seem worried about the lack of response. He raised his glass towards Nami. "To the sweet seas that brought ma girlie back to me."

"The wind in our sails," Nami answered, returning the toast with equal unsteadiness. She wouldn't be sticking around — she had dreams to chase, after all — but for tonight, it was good to have a father.

And, a sort of extra...

"How dare that shitty old man touch my beautiful Nami-swan?" Sanji wailed. He would have gone over and beat the hell out of the stupid bastard, but Usopp and Yasopp were both sitting on him to prevent exactly that — neither wanted the poor cook to be minced into sushi.

Zoro looked plaintively at Ben. "Bastards drank all the rum."

"Again," the other first mate agreed.

Sneaking back

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 21:03:42 GMT

I haven't been doing a lot of writing lately, and most of what I've done has been for my big original thingy -- not that that's progressing all that rapidly. In any case, here's a little sequel to Glamour before I disappear again.

Glamour
Chapter Two
Relevant info: original work, PG-13 for swearing and innuendo.

The stereotypical perfect boyfriend is handsome, smart, and rich. A nice personality is generally added on as an afterthought, but I haven't met any of the guys in question, so I don't know exactly what constitutes a 'nice' personality. But lately, there's been an influx of eligible young men who meet the first three criteria, all looking for girlfriends in our normal, humdrum high school. Our normal, humdrum high school girls are practically queuing up to give them what they're looking for.

"Come on," Trisha urges. She's my best friend, so I feel bad saying 'no' right out, but I'm not in the mood for a boyfriend right now. I have art classes, and lately I've been spending a lot of time with my Gran in the nursing home, so I don't really have time. Trisha doesn't buy it: the way she sees it, every girl should want a boyfriend, especially a perfect one. "It'll be great. It's their Championship game, and after they win they'll be wanting to celebrate." The incredulous look I'm giving her finally gets through, and she sighs a bit. "I'm not saying you have to hook up with someone. But come out and have some fun. At least watch the game," she cajoles.

Well, it has been a long time since I went out and did something just for fun, so maybe I should listen to her. There's no pressing assignments, no upcoming tests, and Mom is visiting Gran today. I'm free, and what else is there for me to do, really? Maybe it'll be fun after all. So I relent, with an, "Alright, but just for the game."

Trisha squeals like I've just given her the greatest gift in the world. She's been doing that a lot since she hooked up with her new guy — Gary, I think his name is. Maybe it's Greg. Whichever it is, he seems to make her happy, which I guess is the main thing. I'm a bit suspicious of the sudden appearance of lots of eligible, attractive young men, but no one else is questioning what is apparently a gift from the gods.

"Great," Trisha says. "We'll go right after school. I'm so excited — city champions!"

I don't point out that they might not win. I mean, someone has to lose. But I have no idea how good Gary's soccer team is; maybe they're all World Cup calibre players.

"I'll call Greg now," Trisha goes on. Ah, I think, so it is Greg. "I told him how fabulous you are, and I know he's got tons of friends who would love to meet you." What happened to just going to watch the game, I wonder. I'm already starting to regret agreeing to go.

That regret grows ten-fold when it's time to leave. Trisha's changed out of her plain, but still cute, jeans and t-shirt. Now she's in a low-cut tank and a mini skirt. I half expect her to have pompoms hidden somewhere so she can go all out cheering for her man.

"You’re going like that?" she demands when she sees me approaching. "Tess, I love you, but you really need to think more about your appearance."

"I think I look fine," I say. And I do: I might not look like I belong on the cover of a magazine, but I'm a long way from being a mess, too.

"Then you're not thinking enough." But she takes my arm and, with a minimum of carping, escorts me to the bus stop so we can catch a ride to the game. Trisha assures me that we'll get rides back — Greg will drive us, or one of his friends will — but I don't see the problem with taking the bus. We always take the bus, or get rides from our parents, especially because neither of us have our licence yet. I don't see much point in it, since Mom needs the car a lot more than I do. But I'll concede that having a car is a definite status symbol (as though Greg needed another one, after hearing Trisha's descriptions of his clothes and house and friends).

The stands are already packed when we get there. I've never heard of either of the schools playing, but I recognise a lot of kids from our high school there. These mystery boys have gained girlfriends and fans in one fell swoop. I don't see the boys themselves anywhere, though.

"There he is," Trisha says happily. "Greg! Greg!" She shouts and waves, but he doesn't hear. Well, he's on the other side of the field, surrounded by a press of people, all of them making a lot of noise. Trisha looks a bit crestfallen anyway.

Greg and his team are standing in a tight huddle, as though trying to block out the crowd that surrounds them. I see a whole bunch of kids milling about, a few in a school uniform that looks familiar, but which I can't place. At some signal I don't catch, they all fall back, and make their way to the sidelines or the stands.

Trisha's leading me towards the stands, but I'm watching the team. Most of them are tall, and they all look quite athletic, but there don't seem to be very many of them. I mention it to Trisha, and she nods. "This is the first year they've had enough people to field a team. That's why it's so exciting." She blushes a little bit, probably because it's her boyfriend down there.

"That's really cool," I say. It's a bit more than cool, actually: it's damn impressive. They're a brand new team, and they've made it to the championships; they must be really good. I'll admit to not knowing much about soccer, but even I can figure that out.

The ref appears, calling the captains to the middle. A tanned boy in a blue and white uniform heads towards the middle of the field, trailed belatedly by a second — the assistant captain, I suppose. Two figures in gold and green break away from Greg's team: a tall boy with golden hair to match his uniform, and a tiny one that hardly comes to his shoulder. No, not a boy — a girl.

"Trisha, that…" I begin, but I can't seem to find the words to continue. I remember that school uniform now, and I remember that girl. I'll bet anything that that little brunette is Beezie. John called her 'Captain', I remember, and that looks like him back with the team, putting another boy in a headlock.

"Don't break my spare goalie." Beezie's shout carries clearly across the field and up into the stands. "I'll need him after you dive into a goalpost."

"Yeah, one cripple on the team is enough," the boy next to Beezie adds. I can't hear his laugh from here, but I can see his grin.

John just waves. "I won't let any in."

"Remember our bet, Beez," Greg chimes in. Beside him, John does a little dance, as though in celebration.

Trisha finally seems to understand what shocked me. "They didn't have enough players, so they have girls on the team." She sounds a bit disapproving. "That's Beezie Marlin, and the guy next to her is Johan. The big dumb one is Johnny." From what I remember, John is far from dumb, but I don't contradict. I'd rather pretend I've never seen Beezie and John before, although their presence here adds a new dimension to the game I hadn't expected to find. What will they pull here, I wonder?

It turns out the answer is 'nothing'. Beezie and Johan shake hands with the opposition, and there's a coin flip, and then the players are streaming towards their places. For some reason, I'm surprised to see Beezie falling back towards the midfield — some part of me had felt the captain out to be right in the center. But it's Johan who takes that place, with Greg on his right. John is in the net, his dancing forgotten for the moment.

I don't know much about soccer, so I quickly get bored watching the players chase the ball around the field. Every once in a while the people around us start to get really excited, but I can't figure out why — sometimes the players are nowhere near either net when it happens. I figure I might as well use this time to quiz Trisha about her new boyfriend and his team mates.

"It seems kind of weird for a girl to be captain of a boys' team," I begin. I had sensed that Trisha didn't much care for Beezie, and the way her eyes narrow now confirm that impression.

"Yeah. It's totally stupid, isn't it? But I asked Greg, and he was totally cool with it for some reason. It's so weird."

I hesitate to ask, but since I can't tell by myself, I ask, "Is she good enough to be captain?"

Trisha gives a very un-ladylike snort. "No. Greg is way better. And Johan," she adds belatedly. The golden-haired boy does look good — at least, he's fast, and he seems to have the ball pretty often. He and Greg work well together: they're like a pair of cheetahs streaming up the pitch, both lean and golden. Behind them range three smaller, darker shadows, like hyenas waiting to pick off anything that escapes the first assault: Beezie, and a pair of Hispanic kids. Two brown-haired boys floats between the groups, sometimes with Greg and Johan, sometimes with Beezie and her scavengers. All seven of them are running fast, pushing hard and keeping the ball in the other team's end. Their own end of the pitch looks empty: there's a blonde girl, an Asian boy, and a black-haired boy shifting about as though trying to fill the enormous space with only the three of them. Behind them, John is dancing in his net to music only he can hear.

A player from the other team crashes into the Hispanic girl, and both players go down. The Hispanic boy is there in an instant, looking ready to kick the shit out of the offending player. The ref arrives only a second behind; there's a lot of shouting, and the other players are converging. Johan and Beezie arrive at the same time, from opposite directions. They grab the Hispanic boy and drag him bodily away, although not before the ref holds up a yellow card.

"What just happened?" I ask Trisha. She doesn't care for sports any more than I do, but now she's dating a soccer player, so I figure she must have picked some things up. It feels strange, that there's so much in her life recently that I don't know anything about, and so many people that I haven't met. We've shared everything up until now.

"That guy fouled Marisa, and Ricardo flipped. She's his little sister," Trisha adds, just to be clear. "Now he's got a yellow card."

"Is that bad?" It sounds bad.

Trisha shrugs. "I think it happens a lot."

Greg is helping Marisa to her feet. She looks unhurt, but she's scowling a bit, so maybe she's in a bit of pain: they went down pretty hard, after all. But maybe she's just mad. A little ways away, Ricardo's getting an earful from both Beezie and Johan, but looking entirely unrepentant. He makes a few quick gestures; Beezie and Johan follow his gaze, confer for a moment, and then nod. Something has been decided, and I'm worried that now we're going to see some of the Beezie that I met at the youth conference.

"Do you think she's alright?" There's no reason for Trisha to know any more than I do, but I ask anyway. There's something about Marisa that makes me think she's a nice person, and I'm concerned. Maybe it's just that, of all the players whose names I know, she's the only one that doesn't look like she's out for blood. If the others had fangs, they'd be baring them right now. At least John can't leave his net to help her — at least, I'm pretty sure he can't.

Play resumes, but they're no longer pushing so far into the other team's end. Most of the movement centers around the middle of the field, and now everyone on both teams is involved. I can't decide if our team — as I'm beginning to think of them — is just tired, or being pushed back, or if there's some deeper strategy at play here. Johan passes the Asian boy — what is he doing so far back? — and says something that can't be heard from the stands.

In his net, John is still dancing, although he's slowing down a bit. There's an look of anticipation on his face, like he hopes the other team will get a breakaway so he can flatten them himself.

I'm starting to realize that most of them have players that they mark, and I feel a bit sorry for Beezie. The guy she's pacing is big — not quite as big as John, but bigger than Johan or Greg, and a lot bigger than Beezie. She looks grim, too, and I think she's having to push herself to keep up with him. And there's the ball, coming towards them, and the big guy is going to get there first, but Beezie's going for it… her leg catches against his, and they both fall, twisted together and hitting the ground with a thump that I swear I can feel.

And no one stops.

"Y'a'right?" Johan shouts as he runs after the escaping ball, and Beezie replies with something that might be an affirmative as she slowly gets to her feet. The ref's on the other side of the field, following the play, so he hasn't realized that the big guy isn't getting up. All around us, and down by the field, people are shouting. Both coaches are screaming at the ref, so much that I can't believe that they have human lungs.

I think Beezie's saying something to the big guy. He nods, and she holds out her hand. He's so much bigger, she ought to just be pulled to the ground, but somehow she has the strength to help him to his feet. They say a few more words, then they're both jogging back to their positions, rejoining the game. The big guy is wincing, holding one hand to his ribs, and he's running with a bit of a limp. Beezie's running slowly, shaking out her body as though testing to see if everything still works. When I compare it to what happened with Marisa and Ricardo earlier, everyone is strangely calm about this run-in. Do they expect Beezie to be tougher than Marisa, I wonder? But she's smaller, and the guy she ran into is bigger. Maybe it's just that Ricardo didn't make a fuss about it?

I happen to glance at John, then. At least he looks concerned, although maybe it's just that the ball is finally headed towards his net. The other big guy on the opposing team has a breakaway, and he's headed for John like a train that can't be turned aside. He doesn't get anywhere close, though. The little Asian dude — I decide to call him Number 3, because otherwise I feel a bit racist — appears as if from nowhere, punting the ball directly back at the opposing player. It hits the big guy in the crotch: he slows, staggers, and folds over. The ball is punted up to Ricardo and then, looking very embarrassed, Number 3 goes to see if the guy he just nutted is okay.

There's a shout of "Ninja Power!" from the black-haired boy as he runs past, which only makes Number 3 look more embarrassed.

Trisha senses my question coming before I can ask. "That's Takashi, and the other guy is JD. They're juniors." She doesn't add 'like us,' but I add it in my head anyway. I know from Trisha's previous stories about Greg that he's a senior, which I suppose means Beezie and John and the rest are as well. I've never felt such a big gap between juniors and seniors as I do at this moment: it's almost like they're a different species. It's probably just that the seniors I'm comparing us to are people like Beezie and John, who might not actually be humans. Honestly, if someone told me right now that aliens exist, and they're here on Earth, I wouldn't just believe it, I'd be able to point two out. There's just no way those two are normal — or, for that matter, that any of them are. Maybe it's a private school thing, although what aspect of a life of entitlement could make someone that bat-shit crazy is beyond me. Maybe they all take brain-enhancing drugs and the disregard for societal norms is a side-effect. Maybe I don't actually want to know what makes them the way they are.

Suddenly the ref is blowing his whistle. "Is it over?" I ask, feeling stupid and ignorant. Really, who goes to watch a game when they don't even know the rules? But I have to admit, this game has been interesting anyway.

"It's half-time," Trisha says. "Come on, I want to go talk to Greg."

And because she's my best friend, I stand up and follow her. There is nothing else on God's green Earth that could inspire me to go and stand down there, surrounded by people I don't know but who all know each other, while they talk about a game I don't understand. I'm really not looking forward to it: I've come to realize over the last few weeks that, in Trisha's mind, Greg eclipses all other considerations, so I'm probably going to spend the next several minutes standing awkwardly to the side while Trisha is all disgusting and affectionate with her perfect boyfriend.

This time, Greg sees us coming. "Hey, Trisha," he says. Perfect white teeth in a flashing smile: check. Golden hair with the spring sunlight glinting off it: check. Cocky stance of someone who has the world at his feet: check. Like the rest of them, Greg's just a bit too perfect, and it's giving me the creeps.

Greg moves to give Trisha a hug, but she stops him with an outstretched arm. "Eww. You're all gross and sweaty."

"I was playing soccer," he answers. He doesn't sound hurt, but there's something in his voice that makes me think things could still go that way. I suddenly wonder if it just occurred to Trisha that a side-effect of playing soccer is getting 'all gross and sweaty.' I also wonder why she didn't realize it before: the Trisha I know is way more practical than this ditz who spends all her time giggling over her boyfriend.

"Greg." The voice is commanding. Greg twists around to look at Beezie, who continues in a much lighter tone, "How's the ankle?"

"How are you?" Another boy has joined the group. He's easily as big as John, but wearing his school uniform. It's slightly dishevelled, as though he knows this makes it look better. He doesn't have the face of a model or actor, but he definitely dresses like one. I find myself wondering how much money you need to have before you look so comfortable in a tie and blazer. "Nice slide tackle."

Beezie flushes. "That was an accident," she says petulantly.

"Bullshit," the boy answers amiably, and Johan laughs.

"Come on, Beez. We know you too well."

Beezie glares mutinously at both of them. "I hate you both."

"Where's the love?" John has arrived. He wraps Johan in a bear hug, then goes to do the same to the boy in the school uniform.

The guy backs away, looking like he'd rather be eaten by a shark than hugged by the goalie. "Man, you're covered in sweat and stuff. You better shower before the party."

"Will you come with me?" John asks, giving him such a sickly sweet, flirtatious smile that it has to be a joke. The boy swears at him.

"… and this is Tess," Trisha's voice intrudes. She has Greg by the hand — very delicately, so she doesn't have to be exposed to too much of his sweaty, gross self — and is towing him towards me. I'm sort of surprised she remembered I'm here, but that's uncharitable of me: we're best friends, even if she's been a bit distracted by her boyfriend lately. "She's my absolute best friend in the world."

"Hi," Greg says. "Um, I'd shake your hand, but I guess I'm kind of gross right now."

"You're always gross," Beezie cuts in. "Oi, Theresa…"

"Trisha."

"… save the lovey-dovey shite for after the game, right?" Beezie goes on, completely ignoring Trisha's interjection.

Greg rolls his eyes. "Relax, Beez." He doesn't look happy to be stuck in the middle while Beezie and Trisha snipe at each other, but he's trying to play it cool.

"Nu-uhn," Beezie says firmly. "Soccer, right forward, championship… any of these things ringing a bell?"

"You're gonna get laid tonight anyway," Johan cuts in. "So why're you acting all whipped?" Greg looks a bit uncomfortable at that. Trisha, on the other hand, goes bright red and glares equally at Johan and Greg, occasionally shooting a nasty look towards Beezie as well.

Beezie ignores her. "We just need a quick team meeting. Where's… oh man. Johnny, drag Ricky over here, would you?" The Hispanic boy is surrounded by a group of giggling blonde girls in school uniforms. The uniforms aren't all from their school, I notice.

"Right-o, Capitan," John says with a salute.

"So, Trisha, Tess..." and here Beezie gives me a look that makes me think she recognises me, although how she could is beyond me — it's not like we actually talked at the conference or anything. "If you want to head back to the stands, that would be great." It's not a request, but Trisha looks like she's about to argue anyway. I grab her hand and drag her away. Maybe Trisha doesn't realize it, but only a few minutes ago we watched Beezie slide-tackle a guy twice her size. I also got to see her verbally rip apart several people at the youth conference. If Beezie wanted to hurt Trisha, there's no doubt in my mind that she could. I don't know what she'd do, exactly, but I don't want to find out.

By the time we make it back through the crowd to some seats in the stands — our old ones have been taken over by some of the girls who had been clustered around Ricardo — the game has started again. I think everyone's running a bit slower now, at least everyone on our team: there aren't enough players on the team for subs. If one of them goes down, they're completely fucked — which makes it insane that Beezie, who's the team captain, would deliberately risk herself to take out another player. She must think she's invincible or something, never mind that even I know she isn't — she had that broken nose at the conference, after all.

John's still fresh, though. It's a good thing, because now the wind is in the other team's favour, and they're taking a lot more shots than they did before. John's big, but the net is huge, and sometimes he has to dive to get all the way across it in time to reach the ball. He hasn't let one in yet, but all that jumping's probably tiring him out.

John catches one and throws it to Greg: it hits his chest, and he somehow contrives to roll it down his body so that it lands perfectly at his feet. Now he's off, running, and next to me Trisha is screaming in excitement. Her screaming dies a little when Greg's path is blocked, and he's forced to pass to Ricardo. But already three guys are converging on Ricardo; he sends it arcing up, impossibly high, to Johan, who's sprinting up the field. Faster than I think is possible, especially given how tired they seemed a moment ago, not only Johan, but Beezie and Marisa too, are nearing the opponent's goal.

Marisa runs next to one of the defenders, seeming to force him away from Johan through sheer force of will. The big guy that crashed into Beezie still has a chance to block them, though… and Beezie appears, in that same magic way Takashi did earlier. The big guy hesitates, stumbles, and it's all Johan needs to pull his foot back and let it fly, driving the ball right between the diving goalie's hands. Now everyone around us is screaming, jumping up and down so that I think the stands might break. Trisha's cheering, too.

I'm not: I'm too caught up in watching. Even without the strange, convoluted stories and half-lies like the ones Beezie spun at the conference, there's something hypnotic about these people. It seems like everything they do should be impossible but somehow, just a little, they bend reality to make me believe it. I'm fascinated by them.

Down on the field, there's high fives all around. Johan and Greg thump their chests together in some manly display of victory, but for the most part the celebration is subdued. They really are a team, I can see that now: though they all move and stand differently, the body language of every player seems to say the same thing: we're happy, but it's not over yet. They're tired, but determined, and they know they haven't won this yet. If it was me down there, would I be celebrating more? I think I would. Maybe it's arrogance, I find myself thinking, although I have no idea where the thought came from. Like they know they're better, and winning is expected. But no one can be that conceited, right? I mean, they're a new team and everything: just getting to the championship game should have been more than they could have dreamed of.

On the sidelines, the coach is shouting and gesturing, trying to rearrange his players. He's ignored, because Beezie's issuing commands too. "Ben, fall back," she calls, and one of the brown-haired boys drops back from beside Greg and lines up near JD. Beezie switches places with Marisa.

"Ricky and Kevin, switch," Johan adds. The other brown-haired boy switches with Ricardo. It seems like a pointless bit of reorganization to me, but what do I know? Not soccer, that's for sure.

"Still good, Jenny?" Beezie asks, and gets a firm nod from the blonde girl in response. The coach is still shouting, and looks angry now: he obviously disapproves of how Beezie and Johan have reorganized the players. He's making emphatic gestures towards his clipboard — I guess he's made a plan as to how this game will be run, and he's not happy to have his captains changing it. From what I've seen of Beezie, I doubt she cares. Johan doesn't seem like the sort who's too concerned about authority, either.

The ref looks a bit uncertain, though. From what I've seen so far, he's probably used to being yelled at by the coaches. I don't know how often he sees coaches yelling at their players, though — in the non-supportive way, I mean.

"That's what I hate about Beezie," Trisha says conversationally. "She always thinks she's so much better than everyone else, just because no one ever tells her 'no.'" Personally, I think it's a bit more than that: if I had to give a reason for Beezie's attitude, I'd say it was because she's both way, way smarter than everyone else and knows it, and because she has one of the most forceful personalities I've ever seen. I'm sure people tell her 'no' all the time: she just ignores them, exactly the way she's ignoring the coach right now. And if it really gets bad, the way it did with that teacher at the conference — Ms. Hemple, I think her name was — then Beezie probably just opens her mouth and starts saying those things that seem to twist reality.

"Do you really think that's what it is?" I ask as play resumes. I mean, my mom almost never tells me I can't have or do something: I'm an only child, and since the divorce she hasn't seemed able to deny me anything. Not that I ask for all that much, but the point is that it doesn't seem to have done me any harm. I mean, I'm a pretty good kid, definitely not a trouble-maker or anything.

Trisha sighs. "You only say that because you haven't met her," she says. "Beezie Marlin's a menace."

The guy sitting in front of us twists around to look at us. "Who're you, then?" he wants to know. It's the guy I saw talking with the players at half-time, the one that John threatened to hug. Up close, his features aren't any more regular than they were before, but there's a genial good humour in them — except his eyes. Those are at once haunted and sharp, and not at all friendly. I find myself wondering what I'd see in Beezie or John's eyes, if I ever got close enough to actually see.

"I'm Trisha."

The guy stares at her for a minute, then rolls his eyes. "And who's that?"

Trisha looks confused and offended. "That's Tess," she snaps, and looks about to launch into a tirade.

The guy cuts her off. "I meant, Trisha, who the hell are you to be judging Marlin?"

Trisha seems to deflate a little bit. "I'm…" She doesn't seem to be able to find the words to tell him she's Greg's girlfriend, since that's probably the only way this guy will know who she is. It's probably a good thing: Beezie and Greg seem fairly tight, so having Greg's girlfriend badmouthing Beezie isn't going to look good for him. If I had to bet, I'd say that Trisha would be the one to lose if Greg had to chose between them. But I'll admit, I don't know Greg, so maybe I'm wrong.

"Hold on, you're…" the guy pauses for a minute, trying to finish the thought. "Someone's girlfriend," he finishes lamely. "One of those girls from the public school. Mike's?"

Trisha doesn't look she's going to answer, so I say, "Greg's."

"And you're…?"

"No one's," I say darkly, feeling a blush burn my cheeks. I wonder if this guy is Beezie's boyfriend, or just one of her friends. I'd had the impression she was with John — as strange a picture as that was, given the huge difference in height — but I really have no basis for that assumption.

He grins, a bit ruefully. "Sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just don't like people talking shit about my friends." He shoots a pointed look at Trisha. "I'm Andrew." He holds out a hand, and when I take it, he shakes it solemnly. Who the hell shakes hands at a soccer game? I'm pretty much convinced now that no one in that school is normal, and Trisha ought to get out while she still can. "You an artist, Tess?"

That surprises me. "Yeah." How the hell does he know that? "I guess so."

"It's the eyes," he says, as though he can read my mind. "Look kinda spaced, you know?" He laughs. Well shit. I thought he was going to say something deep about windows to the soul, or seeing deeper than other people, but turns out he just thinks I'm a scatter-brain. "Maggie looks like that. She's not here," he adds, before I can even begin to wonder which one Maggie is. "She doesn't care about sports."

Out on the field, a whistle blows. The ref pulls a yellow card out of his shirt pocket and holds it up. It's for Johan this time — I wonder what he did, but I wasn't watching.

Andrew laughs. "Stupid prick. Wonder what he did?" He doesn't seem concerned.

"Trisha, did you see?" I ask. She's been pointedly ignoring Andrew, but I don't know if that means she's been watching the game.

For a moment, it seems like she's not going to answer. "I didn't really see. I think he kicked the other guy in the shin."

That's it? I wonder. Beezie all but tackled a guy, and no one even looked back; now Johan's kicked one in the shin, and he's getting in trouble for it. I mean, they're wearing shin guards and everything: surely they expect to get kicked. A part of me knows I should disapprove of their dirty tactics, but I don't. It's like listening to Beezie talk about war and poverty at the youth conference: there's this strange distance between what I know I should believe and what I find myself thinking. And somehow, I feel that it's Beezie's fault, for all she's only ever said a couple of words to me.

"I don't get it," I say, even though I know I shouldn't: know I should just keep my mouth shut and stay out of the twisted little world these kids seem to live in. "I mean, Beezie slide-tackled that guy, and… nothing. But Johan gets in trouble for kicking someone in the shin? They're wearing pads and everything."

Those sharp, haunted eyes narrow in amusement. I guess even if he's probably as crazy as the rest of them, Andrew can pretend to be normal. "Marlin couldn't possibly have tackled that guy," he says.

Weren't you the one that accused her of it? I wonder. Maybe he can't even pretend, after all. "What do you mean?" I ask. "She totally…"

But Andrew's shaking his head, his eyes wickedly amused. They're kind of pretty eyes, for all they're seriously scary: they kind of remind me of my neighbour's cat, which likes to scratch people and has eyes that are the same grey as Andrew's. "It's simple: Johan's a big guy, and a good soccer player. If he fouls someone, he must have done it on purpose. But Marlin would have to be nuts to tackle someone twice her size, so it must have been an accident."

That's insane, is all I can think for a minute. It's like he's saying the more unbelievable something is, the more likely Beezie is to get away with it. Which, actually… it makes sense, in a way. At least, it fits with what I've seen of her so far. It's that reality twisting thing again. And now I'm afraid that I'm getting sucked into it again, and this time it's all my own fault.

"Are you all like that?" I ask.

"Like what?" Andrew wants to know. He's suspicious, like he thinks I'm judging them. Which, I suppose, I am.

"Like…" I flounder, looking for the words to describe that quality that is so pronounced in Beezie, but which I suspect they all share. "Like they just do whatever they want and expect to get away with it."

"You mean conceited."

No, I don't. That's close, but it's not quite right. "Not really conceited, just…"

Andrew grins. "No, really. Conceited. They're my friends, so I can say it. You just don't think they are because they don't say they're better than everyone else." It applies to him too, every single bit of it, but I don't say so.

"But they think it," Trisha mutters darkly.

Andrew shakes his head and laughs again. I'm beginning to wonder what he thinks of us, that he just keeps laughing. "No. They know it."

