Even Muse's Need Inspiration

"If you can't run to save yourself, then you deserve to be had..."

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 11:52:44 GMT

This is partly because I promised to spam and partly because Sophie wanted new music, so I'm linking her to this post. I had so many others I wanted to put in so expect another one some time soon. Meh, and feel free to snag any of them. These have comments under them simply because otherwise Soph won't DL.

CocoRosie: Werewolf
This band is awesome. Two sisters and they play instruments on kid's toys. This is one of the best songs on their latest CD and oh my God is it fantastic. I can't think of anything else to say about the song but that.

Neko Case: I Wish I Was the Moon
Case is bloody brilliant. She has an amazing voice, she writes some of the best songs in the whole bloody world and she's duetted with and supported some of my favourite artists. This song is achingly sad in parts, if you really listen to it, and it really shows what a voice she has.

The Presets: Are You The One?
His voice is odd. No, seriously. Really, really odd but the tune is cool and I like dancing. 'Nuff said.

Duke Special: Last Night I Nearly Died
Duke Special (Peter Wilson) is a Northern Irish artist and holy fucking God, is he awesome. I went to a gig of his about two year ago, fell in love with his stuff and my love has not waned. This song is kind of a cross between Motown and Spoon and it's ridiculously catchy.

The Faint: Symptom Finger
I like techno and I like The Faint. This song, again, is ridiculously catchy and you will find yourself singing parts of it at all times unless, you know, you're inhuman.

The Hold Steady: Stuck Between Stations
Not the best song ever, but it's still pretty good and The Hold Steady are awesome and very cool live. It's a sin not to have heard their music.

Jens Lenkman: Your Beat Kicks Back Like Death
So. Everyone knows him. Or everyone should. And this is a cover of something but I forget who sang the original and I'm not looking it up. Nonetheless, this song is horridly, amazingly cool and you actually do whistle along.

The Be Good Tanyas: When Doves Cry
Cover of the Prince song, by a folk band. I love, love, love me some folk music on occasion and The Be Good Tanyas are awesome. They've amazing voices and know how to play their instruments. This is a really good cover and it works wonderfully, which you mightn't expect given it is a folk band covering Prince. Doesn't seem likely that it's brilliant but it is.

Danielson: Propaganda for a Comic Strip
This is just odd. But I like it anyway.

The Mountain Goats: Dance Music
The Mountain Goats are two hundred times cooler than most of the bands out there. Their subject matters tend to be darker and more depressing, largely due to Darnielle's influence and, well, because he writes their lyrics. They're very, very good and this song, like many others, deals with his relationship with his step-father. Personally, I don't believe that this is their best song but it is gorgeous and I loved it when I heard it live which is saying something. Usually when you hear bands live they suck: The Mountain Goats don't. Enough to make them worth a listen to in my book.

Great Lake Swimmers: Your Rocky Spine
Absolutely fucking brilliant and, really, that applies to all the songs here but this is really cool. The Great Lake Swimmers are truly brilliant and, while they can set a foot wrong, this isn't a time when they do it.

Arab Strap: You Shook Me All Night Long
Most bands cannot cover AC/DC and get away with it. They just can't. This is because AC/DC is a band made of win and the fact that Arab Strap managed it and well makes me squee. Magnificent cover and it's live and still magnificent.

M. Ward and Norah Jones: Guess Things Happen That Way
Live and pretty crappy quality but their voices still shine through and still sound beautiful. A cover of a Johnny Cash song, obviously, and anyone who doesn't know that does not win.

Lostprophets: Cry Me A River
Live. I love Lostprophets to ridiculous amounts and it made me giggle that they covered a Justin Timberlake song. I really like this version, more so than the original.

Silversun Pickups: Future Foe Scenarios
I am getting rather bored of writing this but this song is so cool. It's got amazing guitars, class vocals. Good rock song.

A Fine Frenzy: Ashes and Wine
Alison Sudol is a gorgeous, gorgeous woman with gorgeous, gorgeous songs. Her voice is heartbreaking as are her lyrics and this song is one of the best on her album.

Babylon Zoo: Spaceman (Go Home Production remix)
This is just cool, techno-y dance music. There's no excuse for it being here other than that.

M. Ward: It Won't Happen Twice
I really wish I could go see this guy. He isn't amazing, he isn't magnificent, or awesome, or cool. He is the shit. He owns at everything. My friends largely don't like him and I didn't when I first heard him--I'm going to post that song later, I think, the first one I heard I mean--and the only one to give me a reason was that his voice was odd and they suspected it was an acquired taste. I agree with this, I suppose. You do have to listen to