"Just because they're rich…"

I've been best friends with Trisha for years, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe don't know her as well as I thought. She's just seemed so shallow lately, with her talk of her perfect boyfriend and his elite school and fancy house. I'm sure she doesn't really think that way. I hope she doesn't.

"No wonder Marlin doesn't like you," Andrew says to her. He doesn't explain further, but switches tracks abruptly. "It's 'cause they're so fucking smart it's scary."

"Not all of them," I say. Surely not all of them. Even in an elite school like theirs is supposed to be, it shouldn't be possible for them all to be geniuses. 'Genii'? Better just to say, 'shouldn't be possible for every one of them to be a genius.'

"Fuck no," Andrew says. "Most of us are as dumb as you are. We're just richer." He winks.

I could be offended, I guess, but for some reason I'm not. "Who, then?" I want to know. I already suspect the answer — the two answers, actually.

"Marlin, Ricky and Johan. It's easy to tell, see? Just look for the ones with the swollen heads — egos as big as their brains." He laughs again, and this time I have to as well. It's such a pathetic, geeky joke that it's actually funny.

"Not John?" I want to know. From listening to him at the conference, I'd got the impression he was fairly smart.

"Johnny's an ass-clown," Andrew says, as though that settles the matter. He may be rich and stylish, I think, but he's got a serious potty-mouth. At least, that's how my first-grade teacher would have put it.

The ref's whistle is blowing again, shrill and loud. The stands around us explode, but it takes me a moment to figure out what has happened. The game is over, and Greg's team has won. Down on the field, the team is going insane, jumping around and hugging each other. John picks Beezie up and tosses her over one shoulder — her shrieks float up to us as she hits John on the back, demanding that he put her down.

"Yeah, she looks like a real genius," Trisha says darkly, and walks away from us.

Andrew frowns, looking between her and me. I'm left standing on the stands with him, feeling torn. Trisha's my best friend and the reason I'm here today, but I think she's being really unfair to Beezie, and pretty rude to Andrew as well. He's not being so polite himself, though. But after a moment, Andrew shrugs, as though he doesn't really care what's going through Trisha's head. "You want to come celebrate with us? There's going to be a big party at Michelle's to celebrate."

I don't really want to go to a party. "I won't know anyone there."

"You know me," Andrew says, giving me a winning smile. "And look, I know they're a bunch of conceited assholes, but they aren't all that bad."

"You aren't doing that good of a job of recommending them," I tell him.

"I'm just giving you fair warning."

A question for all you literate types

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 13:30:06 GMT

Which, if you're reading this, means you qualify.

How many characters can you deal with?

Whether it's reading or writing (novel length), what do you think is an acceptable number of characters so that, while there's depth and variety in the story, the reader isn't flipping back trying to figure out who everyone is? I mean, I think JKR's first book introduced at least 30, whereas Cassandra Claire might have topped out at 10 (I can only think of 9 off the top of my head) in her first. I mean, I have at least 70 in Tangled Webs (but most of them are canon characters, so there are already seven books of background on them).

I ask because I'm working on a big original piece, and I'm concerned that I might be pushing close to the limit. Any thoughts (as a reader or writer or both) would be hugely helpful.

It's Here!

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 04:47:22 GMT

A chapter and a half because, as I said before, I got stuck on what was originally meant to be Chapter 7, so I just axed the whole thing. What remains is still here, however, since it does happen -- it just doesn't justify an entire chapter. What am I getting at? Well...

All Their Sins
Chapter 7: Idolatry
Rating: Mature
Notes: Un-edited like woah, but I wanted to post because it's been just so damn long. This is dedicated to geuna and nonoji , who believed me when I said there would be another chapter, someday.

On the border between Life and Death, balanced on a razor's edge so sharp it could mend as well as cut, lay Life's desire to continue on past Death. On this edge, born of the two great certainties upon whose borders it encroached, was the Fountain of Future Generations (known, to the unenlightened, as 'sex').

With a soft sigh, Nami closed The Light of the Maidu. It was the founder-cum-god's own writings, and would have been far easier reading had the man half the flair for prose that he did for the dramatic. 'Tiring' did not begin to describe the thick book, although if one added 'trite' it was close. She could have simply memorized the forty-seven Tenets of the Maidu, as was expected of her, but Nami wanted to understand this strange, theocratic criminal empire that she had found herself in. The better to crush you, she thought waspishly as she shoved the book away across the coffee table. She'd been hoping for some distraction during the waiting period leading up to her introduction to the Living God Himself, but the book had hardly helped to that end.

"Annie?" A soft knock accompanied the call, and a second later Yasue-mama's head popped through the door. "All ready, poppet?" The little woman slipped in, her soft foot-falls suggesting years of discretion and careful maneuvering in this world. "Let's have a look at you." She took Nami by the shoulders, then leaned back to study her, as though this posture would allow her the best vantage to check Nami's appearance. "Quite proper, dearie. Well done." She almost managed not to sound surprised. No doubt she had expected this to be another in their on-going contest of wills, over which Nami felt they had, inexplicably, bonded on some level. But she had donned light white dress without question. Its soft fabric and simple cut were oddly chaste, considering what it meant that she was here and being forced to wear it.

"You have lovely taste, Yasue-mama," Nami murmured. Let the old woman make what she could of that. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Yasue-mama's sharp eyes met hers, then flicked away. "You've learned the Tenets?"

"All forty-seven."

"There are forty-eight."

Nami smiled. "Number thirty-six is an amendment to nineteen." The twist of Yasue-mama's mouth said she knew it too, and had challenged Nami because... the almost-smile wasn't nearly so forthcoming about why Yasue-mama had thought to test her, or what she made of her findings.

"Hurry along and show the others how much you've learned," the old woman said, the words containing only the slightest hint of a bite.

Show the others, huh? Nami thought as she strode down the corridor, following Yasue-mama's pointedly detailed instructions. "It won't do to have you getting lost again," had been the woman's exact words, but Nami suspected that Yasue-mama knew she would have been able to find the audience room without directions. She'd seen a lot during her wanderings while lost; she just hoped Yasue-mama didn't realize how much. She'd been kept in almost complete isolation since her arrival half a day ago. The only person she'd seen besides Yasue-mama had been the young man who'd brought the fried rice, and Nami suspected that had been an accident. Likely she wasn't supposed to see anyone but Yasue-mama. Perhaps her captors thought she might form a bond with the old woman, as prisoners at Impel Down had been known to do with their guards (although Nami couldn't, at the moment, remember the medical name Chopper had given the condition).

It was with some relief that, when she slipped through the large doors to the audience room, she found she wasn't the first to arrive. If she had been planning anything - an ambush, a coup, insinuation tactics - she would have wanted to be the first. This, though, was not a time for action: this was reconnaissance, and therefore not a time to be noticed.

The room was long-ish, its proportions suggesting a careful study of classical architecture. A floor of polished stone, slightly wider than the double doors Nami had entered through, ran the length of the room to a similar door in the far wall. It was bordered on each side by pools of water, through which ran a line of fountains. The water arched high, giving the impression of an arched colonnade. All this Nami observed in a heartbeat: she'd slipped through here before, although the fountains had been turned off at the time. Her main attention went to the half dozen women and single man already gathered. Some knelt at seemingly random intervals along the walkway: likely their accustomed place in a line that had yet to properly form. Others were standing quietly, obviously awaiting a chance to speak to the woman who stood at the center of the pathway. The woman whose eyes were fixed on Nami.

Nami broke the eye contact and looked away, shifting uncomfortably. Inside, she was calm and cold, her purpose diamond clear and hard. To this woman — a whore, by her white dress, but one of some distinction, since hers was elegantly cut, expensive silk — Nami would be a confident young woman overwhelmed by what she was experiencing. Not a mouse, not a trouble-maker, only another girl with nothing remarkable about her, who would be noticed, then ignored, then forgotten.

He was awake now, but Zoro neither opened his eyes nor moved. That had been his mistake last time, and see where is had gotten him? Not that he knew where he was, but based on the manner of his coming, it couldn’t be anywhere pleasant.

After he'd lost the dumbass cook, Zoro had continued to wander the streets of Kapila Aranya, searching for any sign of his missing crewmates. It had reached the point where he no longer bothered asking if anyone had seen them, but simply started wrecking havoc. If either of them were around, he'd reasoned, they would make themselves known and maybe aid him in the destruction of whatever building was falling down around their ears. Sadly, even this extremely efficient method of searching had failed to locate the cook and the navigator.

So he'd taken a nap in a temple. Zoro didn’t care much about temples, one way or the other. He'd been in quite a few in his time: meditated in them when he was training, accepted their hospitality while traveling as a bounty hunter, stolen from them as a pirate, explored abandoned ones under the direction of Robin… Zoro didn't hold to any religion, so temples were simply buildings, and it was ther people that inhabited them that determined his actions.

The guys in this particular temple had been weird, with their giant statues of penises, but the temples was warm and dark and fairly quiet, so he'd been willing to live and let live. He'd sneak a nap in the corner, and the monks could get on with their chanting and bowing. Really, there was no reason for them to take offence as his presence there. But they had.

He'd been woken by shouting, and when he'd responded by punching the noisy bastard into a pillar — before he'd even opened his eyes — well… things had just gone downhill from there. There'd been a lot more shouting, mostly about blasphemy and sinners and "in the name of the Maidu," and there'd been a couple of guys with spears…

It shouldn't have been a problem. It wouldn't have been a problem, except there had also been a couple of guys with blow darts, and whatever they'd shot him with had knocked him out cold. Fuck, but that was embarrassing. He needed to train more so that, even if he couldn't dodge the darts — which he ought to be able to — then they'd just bounce off him. Maybe he should build up an immunity to poisons as well, although he had a feeling Chopper would disapprove of that plan. Better not to get hit in the first place, really.

Feigning unconsciousness, Zoro took stock of his surroundings. He was lying on something cold, rough, hard, and just a little bit damp… a stone floor, probably in a jail of some sort. No surprise there: who ever woke up in luxury after being kidnapped? His hands weren't tied — that supported the jail theory, because the only reason not to tie someone up was that they couldn't escape anyway.

And there were voices.

"Poor fuck. Someone did a number on him already." The man's tone didn't match his sympathetic words.

"Won't put up much of a fight, then." Zoro privately named the second speaker 'Weasel Face.' The man's voice had the nasal quality of an oft-broken nose, and something about that way he spoke made Zoro imagine a thin, sycophantic little man who would cozy up to the biggest bully in the room, regardless of how odious that person might be.

There was a grunt from some distance away. "They never do, by the time they get to you," said someone, their voice the deep rumble of distant thunder.

And that, right there, completely confirmed Zoro's impression that he was in a jail. Zoro had been in his share of jails, and they all had a couple of things in common: ugly décor, shitty food, and a pecking order for who got to nail the new meat. Zoro preferred to deal with all three by knocking a big-ass hole in the wall and strolling back to freedom. Unfortunately, that didn't look to be the best option right now, mostly because the stone floor and pervasive damp suggested that this was more like a cave than most of his previous prisons, which meant busting through a wall would just lead him to more wall.

So, options. Continue to pretend he was unconscious: he wouldn't have to talk to these fuckers, but he had no reason to believe they'd leave him alone. They were probably just as willing to peg him while he was passed out. Not a good option. Which left waking up and letting them know just how fucking stupid they would have to be to cross him. Zoro preferred that option.

"Finished comparing cock lengths, ya fuckers?" he growled, heaving himself to his — bare — feet. Some jackass had stolen his boots. Fucking hell. Wasn't that just the icing on the cake?

"Oh look," said the first man. "Our new friend thinks he's tough." Beside him, Weasel Face chortled.

"You look like a man who knows the score," said the fat man in the corner, the one with the deep voice. "So just bend over and take it like a man, no?" He chuckled to himself. Everyone else joined in. Well, I guess that shows who's the biggest fuck in this hole, Zoro thought.

"You sure?" asked a languid voice. It's owner was reclined against the wall, doing his best to look cool and disinterested. "He's just another of the Pirate Hunter's impostors. He'll squeal like a virgin, with tears in his eyes."

Zoro glanced at the man. There was something about him that suggested he had once been a marine — one of those skinny, faceless nobodies who were just cannon fodder for any pirate on the Grand Line. At Enies Lobby he'd taken out, what, thirty guys like that with a single strike? "You an expert on the Pirate Hunter or somethin'?" he asked.

"Could say that." The guy's smirk was just barely visible under the brim of his cap. "Kicked him in the teeth, once. Can't believe the fuck has such a high bounty — those bastards at HQ must be getting senile.

Zoro was spared having to ask for more details by the first man. "Like fuck you did. Where was that, then?"

"Serving under Axe-Hand Morgan. You've heard of him, of course." There were murmurs of assent — these men had indeed heard of Morgan, if only just. Captains might be famous in the Blues, but Vice-Admirals and Admirals roamed the Grand Line, and being a captain just wasn't all that impressive in comparison. Not that any of these men would dream of taking on a marine captain.

Zoro still didn't remember this man — he was just cannon fodder, after all — but he remembered Morgan. And there certainly had been a few little shits who, wanting to impress Helmeppo and thereby gain favour with Morgan, had taken some shots at Zoro when he was in the stocks.

"Should have stayed in East Blue," Zoro told the man, and kicked him in the face.

Zoro wasn't the dumbass cook, so he didn't normally bother much with kicks, but he'd figured he ought to return like for like. And seeing the stupid bastard slump to the ground, unconscious, with a mouth full of broken teeth, really warmed his heart.

"What the fuck did you just…" began one man, but the fat man cut him off.

"So you're him, then."

Zoro shrugged. "Guess so."

"Bit petty for a man of your stature," Fatty said. "I'm surprised you remembered him."

"Didn't. He just pissed me off."

Fatty nodded in understanding. "Fair enough, fair enough. So tell me, Pirate Hunter — that is, if you don't mind my asking — what's a man like you doing here?"

Zoro just shrugged. No sense in telling these bastards anything. "Where's 'here'?"

That brought a chuckle from Fatty, and a few uncertain laughs from his hangers-on who didn't get the joke, but thought they might be expected to laugh anyway. "Here, my friend, is Shang-tu, the dark heart of Kapila Aranya. Garden of a thousand entertainments. All that rot." He looked suspiciously at Zoro. "You've never heard of it."

"No."

"Strange man. Shang-tu is known throughout the underworld as the utopia of illicit entertainment. The paradise."

"I know what 'utopia' means," Zoro snapped, his temper momentarily getting the better of him.

Fatty just chuckled. "A thousand apologies, my friend. I am used to dealing with pirates and scum who are quite as stupid as they look. So, Shang-tu… it was a gambling house, once, but now it's a brothel and a dozen other things besides. A cult, for one." He hummed thoughtfully to himself. "Its owner — its god, I should say, since that's how he styles himself — is known as the Maidu. He uses his cult of personality to rule the criminal empire of Kapila Aranya." Fatty smiled genially. "Not going too fast am I, my friend?"

"I understand," Zoro said simply. Privately, he thought, what a fucked-up bastard. "Go on."

"Not much more to say, really." Fatty sounded almost sorry about this. "It makes for a fascinating anthropological study, but I doubt a man such as you would be much interested."

A man such as you… a man of your stature… fuck. Zoro was pretty sure Fatty was hitting on him, in some strange way, but perhaps it was merely the man's mannerism. Either way, busting out was looking more and more like a good option.

"So what are we doing here?"

"Such deep questions for one so young," Fatty murmured. "But I know that's not what you meant. We," a sweep of his thick hand indicated all the men in the cell, "are all the, ah, collected ones who are too ugly to be of use upstairs. In the brothel," he added, as though Zoro needed the clarification. "We'll fight to the death for their entertainment." It sounded like he relished the idea. Perhaps he did — his reaction when Zoro had kicked the ex-marine's face in had shown that Fatty wasn't averse to violence.

Zoro's attention was caught by the phrase 'collected ones,' which seemed more important than 'fight to the death' in any case. "Anyone who disappears ends up here?" he asked.

"Who can say?" Fatty mused. "Many do, of course. I was in charge of the, ah, collection for a time, until that bitch Yasue…" he trailed off, but Zoro wasn't all that interested in Fatty's past. Perhaps the navigator and the cook were here. If they were, then it was all to the good: Zoro had had enough of a rest, and was in the mood to start bashing heads again.

Puzzlement

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 07:59:46 GMT

So, very shortly after I posted Until We Burn here on my LJ, I recieved the rejection notice from the archieve it had been submitted to. Now, I'm not terribly surprised: there's quite a list of warnings on that story, and it's not for the faint of heart. That said, the rationale for the rejection has me somewhat puzzled about our social mores.

To whit: Until We Burn has warnings for murder, incest, cannibalism, sex, and violence. With all of those on the docket, I don't feel the need to include a warning for swearing, but that applies as well. I admit, I was half expecting the story to be rejected, simply because the list of black-listed topics is so long. What I didn't expect was this:

The reason your story was rejected is because the Adults Only Sexual Content and the Strong Violence warnings are too strong for your story's content, and the incestual participation between your characters has been deemed too inappropriate for our Archive.

Beg pardon? There are characters having sex on-screen, and while it's not pornographic there's a fair bit of description. A character is killed, and her blood is drunk -- that's cannibalism, for anyone who has romantic notions of vampirism. There's discussions of hanging murder victims upside-down like rabbits to properly bleed them out. If I, as the author, feel that this constitutes 'Adults Only Sexual Content' and 'Strong Violence,' am I really to be condemned for being cautious in my ratings? I can't imagine I'm the only one who has opened a PG story, only to find that the characters are shagging left and right, while the rating is justified by some flimsy excuse like, "Well, I never actually called it his dick..."

Keep in mind that this rejection is from an archive which, as stated in it's rules, allows incest, sex and murder to be featured in stories. Had this not been specifically stated on the site, I would never have considered submitting the story.

But that's not really the issue. I refered to the heart of the matter directly in the story, because it was on my mind, and I feel it appropriate to quote it here:

That's so strange: you seemed perfectly fine hearing about the murder and the vampirism, but the incest… all things considered, that should bother you the least, shouldn't it? I mean, it's just sex.

In case you're reading this without having read the story first, I'll point out that all sexual relationships are between consulting adults. A sexual relationship between an adult and a child... suffice to say that I most strongly disapprove. I don't condone incest either; I simply find it interesting that that's the most objectionable part of the story.

What does it say about our society, that murder and manslaughter can be treated so casually? If someone gets shot in a movie, what does that make the rating -- PG13? Or vampirism... as I've said, that's cannibalism. But that never seems to occur to us, does it? Vampires are amazing, mystical creatures that we love to write stories about. As an aside, I'd like to point out the prevalence of vampire romances, and also remind you that vampires are dead. That's necrophilia, folks -- and yeah, that word gets a reaction, doesn't it? So why does no one bat an eye when what's-her-name gets knocked up by Edward Cullen? In fact, they queue up to buy the book.

Contrast to incest (again, we're talking consenting adults). If you take a poke around scholarly journals (or Wikipedia) you'll notice that incest, cannibalism, and murder have all been socially accepted practices in some culture. All three are illegal, and condemned by every major religion in our current society. So why should we be so insensitive to two that we expose our children to them, while condemning the third in the strongest language?

As I've said, I don't condone incest (I don't condone murder, cannibalism, or any of the other questionable practices discussed here either) but I'm puzzled by this apparent discrepancy in our social values. It's not an issue I'm about to fight out with the archive moderators, though.

All apologies for the fractured nature of this note. I haven't had enough sleep recently, but I'm not in the mood to rectify that at the moment.

I'm not sure what to think of this...

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 04:31:15 GMT

That big piece of original I've been working on? I've managed maybe a thousand words so far. It's tragic, really. This, on the other hand, I've been toying with for a while -- I've had the idea since I read Twilight (was not a fan, by the way) and I've been writing it on-and-off for the past two months. It's one of those pieces where you stop and go, "I can't believe I'm writing this." My first time writing shonen-ai (it couldn't properly qualify as yaoi) had the same sort of feeling. Being a girl meant I couldn't relate to the characters in yaoi -- not being a psychopath has stopped me relating to these characters. Still, I'm oddly taken with it.

It's been submitted to an external archieve, but they're taking a while validating it -- I can't decide if it's been lost in the queue, or they haven't decided if they're willing to accept it. I'm thinking lost, because otherwise they'd get back to me and say, "sorry, but we think you're nuts and want to protect the kiddies from you."

Until We Burn
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8900
Summary: "I've made a few errors in judgement myself; I admit, she was one of them. It was a pity, really, because I liked that town and that life, but you can't stay after something like that... she was a vampire. I hate vampires. Really, really hate them, you know? Especially ones like her: short, short skirt, corset, lots of black lace and pale make-up. It turns my stomach, and always has done. Vampires are the reason I hate Halloween, you see."
Notes: Warnings for murder, incest, cannibalism and moderately graphic sex. And since I don't normally give warnings, just a rating, consider yourself warned.

There's some people in this world that like to be the center of attention. Maybe you're one of them, in which case you know what I'm talking about. Maybe you aren't one, but you have friends who are, in which case you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm not much of one, myself, although I'll confess to a little bit of vanity. But I prefer what I like to call the dark spotlight: no one's looking, but everyone knows I'm there, you know? It just that I don't like people staring at me, or making comments, even good ones. But I still like to be a star. We all have our vices, after all.Well, maybe you're like me, and maybe you aren't; she wasn't. She was one of those other ones, the ones that like to be in the middle of things. She was one of those girls who, when she wore a short skirt, would be offended if no one tried to look up it. She'd still make a fuss if they did, but it would crush her ego if they didn't. Not sensible, I know, but who is, really? I've made a few errors in judgement myself; I admit, she was one of them. It was a pity, really, because I liked that town and that life, but you can't stay after something like that.

That's getting ahead of myself, though. You asked for my story — or would have, if you'd known there was one, and shouldn't have, in either case — so I'm going to put things in their proper form.

It really started about twenty years ago, or several hundred, or four billion, depending on how you want to look at things. In the more immediate sense, though, it started the moment she walked through the front door, which was… four months ago, now. It's funny how one night can change your life, mostly because plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, as old Karr would have it. But there, I'm being cryptic and getting ahead of myself again, so we'll leave it for the moment.

It was a Friday night at the end of October: really the end, because it was Halloween night. I hate Halloween the way Scrooge hated Christmas, although my reasons are my own. But I was celebrating anyway, because my brother loves Halloween for exactly the reasons I hate it, and whatever else might be said of us, we would do anything for each other. Even go to stupid Halloween parties. Even wear stupid Halloween costumes.

The party was his idea of course, not mine. Same with the costumes. He'd heard about it through the grape-vine at his high school and decided we should crash it. You'll notice I said his high school, not mine. My brother's older than me, but he flunked a grade at some point — seventh, I think — and then spent some time in juvie; so while I had started at the local college, he was still finishing up high school. Incidentally, my brother's name is Drake — or was, at the time. I went by Belinda, because it was his turn to pick the names, and he thought we should match: so he picked two names that meant 'dragon,' and I tried not to hold it against him that there weren't any really good female names with the meaning. These days we go by Carmina and Herod, which just goes to show that the world balances itself out eventually.

Yeah, I have a real name and no, you don't get to know it. I hardly ever use it; sometimes I even forget what it is. We move around a lot, you see. But that's not really important. We'd been in town for about six months, and settled in nicely. Mom and Uncle Frank — that's not his real name either, I don't know why you bothered asking — had been in Romania at last check. But they don't really hold with new fangled inventions like the internet or forwarding addresses, so communication with them is always pretty sparse. They took off when I was ten; I guess they figured Drake and I were old enough to look after ourselves at that point. We're still around, so I guess we were.

So, the party. It was maybe ten at night, and things were just heating up. The alcohol had been out for a while, but most people hadn't had the guts to start on it when there were so few people there. By eleven you wouldn't even be able to see across the room, it would be so packed, and everyone there would have downed at least a couple. And by eleven, well… people use the term 'eleventh hour' for a reason. The end is near, and it's pretty clear where things are going to go. By eleven, it would be the eleventh hour. That sounded much cleverer in my head, so I'll ask you to forget I said it. No? Damn. Well, it's not important.
Just after ten, she showed up, and as soon as she walked through the door I knew the shit was going to hit the fan. She was the school's It Girl, which means she had a pair of friends who followed close behind, there to give her the attention she craved. They were a pirate wench and a cat girl, but she… she was a vampire. I fucking hate vampires. Really, really fucking hate them, you know? Especially ones like her: short, short skirt, corset, lots of black lace and pale make-up. It turns my stomach, and always has done. Vampires are the reason I hate Halloween, you see.

I think she was upset that she was there and the party wasn't. She probably had a grand entrance planned, and the hoi polloi had the gall not to show up to witness it. She headed straight for the bar, which meant she headed straight for us.

I didn't have to look to know there a smile on Drake's face, and that it wasn't a very nice one. And I knew what his response would be before I even opened my mouth, but it had to be said, anyway. "Not this one, Drake. Do you know how hard it is to transfer colleges at this time of year?"

"It'll be fine."

I gave a great, huffing sigh, because I knew it wouldn't be fine. Drake never thinks ahead, see? He just goes after what he wants. He never learns, either; always thinks that "things will be different this time, Belinda, you'll see." They're never different, but nothing will convince Drake of that. I guess that makes him an optimist.

He smiled at her, and that was all it took. You haven't met Drake yet, or I wouldn't have to tell you: he's a fucking god. Perfect white teeth, dark eyes, tanned skin, and lots of lean muscle showed off by his toga. What? Yes, toga. Didn't I mention? Well, we were wearing togas because, as I said, my brother actually likes stupid Halloween costumes, and he thought we should go as Roman gods. Ares and Venus. I guess it was a logical choice, because going to the party was a last-minute decision, and even if we didn't have costumes, we had white sheets.

You know, I don't understand you. Wondering why I would go along and wear a stupid costume, even though I didn't want to… I thought I'd made it clear that my brother and I do everything together. Really everything. I nearly stayed back a year after he got out of juvie, just so we could be in the same class, but he refused. He said we'd spend lots of time at school together anyway, so there was no reason for me to repeat a grade. He didn't think ahead to what would happen this year, though, when we finally had to be separated.

I can see from your face you think it's weird. Well, whatever. You asked, and I told you. You have to understand these things if my story is going to make any sense to you. Drake and I are what we are, and it's our unwillingness — or perhaps our inability — to be anything else that's important here.

Where was I? Smile, toga, It Girl caught like a fish on a line and unable to look away. She had enough resistance to his charm to get her drink before she came over, but that was it. It was probably more pride than real resistance, anyway. You know what I mean: like she was trying to act aloof and unaffected, even though she was probably wanted to throw herself at him. Most girls do, when Drake smiles at them, but I really wish they wouldn't: it inflates his ego to the point where there's really no living with him.

"I don't think I know you," was her opening line. Not the best, but not unpardonably lame, either. "Do you go to Saint J's?"

"Yeah. I'm Drake." He held out his hand as though to shake.

"Melody." She took his hand. Rather than shaking it, he lifted their clasped hands to kiss the back of hers. It's a classic Drake move, and it's worked perfectly since he was fourteen. Melody blushed hard enough that it could be seen even in the dim light. Then she seemed to come back to herself, and realized I was there. "Any you are…?"

I know she didn't mean it rudely, but I hate it when people say that. It makes it sound like the addressee is a lesser person, just an afterthought now that the star has been introduced. "I'm Belinda," I said, a bit more coldly that I'd meant to. Drake glanced at me, and grinned. It was a perfect, sexy grin, and I could practically hear Melody's heart melting. "And I think I'm going to get a drink."

The way you're looking at me, it's like you think I was jealous. Well, you're right: I was, and I was being juvenile about it. But Drake understands me, and Melody was too wrapped up in Drake to notice, so I went and found myself a beer and left them to it. I mingled and talked to people — there weren't any interesting conversations, nothing worth remembering but they passed the time — and kept an eye on the pair of them.
Oh, come on — you sound like you think I was waiting to interfere if Drake and Melody got too close. Yes, I told you I was jealous, but Drake doesn't need a chaperone.

Melody's two friends found me a while later. "Melody's going to steal your boyfriend, you know," the wench said. She didn't say it aggressively, or like a threat: she was just stating a fact. She'd probably seen it happen several times before. I'd lay odds that it had happened to her at least once.

"He's not my boyfriend," I told them, as mildly as I could. "He's my brother."

The cat-girl looked incredulous. "You wear matching costumes with your brother?"

"Looks like." I wasn't going to try and explain things to her. She was a bit drunk, and didn't look too bright anyway. Besides which, I didn't care if she understood.

"That means you're available, then," chimed in the guy I had been talking to a moment before. He was suddenly a lot closer than he had been.

"I might be," I allowed, not about to deny it outright, but not wanting to lead him on. Having watched Drake's progress, I figured I'd be leaving soon. It was just past eleven, and Melody looked to be a sure thing for tonight. I wouldn't have minded having someone to talk to until it was time to leave, but this guy looked like he hoped talking would lead to more-than-talking, and that wasn't on the bill for evening. I mean, I like more-than-talking as much as the next girl, but I had more important things to worry about tonight: Drake and Melody, to name them. Besides, someone else had noticed how friendly the guy had suddenly become, and wasn't pleased.

"You want something?" Drake snarled. He loomed over us, pulling me close and glaring at the boy. The perfect protective big brother. "And what do you mean, available?" he asked me. I could tell his blood was up, and he was itching for a fight. When Drake gets like that, he doesn't care who he's fighting with, as long as it's brutal and violent and makes him feel alive. Look here… see these scars? I was fifteen. Drake threw me through a second story window. Glass ripped my arms to shreds. Don't look so horrified: I put a knife between his ribs two weeks later. You should see that scar. Damn sexy, I promise you.

I don't know what that guy saw, looking at us, but he was terrified. Just about pissed himself. No, what am I talking about? He did piss himself, just a little bit. I've got a good sense of smell, and there was a faint whiff of piss that appeared right then. He scampered off, hopefully to change but more probably just to drink himself senseless and maybe find a girl who didn't have a scary older brother.

Melody arrived then. She'd been making her way over for a while, ever since she saw Drake with me — but it takes a while to get through a crowded room full of drunk teenagers, at least for most people. Drake's not most people, and he'd left Melody in the dust when he flew to my rescue. No, I'm not 'most people' either — was that really worth interrupting for? I don't see that it's all that important. At least, not at this point in the story.

"Drake," Melody said. It was half a question, half an accusation. "What is she…"

"Her name's Belinda," Drake snapped. He was tense, strung tighter than a piano wire about to snap, or he would never have spoken to her that way. Drake's a playboy, and he's good at it, which means he never says anything to upset the girls. Well, except when he's in a state like he was then. Times like that, his brain starts to shut down, and it's all animal instinct — and with Drake, that means fight, not flight.

"She claims they're brother and sister," cat-girl reported to Melody. She didn't sound like she believed it.

"It seems suspicious to me," the wench chimed in.

"Drake?" Melody said again, and again it was as much accusation as question.

Drake shook himself, visibly regaining control. "She's my little sister. And if you little bitches try to bully her again, I'll rip your fucking hearts out," he snarled, leaning close to the two girls and snarling. Yeah, I know, a lot of people don't figure humans can snarl properly — lack of fangs, or even decent incisors, and all that. But I've told you, Drake's got something of an animal in him, and the lack of appropriate teeth has never kept him from scaring the shit out of people. Just means he has to be that much scarier.

"That's enough, Drake." Honestly, I didn't care how badly he was scaring those two stupid girls, but it looked like Melody was having second thoughts about him. It would have been for the best if she had, really, and I should have just let things go. Should have let him snarl, and the girls whimper, and someone's heroic but stupid boyfriend come and try to pick a fight with Drake; should have let that fight happen, let the cops be called, and let it end with Drake spending the night in jail. The others would have got off with a few broken bones, maybe some stitches — hardly anything, really, compared to what Drake is capable of. But I didn't let it go, and what happened after is on my head. I told you, I've made some bad choices in my life. And when I said, "You're scaring Melody," that was one.
That was all it took to calm Drake down. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair, and apologized. Profusely, and using every ounce of his charm to win them over. In the end, the cat-girl was won over, although the wench still looked suspicious. Melody, though, had forgiven him, and that was the important part.

Ten minutes to midnight. Drake hadn't let me leave his side after that thing with the guy. Melody wasn't happy about it — she wanted Drake to herself — but constant reassurances that we were siblings meant she was willing to tolerate it. That was when Drake said, "Belinda has to work early tomorrow. I think we're going to have to head home." Complete bullshit, of course. Drake and I work — have to, to support ourselves — but not often, and it's not what you'd call orthodox.

No, we're not spies. Are you stupid? Look, if we could sneak into glittering galas filled with Presidents and Foreign Ministers, do you really think we'd hang out at some high school Halloween party? We'd at least go to a decent club. But the point wasn't our jobs, it's… look, I'll tell you, and then you'll stop interrupting, agreed? We fight, alright? Boxing matches, wrestling, full contact, whatever. We get paid by the round, bet on ourselves the next one… some nights, we can walk out of there with more than ten grand. Beats bussing tables, that's for damn sure. Problem is, you can't really do it in a small town — you need a big city, one with enough crime to cover up the underground fights and enough money to pay for them. We try not to work the same places more than a couple of times, too — people get wise to us, see, and the odds on the matches start to change. We always get long odds at the start, 'cause we're just a couple of kids, and that's where we can make some real money. After we win a couple, we aren't the only ones betting on ourselves — especially if there's some bright bastard in the crowd who figures out that we've done this before, so the fact that we aren't ugly as sin means we must be good enough not get the shit kicked out of us. I hate smart guys, I really do. Just one is enough to cut our profit in half.

So, before you interrupted with all that shit about spies, where was I? Ah, yeah. "I think we're going to head home," Drake said.

"Can't you stay?" Melody asked. She managed, by some miracle, not to sound too petulant.

"Afraid not. Have to take care of my cute lil sis." Drake threw an arm around me and gave me a hug, like he was trying to show some sort of sibling solidarity. Absolute bullshit — Drake and I don't hug. Hugs are all, y'known, warm and fuzzy and shit. We don't work like that, though I hardly think I need to tell you that by now. Melody seemed to buy it, though; I think it reassured her about Drake, although I don't know how or why or about what. "But, um… you're welcome to come along if you like. I'm probably just going to be watching a movie, but if you wanted to keep talking about… what were we talking about?"

Idiot that he is, Drake made two big mistakes there: he forgot what Melody had been saying not two minutes before, and he turned to me to clear things up. You have to understand, that's not like Drake at all: if anyone ever wanted to write a manual on being the perfect lover, they'd just have to watch Drake at work. But he was tense, like I said, and I think the earlier incident with that random guy had shaken him more than either of us expected. Drake's not good at jealousy.

Still with the interruptions. Yes, Drake was jealous. Look, I've told you what I do for a living, and I don't think I've given you any reason to think that guy was threatening me. I hardly needed to be protected from him. So, even without knowing Drake, you should be able to figure out that the only reason for him to come over like that was because he was jealous. So what if he's my brother? We do everything together — Drake's my entire world. Of course I get jealous when some random girl starts hitting on him, and why should it be any different for him? He's all I have, and I'm all he has. Just us. Starting to get it now?

"You were talking about your biology teacher's nose hairs, because you really know how to impress a girl," I told him.

Melody glared at me, but covered it up as soon as she realized Drake was watching. "Belinda, why don't you come to our school?" she asked quickly, trying to change the topic.

"I'm in college."

"Oh, but I thought Drake…" She was prying, and for some reason that really annoyed me. Maybe it was just that I didn't like the way she was dressed, so I took exception to everything she did. As I said, I really fucking hate vampires, especially ones in corsets. With ribbons. Those are even worse than the fake teeth, I swear.

"Some stuff happened," I said, before Drake could answer. As far as I was concerned, we'd already told this girl more than enough about us. It doesn't matter that most of it was lies — most of our lives were lies. Still are. But even if it wasn't true, it wasn't stuff she needed to know. "It's not important."

I could tell she really wanted to ask some more questions, but she resisted. "Oh," was all she said.

"So, yeah, you're welcome to come along with us if you want," Drake said, sounding genuinely apologetic. He's a born actor, really he is. "I'm really sorry about this, but…"

"It's no problem," Melody said quickly. "I'd love to come along. If we won't be disturbing Belinda…" The way she said it made it clear that I better not disturb them.

"It's fine," I told her. Because it was. I didn't like her — taking the costume into consideration, I think I might have hated her completely. But you don't always have to like people. Sometimes you just need them. Yes, I'm being cryptic again, but you'll understand soon enough.

Drake flashed us both that winning smile, like he was proud of us for getting along. "Let's get going then," he said, jingling his car keys.

Worry flashed across Melody's face then, although she tried to play it cool. "You sure you're alright? You've been drinking…" Turned out Melody wasn't quite as confident or wild as she wanted people to think.

Drake laughed. "Totally fine. But we can walk if you prefer; it's not far." I hoped she wouldn't say yes. It wasn't just that I didn't want to walk through the streets dressed only in a sheet: walking with us in the dark is a bad idea. See, Drake and I, we like to run. There's something about the night, especially nights like that one, when the moon is up and the air is sharp and there's this perfect ringing silence. It makes us want to run. Run fast. You've heard of parkour? Something like that. Times like that, I really love being alive, you know? But I doubted Melody would agree.

"No, it's cool," Melody said, determined not to be seem like a prude. "What do you drive?"

"You'll see," Drake told her, giving her a mysterious smile and jingling the keys. I snorted — couldn't help it. Thing is, we'd brought my car that night, because while some people are impressed by Drake's F150, the Celica normally makes a better impression at a party. Especially with girls like Melody: they take one look at a pick-up truck, and they're gone. Show them a sports car, on the other hand, and they're all over the guy. Shallow, I know. But that's why it's my car, not Drake's.

As you might have guessed, Melody loved the car. "Oh my god," she gasped, when she realized which one was ours. "I love it. It's so cool!" Normally I feel this little bit of warmth when someone praises my car like that, but not then. I guess I just disliked Melody that much.

That swell of warmth came a moment later, though, when Drake tossed me my keys. "Yeah," he said. "She's Belinda's baby. Damn gorgeous, isn't she?" And well she ought to be, after all the work Drake's put into her. He keeps the truck in good shape, but working on my car is his special hobby. "Don't worry, I'll ride in the back — you can ride up front and see what she's like."

"I'd rather sit with you," Melody said, the alcohol making her bold for the first time. Drake laughed.

"No one's making out in my car," I said firmly.

That made Drake laugh harder. "Except you, right?" he asked, grinning suggestively. I couldn't help it: I blushed.

"Shut up and get in the car," I muttered. I've only done that once, anyway — I learned my lesson after that. There's just no room, you know? But Drake still likes to rub it in.

The short trip home was quiet. Melody and I didn't feel like talking to each other, I couldn't talk to Drake properly in front of Melody, and she didn't want to flirt with him in front of me. Drake, for his part, sat in the back and enjoyed the awkward situation he'd orchestrated. He's just such a brother sometimes, you know?
Drake and I aren't exactly poor, but we aren't rich either, and most of what we have is in used bills. That makes it hard for us to rent anywhere too nice to live. The apartment we had in that town wasn't too bad, though: it was in a small building, only six apartments, with a dilapidated lawn out front and a rusty swing set in the little garden behind it. Over the summer, Mrs. Constance, the widow who lived downstairs, had tried to start a flower garden out front to add some colour, but it had never really taken hold. So the building squatted, as it had since we had arrived, forlorn and dusty and seemingly grey around the edges.

I parked the car in the little space to one side. There wasn't much room, but Drake and I were the only ones in the building with cars. There was a bus stop less than a block away, so most people didn't need them. But Drake and I move a lot, so even if we don't always use our cars — the cost of parking at the college was practically daylight piracy, so I took the bus — we'd never think of selling them.

The light by the front door was on, but otherwise the building was dark. Most of the tenants were a lot older than we were, or had young children, so the building tended to be pretty dead at this time of night.
"Oh," was all Melody said, and I don't think she even meant to say that. She probably lived in some big suburban house, maybe had a maid coming in once a week to clean up after her.

"Yeah," Drake said, sounding sheepish. He wasn't actually embarrassed, though — as I've said, Drake's a good actor. "We live on our own, so this is about all we can afford." Well, true enough in it's way: it was all we could afford to pay for in cash. In the big cities you can sometimes find someone who will accept the rent for a nice place in cash, but in small towns like this one… well, there's rumours, and then there's speculation, and then there's trouble. Not the angry-mob-with-pitchforks type of trouble, at least, but still the sort we try to avoid.
Our apartment was on the third floor: a one-bedroom place with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom that hadn't been renovated since the seventies. If someone was being generous, they might have called the decoration 'Zen-like.' Otherwise, they would have just said it was Spartan, and they'd have been right. There wasn't even a proper sofa, just a couple of large beanbag chairs. Our dining table was one of those low Japanese affairs that you kneel around, its edges dented and its surface chipped. The legs had been reattached countless times.

"It's… um…" Melody tried.

"We know," I told her. "Anyway, I'm headed to bed. You two have fun." And I left them before Melody could say anything, shutting the door firmly behind me. It didn't block out any sound, though: the door, like the rest of the building, was old and worn thin, and did no more to stop sound than a paper screen would have. Which meant I had to be very quiet, because I wasn't going to sleep just yet, but Melody couldn't know that.

"So, what do you want to watch?" Drake asked. "I was planning to watch Dracula…" I could picture the playful smirk on his face as he said this. He'd probably chosen Melody because of her costume, and watching a vampire movie with her would have been the icing on the cake. As I've said, Drake loves vampires: they make him laugh.

Melody giggled. "Sounds good." There was the sound of Drake moving about the room, setting up the DVD player, and then the soft whoosh of two bodies settling themselves into beanbag chairs.

I moved quietly around the bedroom as I listened to the movie play. I don't like vampires, or vampire movies, but listening achieved two things: it let me know what was going on in the other room, and it assured me that Melody hadn't heard me moving about. So when, about half way through the movie, Drake said, "Want to hear a scary story?" I heard it as clearly as if I had been there in the room with them.

"Sure," Melody said, with a giggle. Right about now, Drake would be running his fingers up her arm, across her shoulder, along her neck. Touching the pulse that fluttered at her throat, feeling it flutter with excitement.

"Hmm…" Drake murmured. "A thousand years ago, there was a man who wanted to conquer the world." I should mention now that Drake prefers the dramatic to the accurate when it comes to his story-telling. Genghis Khan's time was only eight hundred years ago, and while he certainly conquered a lot of places, I don't know if he was aiming for the entire world. Still, I'll admit Drake's way sounds better.

"Sometimes, his warriors would run out of food on long marches," Drake continued. "So they'd open the veins on their horses' necks and drink their blood."

I could hear Melody shift in the beanbag chair. "That's not scary, that's disgusting."

"Oh? But you're a vampire, aren't you?" Drake asked. "Drinking blood is what vampires do." He chuckled. "These men weren't vampires, though. Just people, doing what they had to." He'll be playing with her hair, I thought. "But some of them got a taste for it. They liked it. And it made them faster, stronger. Their senses got better, and so did their fighting. So they drank it even when they didn't have to, until they started to need it."

And they lived longer, I thought. "And they lived longer," Drake continued. "They stayed younger." Everything they wanted… "They could have everything they wanted, just by drinking blood." He laughed quietly. "But for some of them, it wasn't enough. So they tried other things. Other animals. Humans. And do you know what?" he was whispering, now. I could envision him leaning close, speaking softly right in her ear. "Human blood was the best. A man who drank human blood could live two hundred years, as long as he drank enough of it. But he wasn't human anymore: he was something more. A super-human. A vampire."

I knew Drake well enough to know what he'd do next. He'd bite her softly, flirtatiously, just on the ear. Not the throat — she'd spook, think he was a psychopath. But like this, she'd just shiver, and press closer to him, because even if she didn't believe in vampires the story had a ring of truth to it.

"Those aren't vampires," Melody said quietly. "Vampires are elegant, and live forever. And they're dead." It didn't seem to matter to her that what she'd just said didn't make sense. Everyone knows that vampires live forever, and never age, because they're dead. Problem is, everyone's wrong.

Drake made a soft sound in his throat. "Want to know the difference between my vampires and yours?" he asked quietly. "Mine exist." There was a soft crack, and then a deep silence. I opened the door.

Drake sat in one of the beanbag chairs, Melody's body in his arms. Her head lolled back at a strange angle, and her vacant eyes stared at me in accusation. I ignored them — the emptiness in a corpse's eyes only gets to you the first couple of times. At least, that's the way it was for me.

"Do you reckon it's true?" Drake asked me.

"Which?"

"That the body gets lighter when it dies because the soul is leaving."

I'd been studying nursing at college, and Drake was always asking me questions like this, thinking I'd finally have answers for him. For once, I could actually answer him. "No, that's just the air leaving the lungs."
Drake looked down, and then growled in annoyance. "And the waste. Stupid bitch pissed herself."

Which is why you shouldn't have had her in your lap, I thought. Most people soil themselves when they die, especially if their bladders are full from drinking. We've known it since we were little, when Mom and Uncle Frank taught us the mechanics of death and killing. But Drake always gets too caught up in the moment and forgets details like that. It's not that I'm not sympathetic, but it's his own fault if he gets muck on him. "If it helps, urine is generally sterile," I told him. I knew it didn't help, but I enjoyed needling him, just a bit.

Drake stood, dumping Melody unceremoniously on the floor, and stripped off his toga. He laid the sheet out on the floor, and put the body on top of it, doing his best to keep his hands clean of her mess as he did. Then he stood over her, naked and glorious and menacing, staring down at the girl he'd just killed. I grabbed a paring knife from the block and tossed it to him. He caught it by the blade, slicing his fingers as he did. He didn't notice.

He knelt then, and expertly sliced her both carotid and jugular. Then he put his lips her throat, as though to give her the kiss she'd been wanting all evening. Uncle Frank always tried to convince us to drink from the femorals, but neither Drake nor I would ever go for it: it's just a bit too close to the crotch for comfort.

I knelt on Melody's other side. Drake passed me the knife, its hilt slick with his blood. I took it, but held onto his wrist, and licked the torn flesh of his hand. He made a muffled sound against Melody's neck.

Drake sat up, replacing his mouth with his free hand to stem the flow of blood for the moment. He wrenched his other hand from my grasp and used it to grab my head, pulling me down to him. His lips met mine in a ferocious kiss. I could taste the sharp metallic tang of Melody's blood on his tongue; underneath, a hint of alcohol and the curry we'd had for dinner.

I wrenched my head away. "After," I told him, gasping. My blood was racing, pounding in my head. My nerves sang, as though infused with electricity. I sliced the other side of Melody's neck, and put my lips to it.

That first taste of blood is always like bomb in your mouth. There's so much taste, and all of it completely unlike anything else in the world. It makes you want to drop your head back and gasp for air, but also to bite down and never let go of that exquisite taste. A normal human can only swallow about a pint of blood before they get sick. Blood's a nauseant, see? But people like Drake and me, we can drink our fill without getting sick. While we're talking numbers, let me put it this way: a full stomach is four or five pints; the average adult has ten pints of blood in their body; between the two of us, we can drink until the blood won't flow any more. And it's never quite enough. There's always the feeling that if there had just been a bit more, if the blood had flowed for only another minute, I would have been full. But I never am, and always just a bit of the hunger remains.

As I drank, I realized why Drake had chosen Melody. Her blood was sweet and light, as these things go — exactly the sort I prefer. Drake likes it heavier and darker, the same as he likes his beer. He's got a good nose, too, much better than mine. He can tell how someone's going to taste without opening them up first. So, although he might have enjoyed her costume, Drake had chosen Melody for me — he's sweet like that, sometimes.

At the edge of my vision, I saw Drake reaching down to grab Melody's legs and lift them. The flow of liquid increased as the blood that had sat in her legs, stagnant and unattainable, rushed back to her core. Mom likes to hang her victims upside-down like a butcher so that she can get every last drop out. If ever there was a mother who instilled in her children a true reluctance to waste food, it was ours. But here the landlady would have wanted to know why we were installing giant hooks in the ceiling, so we had to settle for the trick I picked up in my CPR course. It doesn't work as well, but it helps. See? School is good for something.

Eventually the flow slowed to a trickle, then disappeared altogether and I was left sucking at a dry wound. I sat back with a sigh. Drake, always the more stubborn of the two of us, tried for a few more seconds before he, too, gave up on getting anything more from Melody. He flopped back onto the cracked hardwood of the living room floor and gave a great, contented sigh. "Six months," he said, "is too fucking long."

I hummed in agreement, pretending to the same laziness he showed. But even as the lethargy of a big meal pulled me down, there were fireworks going off in my head. And I felt alive, so very alive. Blood, especially good blood, is like a drug: every part of my tingled, and I felt like I'd explode if I didn't move. So I did.

I pounced on Drake, pinning him to the floor. He snarled at me, and I snarled right back and went for the throat. He twisted, trying to slither out of my grip, and my teeth fastened on the side of his neck instead of the front. He clawed at me, his strong fingers catching on the bed sheet I'd never changed out of. He tore at it, leaving me bare to the waist and with stinging scratches across my back. I bit harder, and focussed on keeping him down, trying to force him into submission.

He fought back, scrambling to find a position where he'd have enough leverage escape the pin. Moving like that let me feel it, even through the folds of my toga that remained: he was desperately hard, as he hadn't been in months. Not since the last time we fed.

"Fuck," he growled, half angry, half frustrated. "Just give up." Never, I thought. I released my hold on him just enough for his head to come up off the floor, but only so I could slam it back down. "Fuck," he said again and grabbed my hair, using it to pull me away from his throat. Then he kissed me again, even more fiercely than last time, all tongues and teeth and angry, perfect heat. I could taste the blood on his lips, and lost myself in it. My hands released their bruising grips on his arms and slid down, racking across his chest. I could feel his nails on my back, scoring line after line in the skin.

One of his hands settled on the small of my back, pulling me close to him. The other tangled in the remains of my toga, then pulled sharply away, tearing away the last barrier between us. And Drake was there, pushing, demanding, and when I couldn't get in position fast enough to suit him he flipped us over, using his weight to slam me into the floor. My foot hit Melody's arm, and I kicked it away.

And then Drake was there, pushing in. I screamed, but Drake was there, too, his mouth covering mine as he swallowed my scream. My world narrowed, the strongest sensations pushing everything else away. The hard floor against my back, digging into my spine as I curled, trying to drag Drake closer, deeper. Drake's mouth on mine, sucking and biting and demanding, dragging the very breath out of me. And his cock, filling me, forcing out everything else, each thrust like a perfect explosion. And everywhere, blood, its taste on my lips and its sharp tang in my nose.

And it was too much, too much… everything seemed to explode. I screamed, and Drake couldn't muffle all the sound. He kept moving, even as the world fell away; he groaned, the sound seeming dragged from the deepest part of him, and went very still. Then his weight settled, ever so slowly, on top of me, forcing the last of the breath from my lungs.

"Can't breathe," I muttered eventually. Drake grunted and rolled off me, then threw his hands up and stretched. A series of cracks made their way up his spine and through his shoulders, as though every bone in his back was snapping back into place. I lay where I was, only turning my head to watch him. Over his shoulder, I could see the movie credits rolling their way slowly up the black screen.

His arm snaked around my waist and he pulled me into his lap. "Damn, I'm amazing," he said as he inspected the marks he'd left on my back. I felt him shift, and then his tongue was on my back, lapping up the few drops of blood that were slowly seeping from the scratches. "Tell me I'm amazing."

"You're something, alright," I told him dryly. I glanced at the clock — almost two in the morning. "I've got the bedroom all packed up. Do you want to take care of the kitchen or hiding the body?"

Drake pretended to mull this over. "I'll take burial duty. You know it takes us weeks to find the forks if I pack up the kitchen." Which is true enough.

"I guess that's what makes you so good at hiding corpses," I agreed with a laugh. I gave him a last kiss and then stood, glancing around for something to wear while I packed.

Sensing the direction of my thoughts, Drake said, "No, stay like that."

"It's almost winter," I told him. "It's cold."

He snorted. "Bullshit." And he was right — I wasn't cold, I just prefer to be clothed. There's nothing wrong with that, is there? Going by your face, I guess you think there is. What? Really? That's so strange: you seemed perfectly fine hearing about the murder and the vampirism, but the incest… all things considered, that should bother you the least, shouldn't it? I mean, it's just sex. Yes, Drake really is my brother. Well, sure, I guess he might not be, but the same could be said of any pair of siblings: if your parents lied to you about that, how would you ever know? No, as far as we know, we really are brother and sister. But still, shouldn't murder be the worse sin? Not that it matters, really, since we enjoy them all. If there really is a Hell, we'll burn there: but not for another hundred, hundred and fifty years or so. Might as well enjoy ourselves in the meantime. Otherwise, what's the point in living longer than anyone else? Anyway, I'm almost finished the story, so just swallow your revulsion for a moment, alright?

"You are going to have to at least put some pants on before you go out," I told Drake.

"Corpse disposal au natural," he answered with a laugh. "Think it'll become a fad?"

I found a pair of his jeans on a hook on the bathroom door, and threw them at him. "Get going. It'll be morning before too long."

"Boxers," he ordered. I threw him a pair — no idea if they were dirty or clean, but I doubt Drake could have told the difference. "Relax. You'd think I'd never done this before." Well, I have to admit, that's only mostly what he said. See, when we're alone together after a kill, all the facades fall away, and Drake and I go back to who we really are. What I mean is, that's the one time we use our real names. But don't think I'm so stupid as to slip up and tell you what those are.

I rolled my eyes at him. "I'm just remembering the time you got caught by the cops and you still had blood in your hair."

"They believed me when I told them it was mine, didn't they?" he challenged, sounding wounded. "You gave me enough of a crack on the skull that I wouldn't be surprised if some of it was."

"It was all his. I can tell the difference between your blood and theirs, thank you."

Drake's grin was shark-like. "Really? And here I thought you were antsy all evening because you thought I'd picked her for her stupid costume." I didn't need to confirm it — Drake knows me too well.

"Just hide the fucking corpse," I told him, feeling peevish. He just grinned, and darted over to give me a kiss on the cheek. Well, to you it would have looked like he darted, anyway — he would have just been a blur of motion to your eyes. I could see him just fine; could have dodged the kiss, if I'd wanted, but I let him do it because otherwise he'd just delay more, and then there really would be a rush to get packed and go. Well, really, there was no way we could stick around after that, was there? As I said, it was a small town.

So while I started packing the plates in their boxes — we always keep all our boxes after a move, because while we don't know exactly when we're going to need them, we know it's generally going to be soon — Drake packed up the body. He tucked Melody into the foetal position and wrapped her in the remains of our togas, then dumped the whole mess in a big plastic bag. Glad bags: make it to the curb every time. Drake laughed so hard he fell out of his chair the first time he saw that ad. Mostly because they do make it to the curb — or, rather, whichever convenient disposal site is available.

"Not going to put a shirt on?" I asked him.

He grinned at me. "You like this better. Admit it."

"You have blood on your teeth," I told him, because even if it's true I will never, ever admit it. His ego, remember? He's unmanageable enough as it is. "And if you catch a cold, I'm not nursing you back to health."
He just shouldered the bag, blew me a kiss, and jumped out the window. Well, you can't expect him to have taken the stairs down, could you? Even if most of our neighbours were supposed to be asleep, what if one of them had insomnia and thought a late-night stroll would clear their head? What if they met Drake coming down the stairs? We had enough of a mess to clean up as it was. Besides, three stories is hardly any drop at all for people like us. I mean, I bet there's even normal humans who have pulled that off.

I had to pack up some of the dishes dirty, because we hadn't washed up for a couple of days. Drake and I might be, you know, what we are, but we're still barely out of our teenage years; when it comes to dishes, I'd say our procrastination is entirely typical. Still, it makes a bloody big mess — sorry, forgive my bad joke, I should have known you wouldn’t be able to stomach it — when dirty dishes get dumped in cardboard boxes.

I had everything packed by the time Drake climbed back through the window two hours later, and I'd prepared our reason for skipping town — I'd finish taking care of that just before we left.

His hair was damp from the rain that had started while he was out. Strands of it fell in his eyes and dripped down his chest to leave small puddles on the floor. "All set?" he asked. I didn't bother answering, since he could easily see that everything was neatly packed up and ready to be loaded into the truck. Yeah, that's why we don't have much: we can fit it all in Drake's truck, with a couple of bags in my car.

I tossed him a shirt. "It'll just get wet," he protested. "Anyone would think you didn't want to see me without my shirt." He pulled it on anyway.

"You're a distraction," I told him, because I knew it would shut him up. "You want top or bottom?"

He grinned suggestively, and said, "Bottom's the best," then jumped back out the window before I could find something to throw at him. My brother is such a pervert sometimes.

One of the good things about having plastic plates is that they don't break when you throw boxes of them out a third storey window — that's why all our dishes are plastic, actually. One of the saucepans has an enormous dent in it from the time I threw it off a fifth floor balcony and Drake wasn't quite quick enough at catching it. He caught everything that night — even the futon, which I deliberately threw in an awkward way to get back at him for his earlier comments. Probably best that he did, anyway — futons are a bitch to dry, and ours got wet enough from its brief passage through the rain without having landed in a puddle as well.

"Are we all set?" Drake wanted to know.

"Just need to stop by the school. I'll do that, if you want to get a head start. I'll catch you up." I patted the pocket where I'd secreted the letter I wrote while waiting for Drake. It was addressed to Drake's principal, from our 'father,' and informed him that Drake would be withdrawing from the school and moving to Wisconsin. It was postmarked a month before. Drake and I don't have a lot of little knickknacks, but one of the few we do have is an old-style post-office stamp that we stole from a Wisconsin post-office when I was eight. I bet we've moved to Wisconsin more than a dozen times now.

So that would take care of Drake. I could have written a letter for myself, but there was no real need: the college was a lot bigger than Drake's high school, and they would expect me to withdraw online anyway. Besides, it would probably be more suspicious if we withdrew at the same time. Of course, we weren't actually going to Wisconsin, so who cared if it was suspicious? They wouldn't be able to find us.

"I'll head north," Drake said. We have a simple system for finding each other when we leave town: drive in a given direction, as near as we can, for a hundred miles and pull over at the first gas station beyond that. It means we don't have to know where we're going — we can go wherever we want — and we've always been able to find each other.

So that's how we left town, just before five in the morning on the gloomy, drizzling morning after Halloween. And that's how we came here and, I suppose, how I ended up talking to you. It's funny, you know: I've been talking all this time, and you haven't run away. It almost makes me think you want what happens next. Because you do know what that is, don't you?

LJ's a bitch

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 05:59:13 GMT

I never check the main page, but I feel like they must have redone the site coding in the last couple of months, because I don't think it was this much of a pain in the ass before. The cuts are doing something stupid -- I can't tell where they are, for one thing. Now I have to go in and look at the HTML, because if I try to type anything in that little grey box, the cut just divides itself in half. Yes, that's right: there's a cut above, and one below, and my post still takes up a million miles of people's F-lists.

And just now I discovered one of my chapters, something like 4000 words, is all centered. And it won't un-center. I'm not writing a fucking poem: is proper paragraphing really too much to ask for? So much anger!

Also, Coheed and Cambria is made of epic win.

Also also, I'm going to be attempting a full, novel-length original work (ie. an actual novel) in the coming month, so even though I finally have time due to classes being over, I'm still going to be a bit of a lurker. Just in case anyone was curious.

Bribery works

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 15:44:14 GMT

As does a swift kick to the rear, except in regards to things like All Their Sins (I know, I know. It's pathetic, isn't it?) Either way, the bribery reminded me that I had a chapter sitting on my computer, all nicely beta'd and everything, so why the hell hadn't I posted it yet? Also, much thanks to serendipity_50 for the lovely new story icon; Moose has been moved off to greener pastures, and been replaced with relevant characters.

Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Twelve (In which there is dubious logic)
Series: Post-Hogwarts
Chapter Length: 5100 words
Betas: Jenn, who's still willing to beta despite it all.

Chapter Twelve
In which there is dubious logic
Wednesday, December 23, 1998

"It's following me again."

With a frown, Ginny marked her place in her book and looked up at him. "You're paranoid," she told him, just as she had every time before - and he brought it up every few hours. At first, she hadn't actually believed it, but there had been a few times now when Kreacher really had seemed to be following him around, lurking in a way that was quite disturbing. "So I get the joy of your company again, do I?" The elf made no secret of disliking her and her red hair, and made a great show of avoiding her. Which was just fine with Ginny, except that she seemed to have become Malfoy's favourite hiding spot as a result.

"Shut up and suffer," he told her tartly, throwing himself into a chair. He was restless, and understandably so: at Hogwarts he at least had the castle to roam, even if he couldn't go outside without supervision. Honestly, it was a miracle they'd managed to get away without the teachers noticing - and she wondered, not for the first time, if McGonagall hadn't deliberately let them get away. It was really the only explanation for how an Invisibility Cloak, even if it was Harry's Cloak, had been enough to sneak him out of the castle. Why McGonagall had let them go, Ginny didn't know, and couldn't begin to guess.

"Why don't you try reading something?" she suggested, waving her hand at the collection of books that lined the walls. This was why she was here, after all: the Black collection, which contained volumes that were in the Restricted Section - or not available at all - at Hogwarts.

He shrugged easily. "Can't be bothered." Then he shoved himself out of the chair and came to lean over her. "What are you reading, anyway?" He flipped the book closed without waiting for an answer. Then his hand went very still. "Farw Chrau? Fuck!" He recoiled as though the aged leather had burned him. "Do you know what that is?" he hissed.

"I'm the one reading it," Ginny pointed out reasonably. "But how do you know about it?"

He waved one hand, impatiently. "That's not important. I thought you came here to study Healing."

"That's what I'm doing."

He seemed to have recovered from his shock, and was edging back towards her, although he kept a wary eye on the book, as though it were the Monster Book of Monsters, and about to attack him at any moment. "That's the Dark Arts. They aren't really the same thing, you know."

"Do you know how many books there are on curing Dark diseases of the blood?" Ginny asked him. "Or if the blood is cursed by the Dark Arts... do you know how many books have been written on how to help those people?" She met his gaze. "Eight. In the entire history of wizard-kind, only eight flaming books have been written on curing maladies of the blood. Five of those," she added dryly, "were written more than a thousand years ago."

"So you're studying the Dark Arts?" He settled himself in the chair next to her, and looked at her with utter seriousness. He's never this serious, she thought, and she felt something akin to a sliver of fear. There was always a small part of him that was sneering at something, or making a joke out of things, as though he was constantly running from reality - but also as though reality wasn't so terrible that it had to be faced head-on.

Unable to meet his eyes anymore, she looked down at the small book. "It's the same for souls, you know. The only people who know anything about them are the ones who are trying to destroy them. But..." She faltered. It had made so much sense, lying in the dark all those nights, thinking about Harry and George. And Tom... Tom had never been far from her thoughts, not with Voldemort out there somewhere, and not in the days since. "I thought, Deadly Nightshade... it's a poison, but it's used in antidotes as well. And I thought, maybe, there'd be something to that. Something that could be turned to light." She risked a glance at him. His gaze rested, unwavering, on where her hands covered the book, and his expression was curiously empty.

"Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall," he murmured. "It's possible." With a soft touch, he turned her face towards his, holding her there so their gazes locked. "Or as another man once put it, there is no good and evil: only power, and those too weak to seek it." He released his light hold, but she found herself unable to look away, and more shaken than she had been in a long time. "Yes, I thought you might recognize that one. It was one of his favourites." He turned away, and Ginny saw that he was pale, and his breathing was as uneven as her own.

After a long moment, she said quietly, "You think I'm wrong, then."

There was another silence, that went on until she thought he wasn't going to answer. "No," he said at last. "I don't. That's the problem." His smile was self-deprecating when he glanced at her through his veil of hair. "We all know I'm not exactly one to talk about morality."

"Maybe," Ginny said slowly. "But what Dumbledore did... a lot of that wasn't very moral, either. But maybe it was still right."

"Maybe." Then he sighed and shook his head slightly, and when he looked back at her again, his familiar smirk was firmly back in place. "You are right about one thing. There's an awful lot of Dart Arts books about blood and souls. Sangremancy and almancy, if you want the proper names." And wasn't he always just such an awful prick about it when he knew something she didn't, she thought, sticking her tongue out at him. "Hey, none of that now."

Reaching behind her, she selected a book at random from the shelf and threw it at him. "Go play with the house elf," she told him.

He caught the book easily. "Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Volume 3? I think I'll hide from the creature a little longer - it looks like I'm in for a fascinating read."

-----

"It's quiet, without Ginny here," Ron said as he dropped down on the couch next to her. Hermione just looked at him. "Well, alright, maybe it helps that there's no one else here, either."

He really was dense sometimes, she thought resignedly. Having no one else around, and no classes, should have meant they had more time to spend with each other. She wasn't even asking for romantic evenings or grand gestures - only the occasional quiet chat by the fire, just the two of them, or maybe a game of chess. Just time with her boyfriend, without having to worry about Harry, or Ginny, or anyone else at all.

She didn't say any of that, though. Instead she said, "I got an owl from Neville, yesterday."

"What's he think he's doing, writing to you?" Ron asked suspiciously. If nothing else, Hermione thought dryly, she'd always have Ron's jealousy to let her know he cared.

"He didn't think either of you two lunkheads would reply," she told him tartly. "He wanted to know how we were getting on with school, and said he might drop by some time to say hello."

"Oh," Ron said, mollified. "I suppose that's alright, then. Doing well, is he?" Now that there was no suspicion that Neville was trying to poach his girlfriend - and where did he get the idea that was even possible, anyway? - Ron responded to the news with amiable indifference. It was just so typical of him, although at some point she'd probably stop finding it endearing.

"He says his gran let him build a greenhouse, and he just loves it."

"That's nice," Ron mumbled sleepily, lying down on the couch and putting his head in her lap - without asking, but it was nice that he was so comfortable with her now, despite the initial awkwardness of their relationship. "Wake me for dinner, right?"

"Of course," she murmured, smoothing his hair back. Sometimes he reminded her of Crookshanks: a pat on the head and regular meals was all it took to keep him happy. Of course, there were some things he was much better suited for than Crookshanks was. The thought made her blush.

Watching his peaceful face as he dozed, Hermione regretted lying to him once again, even if it had only been a lie of omission. Neville's wasn't the only owl she had received: there had also been one from Seamus. He'd written to say that he'd run into Ginny in Diagon Alley, and that she'd said it was alright if he wanted to pop by for a visit some time. He was back in Ireland right now, the letter had continued, but he'd be around just before New Years - did she think that might be an alright time for him to stop by the Burrow? Implicit in the message had been the sentiment 'you're a girl... help me out, would you?'

Seamus's interest in Ginny was unexpected, but not entirely out of character for him: he'd always had a certain affinity for fire, even if it tended to blow up in his face. Hermione rather thought that description apt for the little firebrand Ginny had become recently. But Seamus and Ginny were friends, so even if things didn't work out for them - and they wouldn't, Hermione was convinced, because Harry and Ginny belonged together - there wasn't any harm in them seeing each other. It might even be good for Ginny.

So she'd written back, and told him that Ginny was spending the holidays studying at Grimmauld Place, and told him how to get there. She'd added that Ginny would probably be lonely, after all that time on her own, just in case he needed that extra push to go visit her.

She'd tell Ron about it soon, too, she decided. That way it wasn't lying - she was just putting off telling him for a little while. Her conscience thus eased, Hermione settled down to enjoying some peaceful time with her boyfriend.

-----

"Scorpius," she carolled, drawing the name out. With a roll of his eyes, Draco lowered his book and looked up at her. Weasley was grinning at him, mischief glowing around her like a halo.

"I told you not to call me that."

"But it fits so well," she retorted. "Slimy little crawler that you are."

He rolled his eyes again, but didn't reach for his wand. He enjoyed squabbling with her, but wands were really unnecessary when there was no one around that would question their enmity if blood wasn't drawn. All he had to do was be an arse, and his part in the hostilities was taken care of, so the holidays could progress in a peaceful and cordially hate-filled fashion. "What do you want, Weasley?"

"I was going to make supper. Did you want some, or is your worshipper going to cook for you again?" Little weasel that she was, she knew that creepy house elf bothered him, and took every opportunity to rub his face in it.

"You know I don't trust anything that thing cooks."

She dropped onto the couch next to him. "Something happen?" she asked, curious. "You're not your usual, arse-hole self."

"I've been enjoying my book," he said, with great dignity. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop ruining it for me."

She pulled the book up to glance at the cover. "The accountants one? Really?" Draco was a bit gratified to see her look so astonished.

"I won't bother trying to explain it to you. Obviously, a Weasley wouldn't have enough experience with money to understand the intricacies involved when there are large sums in question."

She glared at him but, as he had earlier, refrained from reaching for her wand. "Bastard. For that, I'll let you eat the house elf's cooking." She turned and sauntered out of the library.

"I've got a really good comeback coming, just you wait," he called after her. That should make her laugh enough to forgive me, he thought. He'd never say he was sorry, but beyond that he'd do his best to stay in her good graces, at least for so long as the choice was between her cooking and the creature's mystery concoctions.

-----

Ginny enjoyed cooking. There was a subtle art to it, one she had been trained in from a very young age. You can't cook when you're angry, her mother had always said, it'll make the food taste bad. That was true, but it went beyond that: when she cooked, Ginny entered a state that was almost meditative. Part of her was there, enjoying the tranquility of the kitchen, even when her hands were a blur of motion as she sliced vegetables. Another part of her was somewhere else, floating, and completely detached. She could consider things, which might otherwise upset her, in a rationale way.

Take, for instance, the last few days. Almost a week, really - it was their fifth day at Grimmauld Place. And in that time, she had not drawn her wand on him once. She hadn't even been tempted to. Oh, he had frustrated her no end, but it had always ended with one of them walking away with a sigh or a roll of their eyes. No nasty transfigurations or charms, no potions slipped into food. The holidays had been peaceful.

Too peaceful, really. Five days of living with her enemy, and not a drop of blood drawn. It was... not how things should be, she thought. That was the rationale part of her. The irrational part, the one that worked on feeling and senses and straight-up guess work, felt that this was how things should be. She was - and it surprised her to realize it - content to be here.

Some foolish girls, at this point, would have decided that maybe they had been mistaken in their enmity. They might start to delude themselves, thinking that they had never really hated him at all, or even that they had loved him, deep down, all these years. But that was patent foolishness. Ginny was well aware that she hated him, and that he was her enemy, and that things stood between them much as they always had, and ever would. The difference, though, was that, unlike those foolish girls, her hatred was not a petty anger born of frustration at his arrogance, or jealousy of his talents, or misguided sexual frustration. No, this hatred, the hatred that Ginny shared with Malfoy, was pure and absolute.

Anyone who understands true love - that is to say, those few fictional characters who experience it and then live happily ever after - will tell you that it is all you need. There need be no declarations of undying devotion (although those are nice), or romantic kisses (which might be even nicer), or perfect, passionate sex (which is actually somewhat taboo for True Love in this incarnation, although some circles would disagree). Thus was True Hate, Ginny reasoned. It was a perfect, crystal-clear understanding of each other and their mutual hatred, and all else was frippery. She did not need to hex him (fun though it was), and he did not need to insult her (despite his undeniable talent for being imaginative about it). They certainly didn't need to destroy half a corridor with Blasting Curses. All those things were optional: what was true, and immutable, was the hatred that needed no expression.

They could even, Ginny further reasoned, be perfectly civil to each other without abandoning hostilities. In fact, she'd heard it said that if you loved someone, you were bound to fight with them - therefore, if you hated someone, you must be bound to get along with them occasionally. As long as they knew that they truly hated each other, everything would be alright.

In the peaceful, detached place that Ginny inhabited as the onions browned in the skillet, all this made perfect sense. The nagging doubts that had been assailing her over the past few days - that this was Malfoy she was spending her holiday with, and in a perfectly pleasant fashion - were eased by this calm rationalization which assured her that the world had not, in fact, flipped upside-down on its axis. Really, it all made perfect sense.

-----

"Christmas knickers."

It was one of those moments that always made Hermione wish she had a camera: Ron's pumpkin juice sprayed across the table, splattering the boy who had been foolish enough to broach the subject. Not that Ron objected to festive knickers - just what Harry had mentioned them in relation to.

"You can fuck a frog if you think I'm going to let you talk about my sister like that," he growled, reaching across the table to lift his until-now best friend by the front of his robes.

Harry fixed him with a flat, green-eyed stare. "She's my girlfriend."

"She bloody-well doesn't seem to think so. And if you're spouting shite like that, you worm-eating little gargoyle, no wonder." Ron had a way with words sometimes, Hermione thought. It was a pity he was never poetic when he was talking to her. Not that she wanted to be called a gargoyle, mind, but it would be nice if he could occasionally come up with something more imaginative than 'you're really pretty.'

"Ron. Harry. Enough," she ordered them. They traded a last glare, which seemed to say, 'I'm not a pansy, I'm just choosing to let you live, for now' and then, machismo suitably appeased, sat and looked mutinous. Really, this is ridiculous. They had been cooped up in the castle too long, to Hermione's way of thinking. A bit of time outside, something to take their minds off, a rest-cure - if she could be excused the old-lady phrase - was what they needed. It would soothe their tempers and give them something to do besides look for 'that rat Malfoy' who seemed to be missing (but had probably just gone home, anyway).

"I'll acknowledge that Harry has a point," Hermione said, once she was sure they weren't about to jump up and start beating each other out of shear frustrated boredom. She held up a hand to forestall Ron's anger and Harry's self-satisfaction. "But only as far as saying that it's too bad Ginny is spending Christmas alone. I think it would be nice if we all went to visit her tomorrow. I'm sure we could get McGonagall to agree."

"No Christmas knickers," Ron said warningly, by way of agreement.

Hermione sighed. "Even if she was wearing some, Ron - which I doubt, by the way," she added hastily, to calm him, "it would be far too cold at Grimmauld Place for her to even think of showing them to someone. The heat never worked very well, remember?"

-----

"I packed all those jumpers, and it turns out that I don't need them," Weasley was saying. A part of Draco was glad that she wasn't talking about her research over supper - the Dark Arts weren't exactly an appropriate topic for supper-table conversation - but really, did she have to talk about those hideous things, which made her looks like a dyed sheep, instead? It was nearly as nauseating as blood bonding (not that Draco was squeamish, he just didn't like hearing about it). "What on earth did you say to Kreacher to get him to fix it?"

"Something along the lines of 'it's bloody cold in here,'" Draco said, with a superior smirk that was just the littlest bit forced. It was painfully obvious that Weasley had grown up poor: she didn't understand house elves at all. For his part, Draco wished that the dratted thing would leave him alone, so he wouldn't even have to talk about it. It was creepy.

"Well, it's much better now." She'd never say 'thank you', not that Draco was expecting her to. Hearing those words from her would be as much a shock as if the Dark Lord had one day burst into song. It simply wasn't going to happen.

"I'm glad you're happy," Draco grumbled. "It's getting worse."

She frowned at him. "You're not still on about that, are you?"

"It was going through my things today." It had been, too: sniffing around and muttering to itself with a look that was disturbingly close to ecstasy painted on its grotesque mug. Just because Weasley didn't understand the severity of the situation was no reason for her to poke fun at it.

"Well, order it to stop," she said with a roll of her eyes, like this was an obvious solution, so would he stop bothering her about it, already?

Draco scowled slightly, then a bit further when he realized his glares had no effect on her anymore. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not its master, so it's only obeying my orders because it wants to. If I give it an order like that, it'll probably make a fuss and actually steal something."

"Worried it might want your pants, Malfoy?" She really was evil, Draco thought, even as he blanched at what she suggested. Aside from the fact that no sane house elf (not that this one really qualified) would want clothes, that was just disturbing.

"Right, give me back my wand. I'm hexing the little wanker into a pile of vomit."

"Not happening, Malfoy," Weasley retorted, holding up her own wand in a way that clearly said 'just try and take it.' "You gave it to me precisely so you wouldn't do something like that. Be a bit of a downer if they traced you here and carted you off to Azkaban."

Of course. That bloody spell they'd put on his wand as part of his probation, which they could use to track him down if they thought he'd broken his parole. Giving her his wand so he wouldn't use it unthinkingly had seemed like a good plan at the time, and it was true he hadn't had need of it over the past few days, but now the situation was different. "Maybe I don't care," he snapped, making a half-hearted lunge for the wand, and falling predictably short when she snatched it away.

"You'd go to Azkaban over a house elf? Why, Malfoy, you're slipping - it's almost as if you think they're worth as much as a human."

Draco dropped back into the chair next to her with a sigh. "One of these days, Weasley, I'm going to wring your bloody neck while you sleep," he said tiredly, covering his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he could see her looking down at her own hands with a strange expression, as though remembering a time when she had attempted to do what he described. Oh right - the roosters. He remembered hearing about those - she'd absolutely decimated the school's chicken flock, and that giant oaf Hagrid had been devastated.

This happened, now and again: he would say something, unthinkingly, and she would get an odd look on her face, as though remembering something. Sometimes, he could puzzle out what it was she was remembering - the Battle of Hogwarts, perhaps, or Umbridge's reign of terror - but only when it was something he himself had been involved in. In many things, she remained a closed book. Not that it matters, anyway, he told himself firmly.

"Who would defend you from Kreacher then?" she asked teasingly, her relaxed composure returning as quickly and suddenly as it had disappeared.

He shrugged. "I'd be going to Azkaban, anyway. I'd get rid of it too."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell when you're joking," she said with a half laugh that implied she was pretty sure he was this time, but was a bit worried he might not be.

"Malfoys never joke," he told her, peering down his nose at her with all the haughty disdain at his disposal.

She had the gall to snicker. "Pull that wand out of your arse, Malfoy. No one takes you seriously." That was uncalled for, that was, and he told her as much while he upended the salad bowl over her head.

-----

The man looked up from his book. "Caractacus. Of all the people I didn't expect to come wandering into my study. You were acquitted, then."

Caractacus's smile was slightly bitter. "They said I was mad."

Xenophilius's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed? Does that have anything to do with why you're here to see me?" he guessed shrewdly.

"I've finished it."

This announcement didn't engender the reaction Caractacus had been hoping for. "Have you? As I recall, you once thought you'd solved the Mascian Field, before it turned out that what you thought was a node was actually tomato sauce."

"I've triple-checked all the figures," Caractacus said in annoyance. "The Red will rise. We may even live to see it."

"I don't see what you're so excited about. I had quite enough trouble with the last Dark Lord," Xenophilius said, testily. Well, fair enough. The Death Eaters had used his daughter as a hostage, after all.

"If you think that's all there is to it, you've never listened to a word I've said. The Rising of the Red will be glorious."

-----

Ginny awoke suddenly, snatching her wand up from the bedside table with the desperate reflexes of someone who has lived in fear for too long. Half out of bed, with her wand gripped firmly, she froze and listened for what had awoken her. It seemed for a moment that she had imagined it, or that her hearing was not as good when she was consciously trying to listen, but then it came again - the soft tread of a foot as someone picked their way across the creaky floor, trying not to make a sound. Ginny aimed her wand at the door.

Then there was a creak, and then footsteps were pounding across the floorboards. Closer they came, closer, then her door was thrown open with a bang. A jinx flew from Ginny's wand, missing the target and instead ripping a chunk of moulding from the ceiling - Ginny would later realize it had been a disarming spell, fired instinctively before she could properly register what was happening. The intruder slammed the door behind themselves, and said, between gasping breaths, "Fucking Merlin in a fairy ring, Weasley, what was that for?"

"Hecate's back hole, Malfoy, what the hell did you think you were doing, sneaking around like that?" Ginny snapped. "I thought you were..." She snapped her mouth shut. She had been about to say 'a Death Eater', except of course he was.

He didn't answer for a moment, and she was about to blast him one on principle, before she realized he was snickering quietly. "Sweet Circe, Weasley, but you've got a dirty mouth on you."

"Fat lot of help you are," Ginny retorted. "It's all your bad influence, anyway."

She heard him sigh melodramatically, and his shadowy form made its way towards her. "Don't blame your bad habits on me, Weasley. They're all your own. Can you get some light, anyway?" he added waspishly.

"Lumos," Ginny murmured. The soft light that came from her wand cast shadows across his face, so that he seemed to be a painting, done in stark blacks and whites. He was shirtless and barefoot, and his fine hair stuck up this way and that, so that he resembled a dandelion. His arms were in shadow, but the Mark was a darker smear on his forearm. She'd seen him in many different situations over the past few months - when he was drunk and injured, laughing and haunted - but this was the first time he had looked so startlingly, fragilely human. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked quietly. She didn't want to see this side of him - it inexplicably terrified her - but she couldn't look away.

He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, and Ginny could at last look away. She stared determinedly into the shadowy corner of the room, refusing to look at the man who was her enemy for fear that she would be forced to see him as he was under all that arrogance and posturing. "It snuck into my room. I got up to use the loo, and when I came back..." He shifted slightly, and she could feel barely-suppressed embarrassment rolling off him like a wave.

"So you're hiding behind me again, are you? Coward." She didn't need to look to see his flinch. That word had always been like a slap in the face to him - worse, in fact, because it stripped away his facade in ways a blow never could. If she hadn't been so tired and cross, she would never have used it.

"I see," he said quietly, and stood. Oh, shite, Ginny thought.

"Draco." Even without looking, she knew he paused. And wouldn't I, if he used my name?

"Yes?" His voice was flat and empty, and she was sure that if she'd looked, his face would have been equally devoid of emotion. Perhaps she was misjudging, but that emptiness spoke to Ginny of caution: he was waiting to see what she would say. Worse, he was being serious, and for the second time that day. Combined with that human face he had shown her just a minute ago, it was extremely unsettling.

What had she wanted to say, anyway? She couldn't apologize to him anymore than he could to her. And did it really matter, if he stomped off in a snit? But it does. "If you try anything, I'll nail your balls to the Whomping Willow. Stupid bastard," she added.

There was a pause, and then his quiet footfalls made their way back to the bed. He was silent as he slid between the sheets next to her, careful to leave as much space between them as possible. I need to get my head examined, Ginny thought in resignation. I'm not even drunk this time.

Notes and References:

*Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall: 'Good Omens' (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman), I think. But I might be wrong.

*Farw Chrau: according to the online translator, Welsh for 'Dead Blood'. But, interestingly, it could be translated as any combination of 'dead', 'die', 'death', 'defunct' (etc) and 'hole', 'eye', 'blood' or 'stockade'.

*Almancy and sangremancy: as noted before, I made these up. 'Al' - coming from 'alma' (Spanish, soul) since 'almamancy sounds silly - and 'sangre' (Spanish, blood). I could have use Latin, getting 'animancy' and 'cruormancy' (or 'cruomancy'), I suppose, and been more in keeping with the original flavour of Harry Potter, but I liked the Spanish better.

*Anecdotes of the Great Accountants (Vol. 3): 'Night Watch' by Terry Pratchett.

*'True Love': Disney Princesses and Mary Sues. Enough said.

*Old-lady phrases: Lacy from 'Corner Gas' (can't remember which episode).

Aha! I'm alive!

Tue, 18 Nov 2008 14:17:13 GMT

For the moment, at least. I don't know why everyone complains about Week 12, for me Week 11 is always the worst. *sigh* Which is why I'm hiding on the internets, because then I can pretend I don't have a mountain of homework. Also, I can post. This isn't the one I wanted to put up next, but I still haven't finished that one -- and I kind of like this one, anyway.

Title: Rumours (Lines)
Pairing: Usopp/Kaya, I guess
Rating: PG for swearing, donchaknow

He didn't mean to stare, and he definitely didn't mean for her to catch him at it. This was Kaya, after all: rich, beautiful, insanely smart Kaya, who was just too damn good for anyone in the world, and most especially too good for him. But when he'd seen someone sitting in the sunshine on the school's scraggly front lawn with a sketchbook in their lap... well, Usopp could no more have avoided looking than he could have avoided breathing.

"Yes?" she asked in that quiet, polite way of hers. Usopp had never heard Kaya speak any louder than that, nor show any more emotion. She was just so incredibly distant, and that kinda scared the shit out of him.

"Well," he mumbled, blushing, "you were sketching, and I just... wondered what you were drawing. That's all." Super lame, he chastised himself.

Kaya looked down at her pad. "I'm not sketching, really. I'm studying anatomy." She shyly turned the book towards him.

Rather than look at her - and be forced to remember that this was Kaya he was talking to - Usopp focussed on the sketches. They weren't that bad, really... no worse than what he saw from most beginners. The shapes were all wrong - too geometric for human musculature, and disproportionate - and it was painfully obvious that no one had ever shown her how to hold a pencil properly. But still, there was potential: she had a steady hand, and she obviously understood how people were put together, even if she couldn't render it properly to paper.

Suddenly realizing she was waiting for him to say something, Usopp flushed red. "Umm... those are... really nice. Yeah... you're good..." Internally, Usopp cursed himself. He could tell whoppers the size of skyscrapers as easily as walking, but when he tried to tell a white lie about a pretty girl's art, he fell to pieces.

"I'm not," Kaya said miserably, settling the pad back in her lap. "I know what I want to draw, but somehow it won't come out right."

"That's because you're holding the pencil wrong," Usopp told her, the words out before he had a chance to be shocked at his own daring. "Here, look." He sat next to her and took the pad, flipping to a fresh page. The paper felt heavy and rich under his fingers - beautiful quality, he thought - and the pad was comfortable and familiar in his lap. "If you hold it the way you were, it's hard to control the pencil. It's too tense, see?" The line he drew on the page was wobbly and inconsistent.

"That's the..." she paused, thinking. "The flexor carpi radialis and ulnaris... and maybe the flexor digitorum... and their antagonists the, um..." It was surprisingly cute, the way she blushed when she was thinking hard.

"Forearm muscles," Usopp supplied, grinning slightly. "But look, if you hold it this way, everything's much more relaxed." He drew another line, much cleaner and smoother than the first. "You try."

Giving him a strange look - which he probably deserved, Usopp thought - Kaya took the pad and pencil back from him. "Like this?"

"Almost. Relax your fingers a little more."

"But then I won't be able to control the pencil properly," she protested.

"Hey, if the Great Captain Usopp says you'll be able to, you will." Usopp had no idea why he said that - it sounded ridiculous - but when he heard Kaya giggle, he thought maybe he wasn't such an idiot after all.

"How does the Great Captain know so much about art?" Kaya asked, drawing a beautiful line on the page.

Usopp shrugged uncomfortably. "I just like it, ya know? My mom used to paint a bit." He swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. It hadn't hurt to think about Banchina in, shit, years, and here he was going all soft all of a sudden.

"Used to? What... oh. I'm sorry," Kaya mumbled.

Usopp forced a laugh. "Really, don't worry about it."

"Do you... miss her?"

"Try drawing an arc now," Usopp instructed. "Yeah, sometimes. She died when I was seven..."

"I'm sorry. It's the first time I've talked to you, and I'm asking all these personal questions," Kaya said apologetically. "I'll stop now."

"Not drawing, you won't," Usopp told her firmly. "Look, you're better already."

"Yeah. Thank you." Kaya, Usopp decided, was really, really cute when she blushed like that. "Lunch is almost over, but maybe... if you wouldn't mind... could you maybe help me some more another time?"

Usopp flashed her a thumbs-up before hopping up from his place on the grass. "Of course. Teacher Extraordinaire Usopp, that's what they call me." He found himself grinning foolishly when he was rewarded with a giggle.

It's not a fanfic...

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 01:36:08 GMT

Holy shit, it's an original piece! And it didn't break 4000 words... and I'm actually posting it somewhere... and the sky can start falling some time soon. While it does, I'll go back to what I was supposed to be doing, which is homework.

Glamour (PG-13)

You're special.

Yeah, I like that. It's a good way to describe me. I'm not like those 'ordinary girls' you see on TV, the ones who don't have acne, and look great even at two in the morning, and whose make-up never smudges. The ones whose houses are always tidy, even though you never see anyone cleaning them. The ones who, let's face it, are going to have everything work out for them because they're fucking fictional.

Me, I'm real. At least, I think so. It's hard to tell sometimes. Not in the whole the-world-is-an-illusion way, but more like… what about me is real, exactly? My parents think I'm a good kid, my teachers would probably say the same if they remembered who I was; even my friends would say it, if they ever bothered to think about it. But who does, really?

I guess that's what today is about. You know, really thinking about other people. Although not who they are: just what they are, and what they're doing. About being compassionate, you know, and doing charity work. That's why the woman at the front of the room is showing us all these pictures of drugged out kids in third world countries, who spend their days getting high off Windex. Look at these poor, pathetic children, her talk goes. Compare them to yourselves, who have so much. You're the leaders of tomorrow, and it's your duty to fix this.

I'm not a leader of tomorrow. I'm not the leader of fucking anything. I'm just another poor, sorry teenager that got dragged to this thing because her Social Studies teacher didn't want to come up with a lesson plan for today. I'm tired and bored and in a shitty mood because of it. I'm just another one of three hundred bored kids who are really, really sick of being told how lucky they are. Yeah, I may not be living it the street, sniffing gasoline, but that doesn't mean my life's a picnic. We've all got problems, you stupid bitch.

Like the girl next to me. She's definitely got problems. I think that's the third painkiller she's popped since this presentation started. I lean away a bit - can't help it - and try not to watch her sad attempt to get high. She's wearing the fancy uniform of some super-elite private school: you'd think with all that money she could afford something better than Advil to get high off of. She sneezes, and winces. A druggy and sick? Now I'm definitely leaning away from her.

"You okay?" The guy sitting on the other side of her sounds concerned. His jacket and tie match hers; he's another rich, preppy bastard who thinks he's better than the rest of us. He's been flirting with her all through the presentation, completely ignoring all that fascinating talk about poverty lines and international charity groups.

"Fine," the girl mutters.

He laughs at her. "That's what you get for breaking your nose." That's a surprise. Now I'm paying more attention to their exchange than the woman on the stage.

The girl glares at him, and I realize that what I previously thought was emo make-up is actually a pair of black eyes. "I'll keep it in mind the next time I decide to get kneed in the face," she snaps. Then she sneezes again. It really hurts, judging by the way her face twists up, but her expression smoothes a moment later. Nothing's wrong, her face says. I don't believe it, but the guy seems to. Or maybe he's just pretending to accept her macho posturing.

Macho… wouldn't have thought to apply the word to her a minute ago. She's a tiny little thing, maybe five feet tall. Looks like a child next to the guy, who's easily over six feet. They look similar, though, despite the height difference - or maybe that's just the uniforms.

"You want a hug?" he offers, spreading his arms. He's not quite smirking, but I can tell it's a joke. What's really shocking is that he doesn't seem to care how obvious it is that he's not paying attention to the presenter. With all the teachers in the crowd, you'd think he'd at least try and pretend, the same as everyone else.

A teacher in the row ahead of us turns around. "John. Beezie," she says warningly. I feel a bit sorry for Beezie then; not because she got told off by a teacher, or because she's in a lot of pain, but because her parents couldn't give her a normal name.

"Sorry," John says. Beezie just stares at her blandly, not in the least bit sorry. The teacher turns back to the front, apparently deciding that this is the best she's going to get out of the pair of them.

They're silent for a minute, and I almost think that the teacher's warning has had some effect, but no. The image on the projector screen changes, and John says, "Aww, how cute." It's a couple of child soldiers, holding machine guns and staring into the camera with some of the blankest eyes I've ever seen on a human. It's a photo designed to tug the heartstrings of even the most jaded among us, but I feel nothing but a sort of mild curiosity as to whether they actually look like that all the time, or if the photographer coached them into the expression. We've seen too many photos like this today, and I just don't care anymore. Not my problem. I'm just here because I don't have a choice. I don't care.

I'm a bit ashamed at those thoughts, and I figure that's something. Next to me, Beezie is wearing an expression that says she really doesn't care, and never has. She's as bored by the children's plight as she is by the presenter who is still going on about how many injustices there are in the world. At least I'm not that bad. And John, making jokes like that… I can't tell if he's just being flippant, or if he actually cares as little as Beezie does.

"That essay for Jacobson… six pages double spaced, right?" Beezie asks quietly, as a graph about child poverty in the developed world comes up on the screen.

"Yeah. You started yet?"

"Nah."

"Might want to."

"Six pages, that's fifteen hundred words… three hours, maybe? I'll do it Sunday."

"Have you read the book yet?"

Beezie pauses, sneezes, then shrugs. "Tried. But Woolf is even worse than Joyce."

"I liked it."

"You liked Miller and Steinbeck too." She says it like an accusation. They're talking about authors, I realize, but not ones we read in class. They sound kind of snobbish, talking so casually about books I've never read, and probably never will.

"Have you liked anything we've read this year?"

"Chaucer. Didn't mind Conrad."

John frowns. "I didn't get any of that."

"It was hilarious," Beezie assures him. "Absolutely brilliant."

The teacher turns around again, and now she looks really annoyed. "You two…"

"The presentation is over, Ms. Hemple," Beezie says blandly. She sneezes again, scowls, and pulls out her bottle of painkillers. Ms. Hemple looks disapproving, but doesn't move to stop her. I notice that Beezie holds the bottle low, keeping the label covered with her hands. She takes the pill as quickly and surreptitiously as she can. If I hadn't been sitting next to her for the past two hours, I might not have noticed that she was taking anything.

"So, what now?" John asks. I have a feeling the presenter told us, but I wasn't listening: somehow, I got caught up in John and Beezie's little world.

Ms. Hemple's frown tells me that the presenter did indeed tell us what was going to happen next. I wonder if these two will get in trouble when they go back to school, or if looking disapproving is the most anyone can do to them. "Now," Ms. Hemple tells them, "we're going to split up and play the Globalization Game."

"Which is going to teach us…" John begins.

"That globalization is a bad thing, and is leading to all sorts of atrocities in the developing world," Beezie says dryly, cutting him off. It sounds like she finds the whole proposition boring. "Weren't you listening?"

Were you? I think, but I already know she wasn't. She couldn't be so callous if she had. Hell, I can't be callous about the issue, and I only looked at a couple of the slides.

"So we're against globalization now." John sounds bemused. "I thought we supported the improvement of living conditions for those less fortunate than ourselves."

"That's our paternalistic arrogance," Beezie assures him. "We think that our way of life is the best, so we assume everyone else wants what we have. But trying to be like the West is what's causing all these social problems we just learned about."

Ms. Hemple is looking mollified now, as though she's coming to the conclusion that Beezie was only pretending not to pay attention. I don't think that's it at all, but I'm just an observer. But I'm pretty sure that, after this little discussion, she and John aren't going to get in trouble for talking all through the presentation.

"Ah, right," John says, as though just remembering. "It's better for them to live in mud huts."

"Well, it's more environmentally sound," Beezie says, with a slight twist of her lips that might be a smirk. I'm inexplicably fascinated: what she's saying is awful, callous, and completely ludicrous, and yet it's making an odd sort of sense.

People are starting to stand up around us, so I do as well. Beezie, John, and Ms. Hemple stand a second later, and then we're all filing out between the rows of chairs. There's a man at the door to the auditorium, counting people off into groups. Every fifteen or so students he stops, and the kids are led away somewhere. I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up in a group with Beezie and John; I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Progress towards the door is slow. There's a couple of my classmates ahead of me, but I don't talk to them. They're part of the real world, and right now I'm caught in the twisted universe that Beezie and John have spun. They have no idea how I've been drawn in, how fascinated I am by their callous disregard for everything around them.

The man at the door counts us into the same group. There's another girl from my class, and another boy from our school, but everyone else has gone with the earlier groups. Beezie and John, too, are the only ones from their school. Further back in the line, I can see a few other students wearing uniforms like theirs, but they're too far away to be grouped with us. The two of them seem unconcerned. Me, I'm nervous about going away with a group filled mostly with strangers. Most of them look like they know each other, too.

The room we're led to is small, about half the size of a classroom. Not quite big enough for all of us and the enormous table that's already there, but we squish in anyway. I end up sitting between the two other kids from my school, across from Beezie and John. Laid out between us is a board, printed with a map of the world. There's cards and counter in neat little stacks. It looks like the Globalization Game is going to be a board game; it also looks like it's going to be complicated.

Our attention is called to one end of the room by a guy who's going prematurely bald. He looks earnest and eager as he tells us his name is Tim, and he's going to be facilitating our game, and that if we have any questions at all we should feel free to ask.

John puts up his hand. "Can I be Uzbekistan?" he wants to know.

Tim frowns slightly - I'm starting to get the feeling it's a common expression for people who have to deal with Beezie and John - and shakes his head. "There's no Uzbekistan in this game."

"No one cares about Uzbekistan," Beezie tells John, just a bit too loud so everyone hears. I'm pretty sure she meant for everyone to hear, though: there's something about Beezie that makes me think she enjoys shocking people. The way she's smirking makes me sure of it.

John grins, and I realize that she was being ironic, and it's a joke. We're here to learn about all those little, overlooked countries that are suffering because of us Westerners, but we're still overlooking lots of those countries.

"We'll draw out of a hat for countries," Tim says, trying to regain control of the room. "So we'll do the draw and then I'll explain the rules."

But what's passed around is a box, a point John makes very clear by saying, "I never did understand these new-fangled fashions."

"That's because you're a grumpy old curmudgeon," Beezie returns, drawing out her card. "Ah. I'm India."

"Close enough," John says, taking the card and balancing it on his head. I'm not sure if he means India is close enough to Uzbekistan, or a card is close enough to a hat. The pair of them are getting a lot of sideways looks, but no one says anything, and Beezie and John are pretending they don't notice. He pulls out his own card. "I'm China."

When the box comes to me, I draw the Sweden card. After watching Beezie and John's antics, I feel like I should make some comment, maybe about Ikea, but I can't think of anything, so I shrug and put it down in front of me.

Tim explains the rules, and it turns out I was right: it is complicated. Glancing around the table, I can see expressions of confusion on most of the kids' faces. John looks incredulous, and Beezie's just smirking again, like she knows something we don't. "Don't worry, I'll help you through it," Tim assures us, with what he probably thinks is a winning smile. "And afterwards, we'll discussed what we've learned."

It quickly becomes clear what we're expected to learn from this game. The odds are stacked enormously against developing countries, while countries like the United States seem to be rolling in money and resources. We can trade, but Tim's here to make sure all trades are reasonably equitable: there will be no charity in this game, and probably no mercy either.

When we reach Beezie's first turn, she stares at her pieces for a bit before asking, "Can I trade some of my people?"

Tim looks shocked. "No," he says. He doesn't elaborate.

"Why not?"

"People aren't a resource." He sounds like she's offended him, and there's a few other kids around the table that look like they share the feeling.

Beezie glances at him sidelong. "But labour is, and right now Canada has a shortage." She waves her hand towards the boy who is playing as Canada. "They emigrate to Canada, send money back to me - that is, their family. It solves Canada's labour problem, alleviates my social problems, and promotes the circulation of money."

Somebody - the boy playing as Mexico, I think - mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Fascist."

It actually makes sense, until I remember that Beezie is proposing to sell her citizens to another country. "You can't trade people," Tim says firmly. "They're not there for you to use."

"I'm not using them. They're working for their country, to make their country a better place for their compatriots," Beezie explains. "In fact, I'm practically a communist." The smile she directs towards Mexico is like ice, although the effect is somewhat ruined what she sneezes again.

"It's against the rules," Tim says, settling the matter.

Beezie scowls. "How is this supposed to reflect the real world, then?" But then she sighs, and plays by the rules, and I almost let myself think things are going to go smoothly.

But next it's John's turn, and he opens by saying, "My level 5 Dwarf cleric casts a spell on Russia's zombie horde."

"What…?" Tim can't seem to find anything more to say to this latest bit of ridiculousness.

"You said it was a role-playing game," John says.

"Real life," Beezie says. The little smile on her face makes me think she's setting John up for a joke - as though the pair of them are a comedy team with a rehearsed script, not a pair of high school students playing a stupid game at a conference.

"This is my real life," John retorts. I suppress a laugh, but I'm the only one who has to. Everyone else just rolls their eyes or shakes their heads. But then he, too, plays properly, and things seem to go smoothly. There's a dry comment from Beezie when Germany draws a Random Event card and is hit by a tsunami, and John makes her roll for him because he claims she's luckier than he is, but for the first time since I first saw the pair of them they're behaving themselves.

Well, mostly behaving, anyway. When they're not directly involved in the game, they keep their hands below the table, and spend most of their time looking down. At first I think they're, you know, fooling around, until Tim asks them to put their cell phones away. The apologize, and I hear two phones snapping shut, but a few minutes later they're back at it. The game goes on properly despite them.

That's what I think for a while, anyway. Until I notice that the girl playing as the United States is slowly going bankrupt, and Britain's country is in revolt, and Italy can barely hold on to what he had at the beginning of the game. The girl playing as 'Africa' is still dirt poor, and seems resigned to losing the game utterly. And Beezie and John, who started the game with more 'people' than anyone else, and less resources than anyone but Africa, are winning, and not by a little bit. They're trading with everyone, especially each other, and exploiting every opportunity the game affords them. They're getting lucky, too: aside from an influenza epidemic in China near the beginning of the game, every Random Event card they've drawn has been good.

I'm doing alright, holding my ground, but my luck isn't great and the trades I make never seem to be as good as the ones John manages. I know people are starting to dread Beezie's turns, which take forever because she's doing absolutely everything the game allows her to. But after an hour and a half it's over: Beezie and John own the world, and seem to have taken a special pleasure in foiling the 'first world' players' attempts to make a comeback.

"Well," Tim says, "if this game had gone the way it was supposed to, right now you'd see an even greater discrepancy between the first and third worlds." He glances at Beezie and John, as though he suspects that they've been cheating but can't figure out how.

"Really?" Beezie asks. "I thought we played it the way we were supposed to." She looks incredibly smug, though, like she's pleased to have messed up what should have been the final, perfect demonstration of this conference's message.

"Normally, North America and Europe should win," Tim tells her.

She smirks back. "Africa won in one of the other rooms."

John grins, and they high-five. "Yeah Ricardo," he says. I'll bet anything that Ricardo is their classmate, and he was the one playing as Africa in that other room.

Ms. Hemple pokes her head into the room, and I can't decide if it's good timing or not. "I'm really sorry, but we have to head back to the school. Some of our students have a soccer game."

John stands. "Let's go, Captain," he says, holding out a hand to Beezie like an old-world gentleman. "Unless you're too concussed."

"I hope you dive into one of your goalposts," Beezie snaps, but takes the offered hand and lets herself be escorted from the room like a princess. Ms. Hemple gives Tim an apologetic look, then leaves. With their departure, it's like something snaps back into place: it no longer makes sense for India and China, or Africa, to have won against the West. Life isn't a joke, to be debated and twisted into whichever form is most amusing. It all makes sense, but the colour seems to have gone out of it. I'm probably the only one that feels that way, though.

There's quiet for a minute, then Tim says, "I guess we're done, then." We mumble a general thank-you, and shuffle out.

As we do, I find myself thinking of that speech earlier. You're special, the woman said. Sure, if 'special' means I'm nothing like those 'ordinary girls' in movies, then I'm definitely that. But if I'm special, and the people on TV are ordinary, then Beezie and John are extraordinary. But I guess they did what the slideshow couldn't: they made me really think about people. I just wish I knew what to think.

More randomness

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 01:01:52 GMT

Fandom: Gokusen
Title: Prodigal
Pairing: eventual Shin/Kumi, maybe
Rating: PG15, for every swear that'll fit
Notes: follows Return (yeah, I figured out a title for that last one). Also, I made a bit of a mistake with the last one: the spoilers are for things that have, in fact, been scanlated. Chapters 14.3-14.8, done some time ago by the lovely people at Bishonen Project. Also, Uesugi is that guy that led the student council at that famous school, Aotoma. It shouldn't be spoilerish for anyone, unless you don't read the manga.

He knows he's in serious shit when the boss walks into the room. If he was just in a moderate amount of shit, the amount you could get through with all limbs remaining attached, the boss woulda just summoned him. Some young live-in, too young to have even outgrown his acne, would be sent to fetch him, and he'd have time to at least pull on a shirt or something before going to see the man he's sworn his life to. Instead, the boss wakes him up by walking in.

Kyou's a brave man, so the term 'nearly pissed himself' will never occur to him; but if he were just a little bit more of a coward, he'd do just that right now. He's mostly naked, he reeks of vomit and piss and alcohol and smoke and who knows what else, and he can feel something that's probably blood making a crust on one cheek. In other words, he looks like he went drinking and whoring and fighting last night, which is exactly what he did. Didn't think this would happen, though. He wonders what he did last night to land him in this kinda shit , 'cause he sure as hell can't remember. Maybe he should just offer to do yubitsume now: it won't save him any pain, but he might retain a little honour, at least.

One of the live-ins scurries in to put a cushion down for the boss to kneel on, then scurries out again. Shit, but the little bastards are like spiders - Kyou doesn't think he ever had such skinny little limbs, or that he moved in that awkward, terrified manner. He figures he'll go kick the shit out of them just as soon as the boss is done with him and his hands are all bandaged up. They ain't any good to clan if they don't turn into men soon.

The two of them are alone, now, and the room has taken on that curious silence that means that, even in a house full of people, they really are completely alone. Probably there's no one else in any of the rooms next to this one, or even the ones next to those. That wide buffer of silence does nothing to reassure Kyou, but he's a gokudo, dammit, and he ain't gonna let his unease show. He kneels properly to face the boss and bows his head, even though he knows he looks a right mess. Nothing he can do about it now.

"It was a very honourable young man who brought you home," the boss begins. It's an unexpected beginning, and Kyou has to fight not to show his surprise. It's too early for relief - the boss is a smart man, much smarter than Kyou, and it wouldn't be hard for him to lay some verbal trap that'll end with Kyou loosing more than just the tip of his finger. So he just nods, not looking up. Submit, be meek… it doesn't come natural to any of the gokudo, except in situations like this. Any man who can't show complete humility in front of the boss won't live long.

There is silence for a moment, then Sandaime says, "Either you are getting old, Kyou, or your head is still full of sake. That is not how you respond."

"I'm very sorry, boss," Kyou mumbles, touching his head to the floor, and wishing the world would stop tilting quite so much. But he doesn't fall over, which is about all he can ask for at this point.

More silence. "What did you do last night, Kyou, that makes you act this way?" the boss asks.

"Don't remember, sir. I'm very sorry," he adds, though it probably won't help anything.

"Ah," Sandaime says. "You are getting old, then." He chuckles; it's a sound that makes every hair on Kyou's body want to stand on end. "You grow senile, my friend. Now, sit up properly, so we can discuss matters as old men must." Kyou hesitates, then figures that disobeying a direct order will have worse consequences than being a bit informal, so he kneels up properly. Actually, he'd like to lie back down, close his eyes, and have the world go away, but that doesn't look to be happening any time soon. "You're sure nothing happened last night?" the boss asks, and now Kyou can properly hear the concern in his voice.

"Nothin' I remember," Kyou says, trying not to mumble. But fuck, talking hurts his head. "Some drinkin', some women. Fight at one'a the clubs, couple of dickheads - sorry, boss - makin' trouble for the ane-san. Sorted 'em out for her. That's it, I think."

Sandaime's eyebrows go up slightly, but Kyou can't tell if it's because he's surprised or amused. "Only a couple?"

"Seven or eight, maybe? Couple'a young punks, tryin' to show 'emselves tough."

The boss nods in an understanding way. Good answer, Kyou congratulates himself. Well, if it was only a couple of young punks, and he let himself get hit, he'd have to commit yubitsume anyway. No way in hell a couple of little bastards like that could touch him.

"Yes, the young punks… well, we aren't so young as we were. Which relates to the purpose of our discussion here: the succession."

Suddenly, it seems like the ground has dropped out from under Kyou. "Not me, boss, no…"

"No, not you," Sandaime agrees with a slight smile, and Kyou's world rights itself. Long as it's not him - or some punk-ass little fuck what don't know his ass from his mouth - Kyou doesn't much care. He's loyal to the clan, and to Sandaime, so he'll accept the boss's decision, whatever it is. "Sawada."

…some punk-ass little fuck… "Kid's katagi," Kyou protests.

"It is not how we are born, but what we are in our hearts, that matters," Sandaime says. That's pretty deep, even for the boss - too deep for Kyou, so he just figures he's been chastised and moves on. If the fact that the brat's dad is a fuckin' cop don't bother the boss, Kyou ain't gonna let it bother him, either. Damn, but this would be easier if his head didn't hurt so much.

"Kid's still a kid," Kyou says, which he thinks is a pretty valid protest.

The boss seems to think so too, 'cause he nods. "He has grown up, but not enough. But, I don't plan to die any time soon. We have time to prepare him. Or, rather, you have time to prepare him."

"Me, boss?" Somehow, Kyou knows he's being handed a massive responsibility here, an' he's not sure he's comfortable with it. Puttin' him in charge of training up the yondaime… nah. Don't seem right, somehow. Sure, he pretty much raised Oujo, but that was different. She was a kid, an' he just had to teach her to fight and stack up the bodies proper, kinda thing. None of this leadership stuff - she'd figured that out on her own alright. Speakin'a Oujo… "Don't it normally happen that the daughter of the family pick's 'em? Ah, not questionin' your judgement, sir, just… the elder was sayin'…"

Damn, but that looks like a smirk on Sandaime's face. Fuckin' scary expression, in any case. "Kumiko has a great talent for seeing into the hearts of her students, but I'm afraid she cannot yet see into her own heart."

Kyou puzzles over that one for a bit. "So… she likes 'im, but she don't realize it yet?" And yeah, the boss is definitely smirkin' now, and it's definitely scary.

"So it would seem."

Kyou looks at Sandaime doubtfully. He trusts the boss to the ends of the Earth, but… "If you say so, sir."

-----

There's four young live-ins in front of him. Three of them are all standing in variations of the same posture, the one that says "What the fuck you lookin' at, jackass?" The fourth is trying to disappear, or maybe just keep from wetting himself. Any other time, Shin would feel a bit sorry for him: Kuma's an old friend, and he's just not cut out for the life of a gokudo. But right now Shin has other things to worry about, like the three arrogant fucks in front of him, and the evil, vindictive old bastard who's lounging behind him, smoking a cigarette.

"Oi, what's this fuck doin' here, boss?" one of the live-ins grunts.

"Ya want that we should fuck 'im up some?" another chimes in. The pair of them are big, and stupid-looking, but they also look like they can move pretty quick despite their size. The other two are Kuma, and that bastard Kudoh: two of Yankumi's strays, and Shin still can't figure out how either of them ended up here. He doesn't let it show, though.

Anyway, he's pretty sure this is a test of some sort. Not quite sure what's being tested, but he's willing to bet Kyou doesn't know either. That'd be just like Kyou - do something crazy and random, and see what falls out. Yankumi was always pulling the same sort of shit; probably the only one here who actually bothers to think ahead is Sandaime. Even knowing that, he rises to the bait and asks, "There a point to this, old man?"

"Teachin'," Kyou growls, and even without turning around Shin knows what expression the gangster is wearing. It's that smug, knowing look that means Kyou has no clue what's going on, but he knows there's a fight brewing and he's the strongest guy in the room. It is not an expression Shin associates with good things.

"Yeah, I'll teach ya a lesson," Grunt #1 chuckles. Shin knows he has less than three seconds to come up with a way to kick this guy's ass, and he's drawing a complete blank. Instinct makes him duck the first punch to his head, but the second one catches him in the gut, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush. He stays standing, though. This guy hits hard, but it's nothing on what Yankumi can do when she thinks she's protecting one of her precious students.

That's when it (metaphorically) hits him. Kyou brought him here, and is just sitting there chuckling, because this is a fight for dominance. It's one that Shin absolutely has to win, if he ever wants to set foot in this house again. And he has to win it by a lot. So he does the most ridiculous thing he can think of (short of getting hit again). He grabs the katana off the wall (in this house, it seems there's always at least one) and draws, and even if it's mostly meant to be decorative, it's a real sword, and the way the light ripples along the blade looks fuckin' evil.

"Oi, boss, can he do that?" Grunt #2 asks as he ambles forward to help #1.

"Yeah, I can," Shin says.

"Weren't askin' you," #2 says.

Shin levels the sword at him, but keeps his gaze on #1. Lets the pair of them know that he has no problem with skewering either of them like some poor little fish about to be grilled for breakfast, even if… well, maybe actually he could do it. Maybe, but maybe not. "Yeah, ye were," Shin says. "Know why, ya little dicks? 'Cause I'm yer fuckin' boss. An' now yer gonna get down on yer knees and pray that I'm fuckin' merciful, 'cause one'a ye just hit me, an' the other just talked back." He knows he's overplaying the gokudo accent worse than the biggest daikon in one of Yankumi's yakuza movies, but right now all that stands between him and a lot of pain is bullshit.

The Grunt Brothers buy it, though. He can see Kudoh scowling, just waiting for his chance to try and rough Shin up a bit, but for now Shin ignores him. The Grunt Brothers are on their knees, bowing their heads and trying not to tremble. They ain't bright, it seems, but at least they know they're at the bottom of the food chain around here. And just when they thought they'd found someone lower, he'd pulled rank and a fuckin' sword on them.

Behind him, he can hear Kyou shifting a bit. He doesn't know if the older man will try to interfere if it looks like things are getting out of hand, but he hopes not. Having Kyou interfere now will ruin his only shot at getting these guys under his control.

"Fingers," Shin growls. The Grunt Brothers really are trembling now, but they bow their heads and spread their fingers, trying to look brave despite being moments away from pissing their pants in fear. "When ye fuck up, there's a price," Shin says, and slams the katana straight down. It bites into the tatami directly between the kneeling live-ins, and sticks there. Before either of them realize they aren't about to lose a finger, Shin kicks one, and then the other, directly in the gut. The pair collapse around their wounded midsections, gasping. "Lucky for you, you didn't fuck up too badly this time," Shin says, in a more normal tone.

"Sorry boss," #1 grunts. "I'm really sorry."

"Yeah boss. I'm really, really sorry," #2 chimes in.

Shin sort of wishes he smoked, so he could light up right now. It's the sort of action that would perfectly complete the image he's just created. But he's never developed a taste for cigarettes, and anyway, Yankumi would probably kill him if he started. "Show you're sorry by never fucking up again," Shin says. "It's your honour as a gokudo." It's bullshit far worse than any of Yankumi's old speeches, but the Grunt Brothers are nodding like he's just pronounced words that they'll live by for the rest of their lives.

He's shaking, and light headed from the adrenaline, but he can't stop yet. He still has to deal with Kudoh and Kuma, and apologize to Sandaime for wrecking the tatami. None of those tasks sound like fun, but he can't back out now. What the fuck made him think this was a good idea in the first place?

-----

He's pretty sure Sawada isn't going to use the katana, but the upstart little bastard has just kicked everyone except the two of them out of the room. Even Kyou-san, who left with a slightly bemused expression on his face. So now it's just him and Sawada, squared off across the room with the destroyed tatami between them. Sawada still has the sword unsheathed. He doesn't look threatening, but he does need to: it's a fuckin' sword, fer shit's sake, and Sawada's probably got a grudge against him the size of Tokyo.

Still, he's not one of the idiot duo: he ain't gonna fold just because some guy has a big ol' knife pointed at him. Kudoh's got his pride, and he's got guts, and if he's gonna die here today, he's gonna fuckin' well take Sawada with him.

Time was, he'd start some bullshit posturin' talk; try to intimidate Sawada, like. But he's learned a lot in his time here, like how silence can intimidate just fine, so he stands there in the ugly hat Oujo gave him, all those years ago, and which has become his trademark, and he stares stonily back at Sawada. Sawada stares back.

This goes on for a while, and then Sawada sheathes the katana and kneels down. Not kneelin' like he's gonna ask for something, but kneelin' like the kumicho does: totally at his ease, just waitin' for the underling standin' in front of him to report. The katana rests across his knees, and it's relaxed, too. Sawada's practiced this stance: it's too natural lookin' for anythin' else.

It's right about now that Kudoh realizes this is just a fuckin' game of shogi to Sawada. He's made his move, and now he's waitin' for Kudoh to make the next one. Just a fuckin' mind game. Kudoh takes the bait anyway, 'cause he has shit to do and can't sit here in a staring contest all day. "Ya ain't gonna threaten me like ya did the idiot duo?" He ain't gonna talk polite to this bastard, not in a million years.

"If violence worked on you, Kudoh, you'd have learned your lesson the first time you fucked with me."

Bastard. And doesn't he think he's just so damn special, just 'cause he'd bested Kudoh in a fight or two. Kudoh'd held his own, thank you, and given as good as he got most times. He's improved since then, too, although it's too much to hope that Sawada hasn't. "What's it gonna be, then?"

"I'll let you challenge me once. Just once." And he says it like he knows he's gonna win, the bastard. "Winner take all, if you wanna think of it that way." Kudoh opens his mouth to say something, but Sawada keeps right on talking. "And after I win, you will never, ever challenge me again." He says it with such absolute certainty that Kudoh wants to punch him in the face right fuckin' now.

"Yeah?" he says instead, his hands clenched at his sides to keep them from flying towards Sawada and takin' the rest of him with them.

Sawada doesn't smirk, but Kudoh will bet anything the bastard wants to. "Yeah. 'Cause you, Kudoh, have your pride as a gokudo. And a gokudo takes his boss's word as law." His voice is full of superior certainty, and Kudoh has never hated him so much as at this moment.

"One day, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, Sawada," he growls.

"Make sure you pick a good day for it," is all Sawada says.

-----

"What makes you think I want anything to do with you?" He's not sure which pisses him off more: that Sawada is so casual with him, or that he's grown used to it. If only he could actually look down on the bastard, life would be so much easier. But Sawada has beat him on every test and assignment since that practice exam way back in high school, so he can't.

"You want to spend your life working in an office for a bunch of stupid old men?" Sawada asks. He's not incredulous because, damn him, he already knows the answer. "Passed over for promotion because there's someone more senior, even if you're better?"

This is exactly the sort of thing that makes Uesugi hate Sawada. Just looking at the bastard's smug face, you can tell he thinks he knows everything. Problem is, he usually does. He's right in guessing that Uesugi won't be content to work his way up the way everyone else has to, even if it's in a good company that will make his family proud. Uesugi has ambition beyond that and, despite all their differences, so does Sawada, so they understand each other on that point, at least. Doesn't mean they'll ever get along, though.

"Suppose - just suppose - I'm willing to hear you out. What makes you think I'd want anything to do with whatever you're proposing?"

"Nothing - you'll hate it," Sawada says. He's grinning now, and Uesugi senses a trap about to close around him. He's going to hate whatever's coming, and he's not going to be able to do a damn thing about it.

"What are you asking, then?"

"Imagine a job where you have to be the absolute best every damn time," Sawada says. "It's the end of your career, your reputation, and maybe your life if you aren't."

Uesugi frowns. He can feel the trap closing around him, but he's still not quite sure how, or what it is, so he can't dodge it. "That's supposed to intrigue me?"

"I said you'd hate it. But you'll do it anyway, 'cause you have to be the best." He should be gratified that Sawada's being honest about things, but mostly he's just annoyed that the bastard is right once again.

"Why aren't you doing it, then?" he challenges.

"I am. But I don't plan on being a lawyer forever." Damn. Well, he's always known law school's just a lark for Sawada, but still… he's actually worked for this, just like he's worked for everything else, whereas things just seem to fall into Sawada's lap. That's probably what pisses him off the most: Sawada has everything, and he doesn't care.

He scowls and crosses his arms. "What's the job, then?"

Sawada smirks. "Ever heard of the Kuroda Family?"

</span>

In Celebration

Thu, 23 Oct 2008 00:23:48 GMT

of completing the last of my med school applications (until after New Years), I decided to actually post something. It's not complete by any means, just a portion of a rambling sort of story I've been working on occasionally. I'm still working on my big projects but, how shall I say... I want them to come out nicely polished, whereas this is for fun, and I can accept a few grammatical errors or unclear passages (plus, it doesn't really have a plot!) It's really just an excuse to write about people fighting, drinking, and swearing (very unlike Tangled Webs or All Their Sins...???)

Fandom: Gokusen
Title: Return
Rating: PG15 for lots and lots of swearing
Notes: Spoilers for some things past the currently scanlated chapters.

Also: If someone with sufficient Japanese has any clue what Shin's nickname is before translation, could you let me know? Because it has to be cooler than the translation.

He's forty-two years old. Forty-two fuckin' years, and what does he have to show for it? A back covered in irezumi, a chest covered in scars, and a liver that the underground docs say ain't gonna see him past fifty. Not like it matters. Fifty's pretty old, anyhow. Hell, he's even got all ten fingers. Been an alright life. Lotta booze, lotta women… no kids, though, least not that anyone ever told him about. There's the one, sure, but she's not really his, just… just sorta wishes she was, sometimes.

Kyou downs another dish of sake. Be nice if it was something stronger, but he's never found anything stronger than sake. Pity. That would have been a nice thing to have accomplished in his life. That'd be… yeah, people would remember him for that. "That Kyou," they'd say. No, wait. "Oshima-sama," they'd say, and the fuckers would say it with reverence. Yeah. "Oshima-sama, he really showed us the way. Taught me everythin' I know. Great man, Oshima-sama." Yeah, he'd like some people to say that at his funeral. Make it a really movin' affair, like. Nothin' flashy, but… whazzit… some word Oujo uses… means 'super movin''…

"Poignant, ya shitty old man." Someone settles themselves on the barstool next to him. "Ya always think aloud when you're drunk?"

Kyou turns bleary eyes towards his new companion. Sees a blurred shock of red hair, dark clothes… little bastard. When'd the brat stop callin' him 'Kyou-san'? Kids these days. Don't understand respect or nothin'. Time was, he'd take the little shit outside and show him the way of the world.

"When you're sober, dumbass. Now get up, we're going. She'll be worried about you."

That's all he has to say. Kyou stumbles to his feet, leaning on the bar as he disentangles himself from the barstool. He doesn't bother trying to pay - they know him here. He'll take care of the tab later, or they'll wave it, or somethin'. It all sorts itself out in the end, anyway. He trips on the doorframe, but firm hands catch him and keep him from eatin' shit into the street. Be embarrassin', that.

"Embarrassing is walking with you when you're like this." The hands ain't let go, which means the little bastard's lecturin' him right in his ear, and it's fuckin' loud, but also kinda weird and unclear. Stupid brat, gonna kick his ass, just as soon as…

"Yeah, yeah, can it, old man. I'll listen to you bitch when you're sober."

And when'd the kid start talkin' like one of the gokudo, anyway? Yeah, he always hung around Oujo a lot, but he's a katagi to the bone. Father's a fuckin' cop, even. Ya don't fuck with cops. Not their kids, either.

"Disowned, remember." Even pissed out of his mind like this, Kyou can tell the brat thinks this is funny. Ain't got a fuckin' clue why the little bastard thinks that way, but he probably wouldn't get it even if he was sober. Little fuck might even be smarter than Oujo.

"Yeah, I am." And ain't he also just so fuckin' full of himself? Gonna beat the little piss into a pile of shit… piss into a pile of shit… Kyou snickers. The brat sighs, but doesn't drop his staggering companion.

-----

Maybe someday he'll learn to sleep through the brawls and shouting and general mayhem of this house. But Kuma's still adjusting to this place, so the littlest sound wakes him. In this case, it's not such a little sound: it's the sound of someone being horribly, miserably sick in the bathroom next to the room where Kuma and a few of the other young live-ins sleep. Having his own room isn't a luxury given to someone of his status, and it's a big change from his old room. But he's getting used to it. He can even sleep through Kudoh's snoring now. But this is too much. And it's only five in the morning.

He pulls on his shirt - no one else bothers dressing, but he isn't confident walking around in just his underwear - and goes to see if the poor bastard needs help. God knows, Noda and Shin have both had to hold Kuma's head in the past, and he knows it helps. Even at fucking five in the morning.

He's still a bit uncertain, all the same. He's only been here for two months, and they don't exactly do things the normal way. But he'd lost his job, and he couldn't be a burden on his mother, and so he had, pathetically, gone crying to Yankumi for help instead of dealing with it on his own like an adult and a man ought to have… honestly, though, she'd just been mad that he would ever think she might not help him. This isn't what he'd expected, though. He'd thought she'd give him an encouraging speech, and then help him look through the Help Wanted ads, or something. Taking him into a yakuza clan… and who'd known she was even part of one, anyway? Always knew she was nuts, but now it made a bit more sense. Everyone here was fucking nuts.

Still, even though he's uncertain about helping - there might be some weird yakuza code about it being manly to suffer through puking on your own - Kuma knocks on the bathroom door. When all he hears is someone retching, he slides it open. Never would have expected what he sees, though.

There's Shin, who's apparently back from wherever he disappeared to. He's wider in the shoulders than Kuma remembers, and it looks like he got a haircut recently. Looks like the world's been unfair in Shin's favour once again, because he's all mature and handsome, while the rest of them are still just awkward boys, even though they're all twenty-three now.

Shin's got his hands in Oshima-san's armpits, and is keeping the bigger man from falling face first into the can. Poor Oshima-san looks like he's throwing up everything he's eaten in the last week, and still has more left to heave.

"Flush the toilet, would ya? It's gettin' full," Shin says. He's totally calm, just like he always is. Never mind that it's five in the fucking morning, and he's holding a puking yakuza boss in the middle of the gang's headquarters, and his old classmate has just walked in, and… fuck, what would he say if he knew Yankumi was the granddaughter of the group's kumicho? Kuma can't even begin to imagine. He pushes the button as asked, and doesn't say anything.

They watch Oshima-san retch for a few minutes. "Sorry for waking you," Shin says, and he sounds a bit different than he did just a moment ago. Less rude, although that's probably just the change in topics.

"I have to get up soon anyway," Kuma says, waving it aside. "I have to help make breakfast."

Shin smirks like he already knew this. "Guess so. Looks like I'll be taking this guy's portion." Even with both hands holding said guy up, Shin gives the impression of pointing at the miserable gang leader. Oshima-san grunts in protest.

"No way in hell, old man. You're going to bed to sleep this off, and when you wake up, Kumiko's gonna kick a dent in your ass the size of Okinawa."

Kuma's shocked to hear anyone speak to Oshima-san like this. He's even more shocked that Shin knows Yankumi's around.

"Fuckin' brat," Oshima-san grunts. "Gonna kick yer ass." Shin gives him a bit of a shake, and he pukes again.

"Fuckin' old man," Shin retorts. "I'll own yer sorry ass. Ain't pickin' on a drunk, though, however muchuva bastard he is." He's smiling, though, so Kuma's pretty sure he doesn't mean it. Hopes to hell he doesn't, actually, because this isn't just some middle-aged office worker: this is Oshima-san, and he can kill Shin.

Shin turns to Kuma. "It's probably best to use the other bathroom to get ready. He's going be a while, and I think they'll want breakfast on time."

Kuma nods like a puppet, then turns awkwardly and stumbles out the door. What the fuck is going on, anyway?

-----

Sandaime's already there when Shin arrives at the breakfast table. The kumicho looks like anyone's grandfather, sitting there in a yukata and reading the morning paper. That's probably just an indication of how warped Shin's sense of what is normal has become, though, because how many people's grandfathers are covered in scars and tattoos like that? Or have two young kumin kneeling behind them, waiting to pour him more tea or cut some poor bastard's finger off?

Shin greets him properly, with a bow. Sandaime nods, but doesn't look up from his paper. Well, Shin never expects him to, anyway. Sandaime might be fairly informal with him, or he wouldn't even have acknowledged the greeting, but Shin's an still outsider, even if there's more than a couple of the kumin who think he's going to be the yondaime. Shin suspects that Sandaime agrees with them, but the old man has never said. But Shin knows that if Sandaime didn't approve of him, he wouldn't be able to eat breakfast with him like this.

Kuma comes in, bringing more grilled fish. Yankumi comes in behind him, still in her pyjamas. Her hair's down, and she doesn't have her glasses on. She's a bit prettier this way, Shin supposes, but he still prefers her the way she normally is. She might look beyond plain, but it's her spirit that's special about her, anyway. If he was interested in looks, he'd be chasing models right now, instead of eating breakfast with yakuza.

"Eh? Sawada? What are you doing here?" She's finally noticed him. A bit earlier than he expected, actually, considering how dense she can be.

"I'm back," he says, and smirks at her. Could have come up with a better line, he chides himself an instant later. Now she's just going to chide him like he's still her student and, worse, a kid. It's a brilliant start to his attempts to show her that a couple of years have done the work of a hundred, and he's a proper man now.

"You little brat," she says, just as he expected. "Is that any way to greet your beloved teacher?"

Well. There's any number of things he could say to that, from childishly pointing out that she's not his teacher anymore to telling her exactly how beloved she is. Except that that would be really, really uncool. He's done a lot of embarrassing and ridiculous things in his life, but even he's not yet ready to stoop to the level of actually confessing. She's gotta be the one to do that - which is why he'll probably be single until he's seventy, but as long as she is too, that's alright. She'll come around eventually, and he's a patient man.

*stealth edit* Terms used which not everyone may be familiar with, and other notes. (If I've got something wrong, please let me know. It's hard to find solid references for yakuza terms.)

[1] Irezumi: a Japanese tattoo. Traditionally, these would be 'hand-poked' (as opposed to using one of the modern machines), and cover the back, upper arms, and part of the chest.

[2] Actually, vodka and a number of other Western spirits have a much higher alcohol content (40%+) compared to sake (about 18% - making it a bit stronger than most wines)

[3] Gokudo: a gangster

[4] Katagi: an 'honest person' (ie. one who is not a gangster)

[5] Kumicho: gang leader

[6] Kumin: member of the kumi (Kumi: group/clan/gang)

Not Dead Yet

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 01:45:33 GMT

But oh, oh so close. But before that happens, there's going to be a couple of unsolvable homicides: to whit, my lab partner, and the creepy guy who lives down the hall. Their crimes?

Lab partner is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Since there's no way to say this without sounding arrogant, I'll just put it simply: I know I'm more intelligent than most people (statistical fact - can't help it) but I'm pretty sure earthworms are smarter than this girl. In labs, she's constantly asking, "so what do we do now?" And because I'm the sweet, caring person I am, my answer is always along the lines of, "now we read the damn lab manual, which outlines in excruciating detail exactly what we're supposed to do. And give me back my manual, yours is over there." To which I get, "sorry, but they look the same." Except they don't, because mine is in a different colour binder, half as thick, and filled with my writing. The problem is, my marks depend on her, and I do not have time to be covering for her sorry ass.

Creepy guy follows people. He sits in the common room, positioning himself so he can see the full length of the hallway. If any of the people he has decided to stalk approaches, he turns off the TV, stands up and, when he thinks they’re going to the cafeteria, follows them. If you wait until he sits somewhere else, and then sit as far away as fucking possible, he gets up and follows you. It is creepy. And one of these days my sweet and charming personality is going to win out, and I’m going to rip him a new one with a cafeteria butter knife.

Oh yeah: and I’m taking five courses, plus working on my honours thesis. But that’s minor compared to the frustrations of dealing with stupid and creepy people, right?

/rant

Oops, forgot: my Japanese teacher keeps lying to me. She says all those words foreign words are easy to figure out, ‘cause they’re in English to start with. I must have missed the part where ootobai sounded like motorcycle. And pasokon? No way in hell.

Anyway, that's why no one's heard from me except for the occasional stealthy de-lurking.

Where did you go, Time?

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 19:34:39 GMT

Updates are going to slow down a bit after this, because while I calculated that I should have enough to last until Christmas... somehow, I can't count. Why Christmas? Because the month before that is exams, when I might have more than an hour at a time to sit down and write, which means I'll still have a grace period in between finishing and posting in which to edit and get the damn things beta'd.

There will still be frequent updates on FF.net, but that's because that account is about 5 chapters behind. However, if you're craving the excitement of new releases or something...

Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Eleven (In which there is healing)
Series: Post-Epilogue
Chapter Length: 8050 words
Betas: Jenn, who puts up with ridiculously long chapters like this.

Chapter Eleven

In which there is healing

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Ginny woke early and, as she always did, spent a moment lying with her eyes closed, enjoying a private moment of peace. Then, for a brief, horrible moment the absolute silence scared her, and she had half-way rolled over to make sure nothing had happened to Harry before she realized that of course she wouldn't hear his breathing.

She let her eyes fall closed again, although she could still see her surroundings in her mind. The whitewashed walls and polished wood floor were more in keeping with a cottage by the sea than a castle. The white armchairs, with their pattern of light blue sprays of heather, lacked any of the grandeur that was so typical of Hogwarts. The curtains were drawn back, allowing the thin sunlight of the winter dawn in to add a golden glow to the room. Everything whispered of tranquility and rest, so perhaps it should be no surprise she had slept as well as she had.

Her mind's eye caught on one of the chairs next to the small fireplace. Less than a week ago she had woken in this very bed, only to find him asleep in that very chair. It had been at once familiar and strange: familiar, thinking back to all the times she had awoken with him nearby; strange, to feel the gulf that had opened between them over the years. They had not thought themselves innocent at the time, had felt jaded far beyond their years, but still they had curled together like children, seeking the comfort of having someone nearby. Perhaps it had not been their marriages that had kept them apart that night last week; perhaps it had been remembrance of the weight of the sins that had torn that innocence from them.

There was no time for those sorts of reflections right now: a pounding on her door demanded her immediate attention. There was only one person it could be, to make such a racket at this hour of the morning. "Enter," she called, and smiled as her son all but fell through the door when it obligingly swung open.

He was a bit taller now, and his voice just a hair deeper as he tottered on the cliff's edge before puberty, but the way he said "Mum" and scrambled onto the bed next to her was just the same as it had always been. His pale-copper hair stuck up in a static halo, just as it had when he was two and running about in those ugly orange pyjamas that Ron had given him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, just as he always had, and she returned the embrace. "Mummy," he whispered, although she didn't think he'd meant to say it out loud. "I'm sorry, I had detention last night, or I would have come to see you sooner."

She patted his head. His fine hair refused to lie flat, and fluffed up again as soon as her hand left it. "It's alright, darling. Pomona - Professor Sprout - helped me settle in just fine. And it's not like I've never been here before," she added, the twinkle in her eye daring him to call her old and forgetful. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, and scowled, looking for a moment very much like his father. "It should be time for breakfast soon," she said hastily, suddenly feeling a desperate urge to avoid that scowl, or anything else that reminded her of his father. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we'll go, alright?"

Jimmy looked at her searchingly. "Are you sure you're alright, Mum?"

"Of course," she promised, making a shooing motion. "Don't worry so much: you'll get old before your time. Now get, I need to shower."

-----

Growing up, he'd heard all sorts of stories about Hogwarts. Some of them, mostly the ones about the War, were quite epic, though rarely told. But for the most part, they were off-hand comments of the 'when you get there' variety. The ones his father and uncles told painted an idyllic picture of a teenage boy's paradise - unique magics, secret legends, and all sorts of scrapes that fell just on the far side of 'against the rules'. The ones his mother told were far less pretty, and tended to focus on the cold, the ugly decor, and the heavy food. But then, Fleur had always been a bit biased against Hogwarts.

For the most part, Fabian agreed with his father: Hogwarts was fabulous, and there were all sorts of fun things a boy could get up to, as long as he kept his wits about him when he decided to bend the rules. There were, however, a couple of things which he could very happily do without. One of those was Quidditch practices at five in the morning, just because the team captain thought heads were clearer early in the morning. Another was porridge.

"But it's extremely good for you," Rosie was saying. The Gryffindor table was empty - and little wonder, at this time of the morning - so she'd come to sit with him and Griflet.

"Gloop," Fabian said morosely, staring down at the bowl of beige stuff that his little cousin had ladled out for him. He'd come in from practice hoping for sausages that swam in grease and bacon that was entirely crunchy bits, and instead he got porridge. He smacked it experimentally with the back of his spoon. It made a wet sort of sucking noise that was just so typically porridge.

"You're an athlete," Rosie told him severely. "You have to mind your diet and eat nutritious foods." It sounded, Fabian thought, like someone had unwisely left a pamphlet on healthy eating where Rosie could find it, and she'd sat down and memorized it as though there was going to be a test.

On his other side, Griflet dumped a large helping of pumpkin juice into his own porridge. "Plop," he said cheerfully. He seemed wide awake, which suggested to Fabian that he'd once again lost track of the time; the stupid blighter probably thought it was lunch time.

"That's disgusting," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose. It definitely was, Fabian thought, but it still looked more appealing than his portion. At least Griflet's had some colour to it.

"Food groups," the boy answered, and added a sausage to the mix without bothering to cut it up. "It's all the same inside, anyway." He reached for the milk, and Fabian began to hope this was another one of Griflet's strange jokes. If the other boy actually ate that, Fabian was going to have trouble keeping his own breakfast down.

"The pumpkin juice will curdle the milk." The level voice froze Griflet's hand an inch from the jug. Fabian twisted in his seat to see James approaching the table, Aunt Ginny a half step behind. "Use cheese," James added. If Fabian had been the one to say that, Griflet would have protested, and by the time they'd reached a compromise that involved mashed cheese and butter, the porridge would have been cold - that sort of thing had happened often enough that Fabian had no doubt of it. But, amazingly, Griflet's hand went unerringly to the cheese plate, and he dropped four chunks of the stuff into his bowl without a word.

Fabian decided to avoid the headache that would surely come of trying to puzzle out what had just happened, and turned to his aunt instead. "Morning, Aunt Ginny. Or... would it be Madam Potter, now?" He was happy to have his aunt here, and he knew his mother was ecstatic about it - she'd been so excited that she'd jumped back and forth between languages, sometimes in the middle of sentences, in the owl she had sent him last night - but addressing her as a teacher was going to take some getting used-to.

"It's Healer Weasley, actually," his aunt said, sliding into the place across from him. James, looking a bit like he never wanted to let her out of his sight again, sat next to her - but then, he'd always been such a mama's boy, had James. Not that Fabian would dream of saying it to his face. "'Madam' is for matrons. Is that all you're going to eat?" she added, eyeing his half-eaten porridge.

Fabian shot a baleful look at Rosie, who pretended not to notice. "Apparently I need to eat nutritious foods," he told her.

Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes, something Fabian had never seen her do before. It made her look very like his father. "You're Bill's son. You don't need nutritious food, you just need lots," she told him. With the efficiency that came from raising a whole brood of children, she filled a plate with cheese, sausages and fruit. "And put some sugar on that cereal, it makes me sick to look at it."

Grinning a little, Fabian did as he was told. He liked this Aunt Ginny a lot better than the tired woman with the sad eyes that had been puttering around the kitchen whenever he visited the Burrow. He was also starting to understand why his mother had been so happy that Aunt Ginny had come to Hogwarts, despite her personal dislike of the school.

"That's not good for him, Aunt Ginny," Rosie said severely, looking at their aunt with eyes filled with reproach. James shot her a nasty look, and she flinched a little, but didn't back down. "A healthy diet consists of..."

"Gloop!" Griflet declared, dropping an apple into his porridge, splattering it across the table. Fabian saw his aunt's eyes widen a little. He also noticed that the porridge had splashed on Griflet's robes, and realized with a sinking feeling that now he'd have to convince the other boy to change them before class. "I needed another serving of fruits or vegetables," he added, addressing himself to Aunt Ginny and speaking as though this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Rather than seeming alarmed or put-out, Aunt Ginny actually looked interested. "Why did you need to put it in the porridge, though?" Well, Fabian allowed, Aunt Ginny's used to dealing with nut jobs. Most of the Weasley family seemed to fit that description, after all.

"This way I only get one dish dirty."

"You freak!" Rosie cried. "You got them all dirty. You splashed porridge everywhere!"

Aunt Ginny looked at her, and Fabian thought he saw her sigh a little, as though Rosie was the troublesome one, not Griflet. "Except for that, he's right," she said. There was, for just the briefest moment, an unholy twinkle in her eye that was reminiscent of Freddie or Uncle George.

"He's insane," Rosie said, as though that made the least bit of difference. Griflet might have a strange sense of reality, Fabian thought, but his interjection had named healthy foods for what they were: gloop.

"It's really about the food groups, especially at your age," Aunt Ginny went on, as though she hadn't heard. "And good food doesn't have to taste bland."

Rosie spluttered. "But the pamphlet said..." Dammit, Fabian thought. He'd been right about Rosie's source.

"That's enough," James growled, fixing Rosie with a glare. Whatever she had been about to say died in her throat, and she suddenly became very interested in her porridge. "Grif," he added. The older boy looked up, his eyes shockingly intense. It was a look Fabian rarely saw: the one Griflet wore when the War was discussed. "Remember to change your robes after this. You have porridge on them."

"Yes Jimmy," Griflet said, and somehow Fabian was certain that, for once, he wouldn't forget.

"And Grif?" That intense gaze swivelled from James to Aunt Ginny, startling Fabian - he'd never seen Griflet respond if anyone but himself or James used the boy's first name. "Apples don't need plates."

"Yes Healer Weasley."

-----

"I'm not insane, you know," he said conversationally. It was the first time Helen had heard him speak since he'd arrived, and it startled her so badly she dropped her clipboard. She scrambled to pick it up and then, clutching it as though it might spring from her grasp again at any moment, faced her patient.

He was regarding her levelly, his eyes seeming like nothing so much as icebergs, frozen and fathoms deep, as inappropriate as the comparison was for eyes that were such a startling green. His black hair was tousled and in want of cutting. Despite his dishevelled appearance, she couldn't remember ever having a patient with such composure as he showed right now: it wasn't something you encountered often in this ward.

"Sir, you..." Even as she began, she felt the protest die on her lips. What could she possibly say to this man, who was no less personage than Harry Potter himself, that wouldn't sound like a lie in this situation? For a brief moment, the combined clout of the Prophet special edition and that deep gaze caused her conviction to waver. "You're sick," she managed at last.

He settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. "I'm not sick." He paused, and the silence stretched between them like a vast and frozen ocean that she couldn't imagine how to cross. "I'm broken."

"Sir," she began again, and again the words would not come.

"A sickness can be cured." His tone was still conversational, but those green eyes held something so terrible and heartbreaking that she couldn't begin to understand it. "Ginny is sick, you know." Helen felt something in her heart contract. Not Healer Weasley... surely there could be nothing in the world that her idol could not cure. "It's a sickness of the heart, I think," he mused, and though his gaze was still locked with hers, she felt that he was looking somehow through her, or perhaps inside her. "Perhaps she can heal, now."

Helen felt her heart constrict again, this time for him. There were words just beyond her grasp, ones that were soothing and compassionate, and even as she tried hopelessly to capture them so that she could speak, he smiled. It was a terrible, tragic smile, such as she had always imagined Lucifer must have smiled in his last moment as an angel, when he was still filled with grace but saw how broken he was. It was a smile of loss and regret too great to imagine, but without bitterness. For Lucifer, the bitterness had come later, so her village priest had always said, and with it had come the anger. She didn't know what would come next for Harry Potter, but the prospect of his fall terrified her.

"But I'm broken. The dead should never return."

She wasn't sure how much more of this she could listen to. His words were so heavy, but his voice didn't match them at all, and the difference between the two filled her heart with ice. She wanted to draw away, to flee the room and rush back to her desk, where she would write 'patient is in stable condition' on the form, just as she had every day before. "Sirius shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have brought him back. And my parents..." He was crying now, crystal tears sliding slowly down his otherwise-calm face. Suddenly he seized up, contracting violently into a huddle. A keening that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him rose up, then climbed to a werewolf's howl.

Helen fled.

-----

One of these days, someone was going to realize it. Actually, someone already had, but he hadn't said anything and likely never would. But someday soon, someone else was going clue in, and when they did they'd accused Neville of being a suspicious bastard. And he was - oh, Merlin, was he ever - and the only real surprise was that no one but James Potter had noticed.

Neville was good-natured and friendly, but he wasn't an idiot. He got along well with people because he had a natural sense for what made them tick. He would never have dreamed of exploiting it, as a Slytherin might, but it was a gift he made use of - mostly because it told him when something was up. It was how he'd always known when Harry and the others had been sneaking around and losing them House points - even if he hadn't always spoken up about it. Or if one of the first years was looking a bit guilty, and there was a giant pile of broken pottery, Neville knew better than to fly into a rage over the poor child's clumsiness. Instead he would gently invite the child around for a bit of tea after class, and 'how is your mother these days', and perhaps a bit of 'I'm very sorry to hear that, and I hope she feels better soon.' It would have been a vast overstatement to say that he knew everything that went on in Hogwarts's hallowed halls - but he did know that there was an awful lot he didn't know about, and tried to act accordingly.

Especially when there were clues.

It was a bit like making a potion, really: most people tossed in a slug's heart and some hen's teeth, and out came a Vanishing Cream. Neville tossed them in, spilled a bit of asphodel, and one giant explosion later had a Draught of the Living Dead created out of all the wrong ingredients, and in a completely irreproducible fashion. In other words, it was the little things all shoved together in a haphazard way that was uniquely his own, out of which came an answer which was startling and unexpected, but not wrong (unless Snape was doing the grading, in which case it never had a chance of being right to begin with).

She had hesitated, when he'd asked if he should invite Malfoy along to the Three Broomsticks. Then she'd smiled, but her eyes had been just the littlest bit fearful and sad - but not hateful in the least. He'd wondered if there was a story there, but there were so many stories, and so many of them painful, that he'd resolved never to ask.

He hadn't hesitated, when her glass was empty. He'd picked up the bottle that had sat in the middle of the table and refilled it and his own as though it were the most natural act in the world. When Bletchley had asked him to pass the bottle later, he'd sneered and told him to get it himself.

She had called him 'Draco', but only after she was prompted to do so. At one point, she had called him 'Slytherin', after stumbling over the first sound as though she had been about to say something else.

He hadn't called her 'Ginny'. Despite hours of conversation, Neville hadn't heard him call her anything at all.

She'd flinched when Bletchley mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, but not when Neville had asked about Malfoy's son.

His face had gone curiously blank when the Potions teacher had talked about Harry Potter; Neville would have expected some flash of emotion, even if it was only lingering distaste from their schooldays.

And that was just those first few hours last week, right after the pair of them had been called in because of the fight between James Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. In the time since... well, it all piled up, even if it didn't add up. And it made Neville suspicious.

Perhaps, he thought, with the sort of inflection that meant there was no 'perhaps' about it, they don't hate each other after all. In fact, he suspected that at one point they had even been friends. Across the battle lines, or afterwards? There was no way to be certain, at least not unless one of them decided to talk about it - which was unlikely to happen.

Either way, it couldn't hurt to send an owl. Actually, it could: it would be rather like poking a Venomous Tentacula with a very short stick. But it would certainly be interesting.

-----

Part Two

Life's Great Questions, and Other Nonsense

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 23:35:53 GMT

Why do guys shout things at girls out of car windows? It's annoying, and it just makes them look like fuck-wits.
Why are frosh so dumb?
And why, why, why is it so bloody humid in this stupid province? I'm going to move to Mongolia one of these days, just you wait.

Also:

Rumours: Everyone Hates Practice
Rating: PG?
Notes: un-edited and rushed like woah, 'cause it's been sitting half finished on my computer for weeks, and I want to move on.

"I don't see what you're so upset about. The cheerleading squad is the place to be in this school," Usopp told Sanji for what felt like the hundredth time since lunch. He didn't add that he would have sold his soul for the chance Sanji had. But Usopp was a realist, and he knew that he was too quiet, too shy, and not nearly athletic enough to make the squad, and he didn't want to embarrass himself by failing miserably.

"Yeah, but... I mean, cheerleaders. I'm not gay." This seemed to be a particular sticking point for Sanji. He'd said it so many times...

Methinks he doth protest too much, Usopp thought, and had to suppress a wry smile - who would have ever imagined that he'd actually use something he learned in Lit class in real life? Of course, that might just have been wishful thinking on his own part: if Sanji had a thing for guys, then Usopp himself had at least a snowball's chance in hell. It still wasn't much, but he'd take what he could get. "No one thinks that," Usopp assured him. "They just think you're cool." He put extra emphasis on the word, trying to make Sanji understand that, however things had been at his tech school, being cool was important at Grand Line Secondary. And cheerleader equalled uber-cool.

"But this Ace guy..."

Usopp felt himself grimace before he could control the reaction. "He's like that with everyone. He was probably just trying to get to you - piss you off, I mean, not, you know..." There was no way good way for him to finish that sentence, and Usopp thought he might already have said too much. "He's not here much, anyway. Just for the day."

Truth be told, Ace was a bit of a sore point for Usopp as well. He could deal with running into Ace at the grocery store, or when he was hanging out with Luffy, but seeing him here at the school... Usopp couldn't quite figure out why he was willingly going to the cheerleaders' practice. Ace would be completely in his element, and Usopp would be completely out of his - and the difference between the two of them would be greater than ever.

"Hurry up, Sanji," came a call from the field. It took Usopp a moment to recognize the voice, since it wasn't one he heard very often: Nefertiti Vivi. She was standing on the track by the edge of the bleachers, waving. "Hey Usopp, come to watch us practice?" she asked, when the pair of boys were close enough that she didn't have to shout.

That was the second time today that Vivi had not only spoken to him, but called him by name. It was probably just his imagination, but Usopp thought he felt the ground shift under his feet as the world fell off its axis.

"Uso~opp!" Usopp had no trouble recognizing that voice. He looked up to see Luffy bounding down the bleachers towards him, completely unconcerned that he might trip and break his neck. "You came to watch practice with me? That's so cool! Nami - hey Nami, look! - Usopp's gonna join us."

The orange-haired girl looked down at them from her place near the center of the bleachers, and offered a half-smile. "Hey Usopp."

"Nami," he returned in greeting. "What are you doing here?" It seemed like everyone was here today, and Usopp wasn't sure he liked that.

"She's waiting for me," Luffy told him. "And I wanna see your bike!"

Nami had turned back to her notebook, but Usopp though he saw her eyes roll. "I'm waiting for Ace. He owes me." She didn't say what, and Usopp didn't want to ask. He and Nami might have been friends a long time ago, but they had never been close. The years had only made the distance between them bigger.

"You're here for practice, aren't you?" Vivi asked suspiciously, coming over. Nami just shrugged. "Ace-senpai has been kind enough to come help us…" She never actually tried to tell Nami what to do, Usopp noticed. She was just cajoling, hoping that some sort of respect or team spirit would inspire Nami to put aside her notebook and go down to the field. Privately, he doubted it would work.

Sanji was looking back and forth between the two girls. "My goddesses, I would love to stay for practice, but I have things to do, and…"

"Nice try, Sunshine." Ace had appeared with uncanny - annoying - suddenness, and clamped a long-fingered hand around Sanji's arm. "It's basic training today. I'll let you go when you can do the splits as well as Vivi-chan there." He nodded at the team captain, who obligingly dropped into a perfect splits.

Sanji's huff ruffled his bangs, but didn't stir the hair enough to reveal the eye he kept hidden. Then, with great deliberateness, he slowly raised one leg directly above his head, forming a perfectly straight line between one foot and the other.

Usopp almost passed out.

Yes, it's Saturday

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 18:22:23 GMT

At least in my part of the world, which means I am, amazingly, posting at the time I said I would. I deserve a cookie, but since I only have caf cookies (which are mostly grease) I'll have pumpkin loaf instead. It has chocolate in it ^_^

The lovely new computer is just that, but it has two unfortunate flaws: it runs Vista, and it uses Office 2007. I detest both. I will, someday, make my peace with the graphic user interface associated with Vista. But having to disable half of its shit because it blocks me from doing what I want? Oh, or not being able to hash certain folders for file sharing, because Vista just won't let me open the list that far down... much anger. And I shall never make my peace with Office 2007. It's the most useless pile of crap every - half the screen is taken up with those stupid ribbons. So, back to XP Pro it is, and damn the bastards to hell for trying to compete with Mac and be 'user friendly'. I hate user friendly. Arg.

Anyway, the actually point of this post:

Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Ten (In which they take a holiday, and an important question about Ron is answered)
Series: Post-Hogwarts
Chapter Length: 6410 words
Betas: As always, the amazing Jenn

Chapter Ten

In which they take a holiday, and an important question about Ron is answered

Saturday, December 19, 1998

"I'm pretty sure you missed the point somewhere," Ginny said, frowning at the boy standing next to her. "You're supposed to spend the hols with your family, not your enemies."

He gave her a bemused look. "We are family. See? Red hair, second-hand robes, not enough sense to go inside even though the weather is more frigid than McGonagall..."

Ginny choked. Of all the comparisons for him to make, he would choose the most disturbing one. Rather than let him continue in that vein and destroy her innocence completely, she retorted, "They're third hand, actually. Bill and Percy both had them before Ron."

Malfoy looked sick, but she was well enough used to his act to ignore it. "You mean three of your dirty, muggle-loving brothers have worn these before me?" As though it made the least bit of difference to him if they were second-hand or twelfth: they were used, and if he were in his right mind Malfoy would never wear used robes, or even borrowed ones, which these also were. Well, he'd never needed to until now, when he couldn't afford to look like the rich prick he was.

"I think Percy showers more often than you do, Malfoy. And I doubt Bill wore them very often." With that expression of bafflement on his face, he could have passed as Ron's twin. "He was too busy getting into the knickers of half the girls at Hogwarts." She wondered if Fleur knew about that. She'd thought about telling her sister-in-law, but that would have led to questions about how she knew, which would have meant admitting to hearing some stories from a drunk and heartbroken Charlie that had not been appropriate for her ten-year-old ears. She'd sympathized with Charlie over having the girl he loved turn out to be yet another notch on his older brother's belt, but lately she'd begun to think that maybe he should have told the girl how he felt before it came to that. Well, Charlie was shy and romantic - despite the incongruity of these traits in a dragon-keeper - which probably explained why he still didn't have a steady girlfriend.

Now Malfoy looked even greener, and it seemed like less of an act. "No wonder there's so many of you redheads."

"Right. And if we can't make more the traditional way, we use magic and change their hair." She poked him playfully in the shoulder, reminding him that he wasn't in any position to talk about poverty or unsightly red hair. "You said you wanted to go inside."

"You've got the bleedin' key," he snapped. Maybe they should go inside, Ginny thought - that might be an icicle hanging from the tip of his nose. Who'd have imagined Malfoy would be such a pansy when it came to the cold? With colouring like that, it looked like he was part polar bear.

She grinned, letting him suffer a little more as she took her time unlocking the door. He darted inside as soon as the door was open, and went flying arse over teakettle with a sound like a dozen cymbals. The curtains over Mrs. Black's portrait flew apart and she began her screeching litany of all the horrors that had befallen her house. Ginny slipped inside and shut the door behind her, a slight smile on her face. It didn't matter what terrible things happened outside, inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place it stayed just the same.

Kreacher came barrelling out of some hidey-hole at a speed that was very suspicious for an elf that appeared so old, crying out as he tried to sooth his poor mistress. In the midst of the din, Malfoy sat up and glared around at the place, with an extra helping of venom when his gaze lighted on the overturned troll-leg umbrella stand or the bloody-minded portrait. "Weasley, what the hell is wrong with this house?" he all but howled. They'd only just stepped through the front door, and already he was regretting his insistence on being a nuisance over the holidays. Good, Ginny thought with savage satisfaction.

"What do you think, Malfoy? She's your relative." Although she didn't say it loudly - at least not compared to the caterwauling of Mrs. Black, Kreacher, and Malfoy - all three of them heard her. It was like she'd just said a supremely effective silencing spell: all three of them shut up and stared at each other speculatively.

"I thought you said this place was Potty's," Malfoy said at last, not looking at Ginny. Most of his attention was focussed on the portrait, but he was keeping a wary eye on Kreacher, too. If Ginny hadn't known it to be beneath his dignity, she would have sworn he looked ready to bolt.

She sighed - she wasn't sure why she'd bothered explaining, when it had been so obvious he wasn't listening to a word she said. Now she had to repeat herself. "He inherited it from his godfather, Sirius Black."

"I'm pretty sure I'm related to him," Malfoy mused. Ginny rolled her eyes. "There's so deuced many of them," he continued. "Almost as many as the Weasleys."

"Thank you for that. He was your mum's cousin, by the way. Even I know that."

Now he did look back at her, and sneered. "That's because you want to marry into Potty's precious little family, so you have to pretend to give a nifler's nads about it. So who's the hag?" Too late, Ginny realized she should have warned him not to insult the portrait of Mrs. Black. Sirius always had, and it had never helped anything in the slightest.

"Scum! Blood-traitor! Filth!" she began, and looked to be working herself up to another tedious session of screeching. Unable to stop herself, Ginny walked up behind Malfoy and smacked him on the head. He gave her a glare that said he didn't appreciate that at all, and would hex her soundly as soon as the current crisis was dealt with, then leant his head against her knee in that unaccountable way of his.

"That's Sirius's mum," Ginny said.

"That makes her..." Malfoy trailed off, but his lips kept moving as he worked through the family tree in his head. "My great-aunt, I think. Lovely."

It was almost impressive how the portrait heard his muttered discovery even whilst screeching at full volume herself. "There are no filthy Weasleys in my family tree."

"That's because you blasted them off the tapestry," Ginny snapped, before she could stop herself. "And he's not a Weasley." It was offensive to think a snobbish prick like Malfoy could ever be related to her. She grabbed her wand and removed the Colour Charm from his hair.

Walburga Black must have been part bull, Ginny decided. As soon as the red cape that was Malfoy's hair was returned to its pristine ferret whiteness, she calmed, although she still sent dagger-filled looks at Ginny ever few seconds. "I'm Draco Malfoy, by the way," Malfoy said cheerfully, now that his dead great-aunt was no longer screaming bloody murder at him. "I'd probably own this place if Potty had the decency to die."

Annoyed, Ginny gave his head a light shove with her knee, and was about to comment that then he wouldn't be able to come here, either, but Kreacher's excited wail cut her off. The scrawny house elf threw himself across Malfoy's lap and wrapped his arms around the boy's waist. "Master!" he cried, looking as overjoyed as though he'd been offered a place of pride on the old wall of mounted house elf heads.

Malfoy looked stricken. "Uh, yeah, now you can get off... let go... bugger off!" He bodily threw the house elf away from him and scrambled to his feet, placing Ginny between himself and the house elf who watched him with worshipful eyes.

"Malfoy, are you cowering behind me?" Ginny drawled, amused. She'd known that, realistically, there must be things that Malfoy was afraid of, but she'd never been able to figure out what they were. To think that house elves would be one of them - this promised to be endless entertainment.

"Not cowering," he corrected, managing to sound conceited and sulky at the same time. "Using you as an expendable shield while I make my getaway." Even though he couldn't see it, Ginny rolled her eyes. "Alright, fine, not my getaway, but are there any more nasty surprises I should know about?"

"I would have thought this was just like home for you, Malfoy. This way."

If anyone less refined had made that sound, it would have been called a snort. "Malfoys have taste when it comes to decorating." She noticed he was carefully not touching anything as she led him upstairs.

"Explains why there's so few of you... you're all bloody poofs." Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew it was a low shot, the sort Ron would have taken. Malfoy grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around so quickly she almost fell. Standing like this on the stairs, their eyes were on the same level. She couldn't remember the last time Malfoy had glared at her this intently.

"It's because there's a curse on my family, Weasley. I am not a woofter." He dragged her forward by her collar until their faces were less than an inch apart. This close, she could see the network of tiny scars that webbed his face like misplaced laugh-lines, cut into his skin by the broken crystals of the falling chandelier when Harry had escaped from Malfoy Manor. She could feel his breath, hot and dangerous, on her lips; his grey eyes seemed suddenly deep, drawing in all the light in the room, and her with it. She swallowed involuntarily as her mind searched desperately for something she could say to him.

He flinched back abruptly and let go of her collar. Ginny dropped to sit on the stairs, shocked, and let her head fall against her knees. Malfoy stomped up the stairs past her. "I'm taking the room on the left," he announced, then marched into it and slammed the door behind him. A moment later he re-emerged, said, "On second thought, I'll take the other one," and stormed into the other room before slamming its door too.

Bloody blazing hells, she thought. I knew I should have made him stay at Hogwarts. As though things weren't already difficult enough, where he was concerned.

-----

The corridors and dorms were as empty now as they had been during Christmas of Ron's second year, when everyone had been terrified of the Heir of Slytherin. At least it wasn't terror that made the parents desperate to have their children home this year: with memories of the last two years still raw and painful, people were holding on to what they still had with all their strength.

Ron knew, intellectually, that his mum couldn't be the only exception to that. Molly had been so shattered by Fred's death that somehow it seemed impossible for them to have a normal Christmas at the Burrow. She and his dad had gone off to Romania to visit Charlie in a vain attempt to pretend that that had been the plan all along, and it wasn't because she couldn't bear to sit around the supper table with all of them but Fred. Knowing all that didn't stop it from hurting.

Quiet footsteps behind him caught his attention, and delicate arms encircled him from behind. "You aren't smiling," Hermione said quietly. "It's the holidays, and I'm not even making you study. Shouldn't you be dancing through the corridors with your boxers on your head?"

Ron chuckled weakly. He'd only done that once, as she well knew. It had been at the end of sixth year, and with Dumbledore dead and Bill savaged and things seeming darker than they ever had before... it had felt good to float merrily through the corridors in a haze of Firewhiskey, singing Christmas carols even though it was June. Sometimes he wondered if that was how Luna felt all the time; if it was, he might have to start hunting Snorklacks too. "Where's Harry?" he asked, because even if it was the hols, and he didn't have to study, there was still that worry.

"Playing with Crookshanks."

"Playing with... Hermione." He turned in her embrace and tried to give her a stern look. "That demon cat doesn't play with anyone. It tortures people."

Hermione just shrugged, obviously too overcome with the joyous holiday spirit to defend her demon cat. "Alright then. He stole Harry's Quidditch jumper and is taunting him with it."

"That's more like it." The funniest part about it was that it really was. The demon cat was showing its inner evil, the world was conspiring against Harry in a way that resembled the bogus Divination predictions they'd made up for their homework, and Hermione was here to make sure he was behaving appropriately for the situation. Things couldn't get any more normal than this, unless Snape suddenly appeared and started handing out detentions. It was too bad Ginny wasn't here to share it with them. "Do you think Ginny's alright?"

Hermione sighed, but answered as patiently as she had the last half-dozen times he'd asked. "She's fine, Ron. She'll be back in a couple of days. She's only gone to Grimmauld Place, anyway, and there's enough protective enchantments on it that a legion of Aurors couldn't get in if she didn't want them to."

"I'd still feel better if we'd gone with her. I know, I know," he added, seeing Hermione's mouth tighten. "Harry couldn't take that right now. But it's my job to worry, right? I mean, I am her big brother."

Hermione snorted in a very un-ladylike fashion. "Your job, Ronald, is to beat the stuffing out of anyone who hurts her, and to help me keep Harry from killing my cat." It would be that bloody beast's own damned fault, Ron thought, but didn't say so. There were some things that Hermione would always be unreasonable about, and homework and that dratted cat featured prominently on the list.

"Fine. But if he wrecks my Quidditch kit, I'm on Harry's side."

She gave an exaggerated sigh, but couldn't hide her smile. "Boys. What is it about you an Quidditch?"

"Girls," Ron returned with a mocking sigh. "What is it about you and demon cats?"

-----

In the musty darkness of the bedroom, Draco Malfoy sulked. If it weren't for bloody Potter the Boy Wonder, he could have been at home having a proper Christmas with his parents. There probably would have been unopposed murder and mayhem going on outside as Death Eaters celebrated the holidays, but he wasn't too concerned with that. But no, Potter just had to go and save the wizarding world. Now most of the Death Eaters were languishing in the cells of Azkaban, a fate the Malfoys had only been spared because Narcissa had saved the Boy Wonder's life. Instead, the whole family had been placed under house arrest. Draco had been allowed to go back to Hogwarts, but he wasn't even allowed out on the grounds without supervision. It was maddening.

It was also why he was currently hiding in a second-floor bedroom in Potty's house, trying to avoid nutty house elves and nuttier witches. Who he'd almost kissed. Sweet Circe, why had he done that? He covered his face and tried not to groan. In a moment of insanity, it had seemed the quickest and surest way to convince her that he was only literally left-handed, and not figuratively as well. He could go to Azkaban for sneaking away from Hogwarts, but right now Saint Mungo's was looking like a more appropriate place for him. His only consolation was that, at the last moment, sanity had firmly reasserted itself.

He hadn't even been able to storm off appropriately, he thought morosely. The first bedroom he'd walked into had been completely decorated in pink and lace, with tasteless porcelain figurines on every available surface. He didn't want to consider what a room like that was doing in Potty's house. Maybe Scarhead hadn't decorated it himself, but it didn't look like he'd done anything to change it.

So here he was, sulking in a dusty, dark bedroom as though he, Draco Malfoy, were afraid to face his enemy. Which was patently untrue. He was just extremely angry about what she'd said, and didn't want to deal with her right now. Although if he were angry, as an enemy he ought to be plotting revenge, not sulking. And as an enemy, there should have never been any compulsion to kiss her. That wasn't the way things worked. He punched the headboard in frustration. His perfect enmity was turning out to be far from perfect and, he was afraid, possibly far from enmity as well.

He should have stayed at Hogwarts. He'd have to put up with his idiotic Housemates, and those suspicious looks from the Golden Trio, but he wouldn't have to see Weasley all the time. Or break his parole and risk being carted off to Azkaban, but that was a minor worry compared to facing his enemy all the time when he was no longer certain he hated her. And now he was stuck in this musty bedroom with his unfortunate epiphany, because if he went looking for something to distract him, he might run into the cause of those unsettling thoughts. Draco punched the headboard again, because it made him feel a bit better.

It would have been easier to go to Durmstrang like his parents had wanted him to - or given up on schooling entirely, since he'd never have to work for a living anyway. That promise to Snape hadn't really been a promise to come back to Hogwarts, anyway, just a promise to think about his future before he gave up on his education. Snape had been loyal to Hogwarts, and look where that had landed him. Draco grunted in frustration and hit the headboard for a third time. He couldn't even lie convincingly to himself. He'd respected Snape, but that stupid promise had had almost nothing to do with his decision to come back.

In the past few months, Draco had watched his parents and all his family's friends throw away their dignity in a vain effort to hold on to a little of what they had. Those vindictive bastards at the Ministry and in the lobby groups wanted to see all former Death Eaters on their knees, begging for their freedom, before they were tossed in Azkaban anyway. They'd done the same under Voldemort, although what they'd begged for had been their lives and his favour, not their freedom.

Then they would turn around and tell anyone who listened about the pride and superiority of Purebloods. Draco had watched his parents plead to be allowed to stay at the Manor while their future was decided, and it had dawned on him that he had nothing to be ashamed of. Despite the stigma attached to his name, his crimes had been relatively small, and would have earned him no more than a metaphorical slap on the wrist if he'd been anyone else. He would apologize for his crimes, he'd decided, but not his name.

That was why he'd taken Snape's suggestion and returned to Hogwarts. He was a talented wizard whose family had been wizarding nobility since the days of William the Conqueror, and he had his pride; he would not run away, nor would he allow those petty sons of trolls to hound him as they wished.

Where's your pride now? something inside him sneered. Running away like a coward.

Draco thumped the headboard one more time - it really was such a soothing feeling - and stood. He would show them all that he, Draco Malfoy, was not a coward, but a force to be reckoned with - as long as he didn't run into that crazy house elf while he did.

-----

"Come on, Score, stop being such a chicken. No one's going to recognize you."

"Because your hollering like a wounded hippogriff is completely inconspicuous," Draco snapped, but grudgingly peeled himself from the shadow of the archway that led into Diagon Alley from the back of the Leaky Cauldron. "And that's not my name."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Because there's so many wizards our age named..." She wouldn't have said it anyway, but the hand he clamped over her mouth shut her up. For a fleeting second, she toyed with the idea of biting him, but then he'd kick up such a fuss that people actually would notice them. She settled for grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. "And just what is wrong with the name Scorpius, anyway? I think it suits you." Nasty, poisonous little crawler, and in Latin because he's an elitist. It suits him even better than his real name, she thought, although in truth she'd only picked it because she knew it would annoy him. Seeing his venomous glare whenever she called him 'Score' was just the icing on the cake.

"Keep it up and I'll have to start calling you Brunhilda," he retorted, pulling his hand away. "It's bad enough that I have to go around with red hair and the Weasel King's robes without that embarrassment of that name too."

"You could have stayed at the house," Ginny said, well aware that he would never have even considered it. Malfoy was as bad as the twins had always been with his compulsive need to flout authority. It was probably a big part of the reason he'd insisted on tagging along when she decided to go to Grimmauld Place, rather than obeying the terms of his parole and staying at Hogwarts.

"Bugger that," he said succinctly, before heading into the crowd of shoppers that filled Diagon Alley. "Hurry up, cousin, I'd hate to lose you."

Fighting back the urge to laugh, Ginny hurried to catch up with the newly-christened Scorpius Weasley, who was, if anyone thought to ask, visiting from northern Canada (Malfoy had, for some reason known only to himself, refused to pretend to be American). Ginny figured she'd wait until they were back at Grimmauld Place before telling him that almost no one lived in northern Canada, and anyone who did probably wasn't such a pansy when it came to the cold. At some point, she might also mention that his drawling, upper-class accent was out of character, but for now she'd sit back and enjoy the farce that was Malfoy-in-disguise. "Don't you want to know where we're going before you rush off?" she asked.

His glare said, quite clearly, that it was too cold out for her to be dawdling like this. "Fine, where are we going?"

"You wouldn't know where it is anyway, Scorpius, since you've never been here before." The heat of his glare warmed her heart and filled her with generosity and Christmas spirit. Really, he was so much fun to tease.

But he was obviously freezing, so she took a small amount of pity on him. "We're going to Madame Malkin's."

"You dragged me out in this hellish weather, and these disgusting crowds, to go dress shopping?" he demanded.

Through dint of enormous will, Ginny refrained from pointing out that she hadn't dragged him anywhere and, besides, 'hellish weather' would be a lot warmer than this. "I need to pick up Charlie's Christmas present. Ron, George and I all chipped in to get him a set of fire-proof robes." She didn't mention that George had put in a contribution from Fred as well, and talked about it as though his twin was just in the other room, and would be back any minute.

Malfoy visibly restrained himself from making a comment about their need to chip in on a gift. "He's a worse spell-caster than that Irish twit Finnegan, is he?"

"Charlie works with dragons," Ginny retorted. "And Seamus hasn't burned his eyebrows off in years."

"Just set light to the entire Charms classroom a couple of times."

There wasn't really anything Ginny could say to that, because Seamus had set the entire Charms classroom on fire twice during his sixth year, and once more in seventh. It was a bit odd, really: according to Dean, Seamus could have been in the top ten in his year if it weren't for his difficulties with anything involving fire. Her ex-boyfriend had always joked that it was all because of Seamus's fiery Irish temper.

"Bollocks," Malfoy hissed, interrupting her thoughts. Ginny glanced at him, then followed his gaze to the sandy-haired young man that was making his way through the crowd towards them. Seamus had already spotted them, and was grinning and waving. "What's the twit doing here?"

"Hush," Ginny whispered. "Scorpius doesn't know him, remember?"

"Scorpius can already tell he's a twit," Malfoy retorted before falling silent. Ginny stepped forward to meet Seamus, partially shielding Malfoy, who attempted to hide behind her without looking like he was hiding. Who's the real twit, Malfoy? she thought, but without venom.

"Ginny, lass," Seamus shouted happily, sweeping her up in a hug with far more familiarity than he ever had at Hogwarts.

"Hallo, Seamus," she said, returning the embrace only a little bit awkwardly. She'd always been fond of Seamus, and they'd gotten along well, but their closest association had always been through Dean.

He set her down, and Ginny noticed his apprehensive glance at her (temporarily) red-haired shadow. "This'd be..."

"My cousin, Scorpius," Ginny said, suddenly worried that the boy would recognize Malfoy through his thin disguise. She was about to mention the improbable part about visiting from the land of the polar bears, but Seamus had already started down a different track.

"He's not about to rough up an old pal of yours, just for being friendly-like, is he?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Ginny frowned. "My brother didn't ever..." His slight flinch was all the confirmation she needed. "Drat Ron."

"Weren't Ron, much," he muttered. "The twins were the ones who..." He broke off suddenly, going a bit pale. "I'm sorry, Ginny, I didn't mean to bring up... er, that is, I'm really sorry about..."

She patted his arm. "It's alright, Seamus." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy fidgeting, clearly wanting to leave but not about to do so by himself. "I miss Fred, but I don't mind talking about him."

"Ah, that's good then," he stammered, obviously relieved. "Bugger, that's my mum calling. Got to dash, but it was lovely to see you. You don't mind if I pop by for a visit next time I'm in the area, do you?"

"I'd like that," she assured him. "And I'm sure Harry and Ron would be very happy to see you too." His face twisted a bit oddly at that, but he didn't make a comment. After another quick hug he dashed off through the crowds, calling a farewell over his shoulder.

"Twit," Malfoy declared, as soon as Seamus was out of earshot.

Ginny glared at him. "He is not."

"Can we go, please? It's cold," he said plaintively. "And he is."

"I don't see what he ever did to you," Ginny commented, as she started off towards Madame Malkin's again. "I mean, he ignored you just there, but that just means people aren't likely to recognize you. And you deserve to be ignored once in a while, anyway."

"I was ignoring him, not the other way around," Malfoy said archly. He can't not be an arse, can he? Ginny thought. "And he's a twit because that's what he is, not because he did anything to me."

"And you're an arse."

"Only because I work really, really hard at it. I promise I can be charming if I want."

"Only in comparison to a basilisk," Ginny said. But he was making her laugh again, damn him, so maybe he could be a bit charming after all. She hoped he'd stop it soon, before she forgot that he was her enemy, and a complete arse besides.

-----

Right at the moment, a very large part of him was glad he looked nothing like his usual self. If anyone were to see Draco Malfoy like this, with his ears and nose red from the cold and his hair frosted with snow, he would never be able to recover his dignity. But no one expected Scorpius Weasley to be anything more than a commoner, so his dignity remained intact. He still wished they could go inside to warm up, though, because even if he was a Weasley, Scorpius had enough sense to come in out of the cold.

Not so Ginny Weasley, it seemed. She seemed quite content to be standing out here in the darkening gloom, surrounded by the blowing snow, chatting with yet another of her insufferable Housemates. The boy was small enough to be a goblin, and equally odious with the way he was hopping about, brandishing a camera larger than his head.

"Please, Ginny, please?" he pleaded. Draco felt the overwhelming urge to find the boy's parents and tell them not to allow their son to have anymore sugar, ever again. Watching him jump and fawn around Weasley was like watching a squirrel with a twitch circling a nut it desperately wanted.

Weasley shook her head once again. "I'm sorry, Dennis, but we'd rather not. I'm sure there's lots of other things you can photograph for practice."

"They're not as interesting. I mean, you're Harry Potter's girlfriend, and..."

Draco wasn't interested in hearing what other crowning achievements Weasley had to her name. "Let's go, Weasley," he snarled, catching her elbow to lead her away. He realized belatedly that he should have used her first name, although it wasn't as if he gave an ashwinder's arse what this little piss thought. Thinking she's special just because she's Scarhead's girlfriend... he wasn't sure what annoyed him so much about that. Perhaps it was that old annoyance: that anyone associated with Saint Potter was automatically better than the rest of them. Maybe it was the implication that the most important thing about Weasley was that she was Potty's girlfriend: what would that say about him, then, since he was her enemy? Or perhaps it was simply that Weasley was not Potty's girlfriend: she was much too good for that mad tosspot.

"Ginny," the boy whined. Draco looked over his shoulder, preparing to give the little bleater some choice words. He had an instant to register Weasley doing the same before there was a blinding flash of light.

The midget bastard lowered his camera. "Thanks, Ginny," he said with a smile that seemed completely oblivious to the two murderous glares directed at him. He turned and skipped off through the crowds.

"I'm going to kill him," Weasley muttered darkly. "And the Wizengamot can suck toads if they think to put me in Azkaban for it."

"They'll probably give you a medal," Draco answered. She didn't laugh, but she came close enough to smiling that Draco was sure that he, at least, would probably survive the backlash of her temper.

-----

A glance at the clock showed Neville it was almost eleven. With a slight frown, he closed his book and started collecting the pile of plates that sat around his potting bench. How had it gotten so late without him noticing? He'd come in just after breakfast, and all those empty plates suggested he must have eaten a couple of meals, but it still felt as though he'd only been here for an hour or two. He hadn't even noticed it when it got dark, and he was in a greenhouse, of all places. Another few years and he'd be as dotty as his old professors. His frown melted into a soft smile at the thought. Perhaps 'dotty' wasn't the right word; 'dedicated' was more respectful, and perhaps more accurate.

He wouldn't mind being a professor at Hogwarts some day. He'd like to do some field work first - get out of the greenhouses and into the remote jungles - but he could easily see himself spending years pottering about the Hogwarts greenhouses as Professor Sprout had done. Under her careful eye, the school greenhouses had flourished, and were now second in the isles only to the private domain of an eccentric Manx wizard. Neville thought that, given time and a bit of money to build an extra greenhouse or two, the Hogwarts greenhouses could be some of the best in the world. Provided, that is, the school never again saw the like of the Weasley twins, who could have brought the project crashing down for a lark.

Thoughts of the school made him wonder how Harry and the others were getting on. He'd heard that Harry and Ron still flew for the Gryffindor team, and had been meaning to go see a game for old time's sake. Perhaps he should write to Hermione (the most likely to respond) as he'd been meaning to. Friendships were very much like plants, after all - they required maintenance and watering, and sometimes a firm word about sneaking out at night (although the Hutchinson's Running Ivy was behaving itself much better these days).

Balancing his book and his dishes - how had he eaten so much without noticing? - Neville resolved to take care of that, right after he had a word with Gran about letting him get so lost in his studies. A very respectful word, that was.

-----

"I wouldn't sleep in there, if I were you." Weasley poked her head through the open doorway.

Draco yelped and snatched his towel down from drying his hair, trying to cover his bare chest. He would later attempt to deny both the yelp and the instinctive modesty, and Weasley would have the kindness to let it go with a minimum of sniggering and snide remarks. "Merlin's balls, don't you knock?"

"The door was open," she informed him, as though that meant she could prance in whenever she felt like it. "Oh, how did you manage to get that shower to work? I thought we'd tried everything."

"Did you try telling it?" he sneered.

Her mouth twisted oddly. "Yes, I suppose asking nicely won't work for much in this house, will it?" There was that look again, the one she always wore when she thought he was being a stupid, stuck-up git.

"Just because it's Potty's house now doesn't mean it's all fluffy rainbows and hugs," he snapped, once again proving that he was exactly the kind of git she thought he was. "Now can you get out so I can put on a shirt?"

She shrugged, absolutely unconcerned, and leaned against the doorframe in a way that clearly said she wasn't going anywhere. "Malfoy, half of Hogwarts has seen you without a shirt. You can't expect me to believe you have any modesty." It should have been true, but for some reason Draco really didn't want her to see him like this. It's because you look like a commoner, a part of his mind sneered, even as the rest acknowledged that maybe he didn't want her to compare him to the Boy Wonder. Draco Malfoy might be superior to the Prat Who Lived in every other regard, but he was willing to bet that Weasley preferred the Saviour of Worlds' bare chest to the Ferret's pale, hairless one. Which was a stupid thing to be concerned about, really, so he tossed the towel aside as though he didn't give a shrake's scrotum about who was watching.

"And you decided to come make a pest of yourself, why, exactly?" he asked, waving the wardrobe open. He'd been planning to sleep without a shirt as he usually did, but if she meant to be hanging around for a while, he was going to put one on. But only because he felt like it.

"I figured you might prefer one of the clean rooms upstairs. We never got around to cleaning out the ones on this floor."

She could have told him that before he'd moved in here, he thought. Or at least before he'd spent hours putting up with the dust and unpleasantness. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to clean the convenient ones first?"

"We tried. That bloody house elf would come and put all the dust back so that everything was just the way his crazy old mistress left it."

"Sounds like that elf's as barmy as Scarhead. They're a good match."

She frowned. "Don't call Harry crazy."

"It's what he is," Draco said with an easy shrug, although he felt a bit unsettled. He meant it as a joke, but he'd begun to suspect over these past few months, just from what Weasley let slip, that the Boy Wonder might not, in fact, be playing with a full deck. The tightness around her mouth just now - and when had he learned to read her so well, anyway? - told him she thought so, as well. He sighed. "Look, I..." He floundered.

The corner of her lips twitched towards a smirk - his smirk, dammit - and he knew he was forgiven, although he wasn't sure why. "Malfoy, was that you trying to apologize?"

"No," he told her, with as much dignity as he could muster. "That was... you stole my smirk, dammit. You're not allowed to do that." There it was on her face, as arrogant and coldly amused as he knew his own to be. It was slipping, though, falling towards genuine laughter that made her eyes sparkle.

"My smirk is much prettier than yours," she informed him, before her composure failed completely and she started giggling.

Sensing an argument he wasn't going to win - and which might end with him being forced to sleep in this dusty old room - Draco opted to take the moral high road and let this go. "Let's see this other room, then."

"Fine. It's this way. And put a shirt on, Malfoy - I don't want to be blinded by your pasty white chest."

Then stop looking at it, Draco thought, before deciding not to examine that thought too closely. Theirs was a purely hostile relationship, and he intended for it to stay that way.

-----
References:
Friendships are like plants: the wise and venerable pater familias

Back, sort of...

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 03:44:31 GMT

Well, I'm back from Britain, but I'm still a scarce presence on the internet (strange, considering how much time I'm spending on it). But I got back two days ago, and then I had a big family dinner (well, actually, a relatively small family dinner, since there were only ten of us), and then tomorrow I have my first med school application due in the morning (ohgodohgodohgodgonnadie!) and then in the evening I leave to move back to Ontario. That means lots of moving - I hate moving, but I have to do it twice a year, which is shitty - and then registering for the classes that the online system won't let me into, and meeting with my research supervisor (who is going to explain just how fibre optic cables, guitars, and quantum mechanics go together, since that's my research project), and... gah. If I survive the next week, I'll be back. If not, send flowers.

In other news, which I'm hiding behind an LJ cut, because it's whiny and neurotic and probably going to go on for a very long time...

What the hell is it with boys? Alright, granted, since the two who prompted this rant are of legal age in any country you care to name, they'd probably prefer to be called 'men', but with the exception of my father, if a guy is being so stupid I want to kick him, he's a boy.

Since the rest of this rant would probably reveal it anyway, I'll come right out and say it: likely, the stupid one in this instance is me. First, there's the ex-boyfriend, who I met for coffee today. He actually showed this time, as opposed to bailing an hour before, as he has the last... three times (?) that he's proposed we get together. Yes, he's the one that had a new girlfriend less than three weeks after we broke up, that said 'not now but maybe in five years, when we'll actually be in the same city for more than a month', that... gah. I could go on like this for a while. I think the phrase "bad blood under the bridge" would cover this situation nicely, even if it's an atrocious mix of cliches. But yes, I'm stupid enough that I still agree to meet with him, although it is, thankfully, less painful than it once was.

I'm not entirely sure how to label the second one. '(Until-recently) boss'? 'Friend and mentor'? 'Cradle-robber'? Most of the time I think it's one of those relationships where we just let things be, since we both know it's never, ever going to work (the term 'taboo' came up, once), but... see, a relationship like that would be called a mutual understanding, and I don't think that applies when half the time I have no fucking clue where I stand with him. I like to tell myself he's even more confused than I am: I don't know if it's true, but it helps. But I hate taking the lead in a relationship, especially when I'm getting mixed signals from the other end (I'm probably not alone in this, but it needs to be said).

So, if anyone is ever curious as to why there are almost no normal, stable, sane relationships in my writing, that above might give you a fair idea. I don't think I've ever actually had one, to be honest. Those two above - the one who won't let go, even though I forced him to dump me for his own emotional well-being, and the guy who is way too old for me and probably doesn't even know his own mind - are the two most normal I've had.

I would be inclined to be melodramatic, and swear off romance entirely and grow to be a crazy old lady with a thousand cats, but I don't think it would work - it's not a vow I could keep, for one thing. At least I'm about to move two thousand miles away, which will at least remove these two idiots for the equation and thus, hopefully, make me less of an idiot.

There we go: as promised, a whiny, neurotic, utterly pointless rant about the biggest cause of stress in my life, but which should be a non-entity when compared to the stress of moving, applying for medical schools, and trying to build a quantum microphone (whatever the hell that is). I think I'm done whining now; I'll get around to posting something actually, ya know, constructive or whatever sometime this week.

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 23:53:34 GMT

So two things. First,

Although I've been posting, I haven't actually been writing. I really, really hate it when I have ideas and plots all mapped out, but the words just won't go onto the page - a prime example being All Their Sins, or the Shigure/Kureno/Akito-triangle fic I have planned, or chapter 15 of Tangled Webs, or the fight scene in the next Rumours installment, or... yeah. Long list. Not that I can type anyway, because I have a new laptop, and I'm in the middle of transferring 20G of music from my crappy old Dell, and it's taking forever, during which time both computers are out of commission. But at least I still have internet, by using my old, old Toshiba with it's quasi-fried OS and destroyed sound card (I broke the sound card, but the damn IT guys broke the OS - and wanted to charge me for it, the bastards). So, anyway, those are my excuses for not writing.

My excuse for the forthcoming week, during which I won't be posting, it that I'm shipping off to Wales for family-type stuff. Lots of apprehension, lots of nervousness about the whole traveling-for-fifteen-hours-each-way-for-the-sake-of-three-days thing, etc, etc. Point is, I'll be gone.

Also, a meme. Tagged by nonoji. I know I've seen a couple of other people do this one before, so if you haven't done it, consider yourself tagged. You know who you are. I won't be checking, but I'll know *cue creepy music*

RULES:

Type your cut contents here.

- Pick your birth month.
- ~~Strike out anything that doesn't apply to you.~~
- Bold (or italicize) the five to ten that best apply to you.
- Copy to your journal, with all twelve months under an lj-cut.
- Tag 5 people from your friends list to do this meme (optional).

I'm afraid this one doesn't come out as too complimentary. But then, there aren't a lot of options for us January-folk that don't make us look like evil ice queens/kings.

JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people's flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. ~~Hardworking and~~ productive. Smart, ~~neat and organized~~. ~~Sensitive and~~ has deep thoughts. ~~Knows how to make others happy~~. ~~Quiet unless excited or tensed~~. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses ~~but prone to colds~~. ~~Romantic but~~ has difficulties expressing love. ~~Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet~~ easily jealous. Very stubborn and money cautious.
-
FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shy and humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom. Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn. Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous. Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.
-
MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved. Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered. Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves travelling. Loves attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors. Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.
-
APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret. Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention. Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people's problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.
-
MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves travelling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.
-
JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous. Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.
-
JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation. Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people's feelings. Tactful. Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets. Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving. Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves to be alone. Always broods about the past and the old friends. Likes to be quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems. Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.
-
AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.
-
SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people's mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed. Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding. Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.
-
OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn't pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.
-
NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive. Inquisitive. Knows how to dig secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there is a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others. Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited. Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.
-
DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations. Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions. Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

THE SECOND MEME:
appearance:

I am 5'4 or shorter.
I think I'm ugly sometimes.
I have many scars.
I tan easily. Nope, I just burn.
I wish my hair was a different colour.
I have friends who have never seen my natural hair color.
I have a tattoo.
I am self-conscious about my appearance.
I have/I've had braces.
I wear/own glasses.
I'd get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free, scar-free. They can't do what I want, which is straighten my nose from it's post-break crookedness. I've asked.
I've been told I'm attractive by a complete stranger.
I have more than 2 piercings.
I have piercings in places besides my ears.
I have freckles. Grew out of them.

family/home life:

I've sworn at my parents.
I've been kicked out of the house.
My biological parents are together.
I have a sibling less than one year old.
I want to have kids someday. A long, long way off. Maybe.
I have children.
I've lost a child.

embarrassment:

I've slipped out a "lol" in a spoken conversation.
Disney movies still make me cry.
I've snorted while laughing.
I've laughed so hard I've cried.
I've glued my hand to something. I've had my hand frozen to something. Does that count?
I've laughed till some kind of beverage came out of my nose.
I've had my pants rip in public. Just a swimsuit.

health:

I was born with a disease/impairment. Dead, if that counts.
I've had stitches.
I've broken a bone.
I've had my tonsils removed.
I've sat in a doctor's office with a friend. Hospital, actually.
I've had my wisdom teeth removed.
I had a serious surgery.
I've had chickenpox.

traveling:

I've driven over 200 miles in one day.
I've been on a plane.
I've been to Canada. I live in Canada, so this is a silly question. But I've been to the States.
I've been to Niagara Falls. I haven't, actually. I've been to Niagara twice, but never gone to see the falls.
I've been to Japan.
I've Celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
I've been to Europe.
I've been to Africa.
I've been to France.

experiences:

I've been lost in my city.
I've seen a shooting star.
I've wished on a shooting star.
I've seen a meteor shower.
I've gone out in public in my pajamas.
I've pushed all the buttons on an elevator.
I've been to a casino.
I've been skydiving.
I've gone skinny dipping.
I've played spin the bottle.
I've crashed a car.
I've been skiing. String it all together, and I've spent four years on skis. It helps that we have eight months of winter here.
I've been in a play.
I've met someone in person from the internet.
I've caught a snowflake on my tongue.
I've seen the Northern Lights.
I've sat on a roof top at night.
I've played chicken.
I've played a prank on someone.
I've ridden in a taxi.
I've seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
I've eaten Sushi.
I've been snowboarding.

relationships:

I'm single.
I'm in a relationship.
I'm available.
I'm engaged.
I'm married.
I've gone on a blind date.
I've been the dumpee more than the dumper.
I miss someone right now.
I have a fear of abandonment.
I've been divorced.
I've had feelings for someone who didn't have them back.
I've told someone I loved them when I didn't.
I've told someone I didn't love them when I did.
I've kept something from a past relationship.

sexuality:

I've had a crush on someone of the same gender.
I've kissed a member of the same gender. She kissed me. I'm not sure that counts.
I've had sex with someone of the opposite gender.
I've had sex with someone of the same gender.
I've had sex with more than one person at the same time.
I am a cuddler.
I've been kissed in the rain.
I've had sex outdoors.
I've hugged a stranger.
I’ve kissed a stranger.
I have had sex with a stranger.

honesty/crime:

I've done something I promised someone else I wouldn't.
I've done something I promised myself I wouldn't.
I have lied to my parents about where I am.
I am keeping a secret from the world. I don't have 'secrets'. I just don't tell anyone anything.
I've cheated while playing a game.
I've cheated on a test.
I've run a red light.
I've been suspended from school. Only in-school suspensions.
I've witnessed a crime.
I've been in a fist fight.
I've been arrested.
I've shoplifted.

drugs/alcohol:

I've consumed alcohol.
I smoke cigarettes.
I smoke pot.
I regularly drink.
I've taken painkillers when I didn't need them.
I've done hard drugs.
I've been addicted to an illegal substance.
I take cough meds when I'm not sick.
I can't swallow pills.
I can swallow about 5 pills at a time no problem.

mental health:

I have been diagnosed with depression.
I shut others out when I'm depressed.
I take anti-depressants.
I have an eating disorder.
I've slept an entire day when I didn't need it.
I'm addicted to self harm.
I've woken up crying.

death:

I'm afraid of dying.
I hate funerals. I've never been to one, actually.
I've seen someone dying.
I have attempted suicide.
Someone close to me has attempted suicide.
Someone close to me has committed suicide.

random:

I can sing well.
I've stolen a tray from a fast food restaurant. And then used it as a toboggan!
I open up to others too easily.
I watch the news.
I don't kill bugs.
I hate hearing songs that sacrifice meaning for sake of being able to rhyme.
I curse regularly.

I sing in the shower.
I am a morning person. If I have coffee.
I paid for my cell phone ring tone.
I'm a snob about grammar.

I am a sports fanatic. Certain sports.
I play with my hair.
I have/had "x"s in my screen name.
I love being neat.
I love Spam
I've copied more than 30 CD's in a day. I’ve downloaded that many.
I bake well.
My favorite colour is either white, yellow, pink, red or blue.
I don't know how to shoot a gun.
I am in love with love.
I am guilty of tYpInG lIkE tHiS.
I laugh at my own jokes. I’m the only one who gets most of them.
I eat fast food weekly.
I believe in ghosts.
I am online 24/7, even as an away message.
I can't sleep if there is a spider in the room.
I am really ticklish.
I love white chocolate.
I bite my nails.
I play video games.
I'm good at remembering faces.
I'm good at remembering names.
I'm good at remembering dates.
I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life.
My answers are totally honest. As close as I’ll ever get. Anonymity allows it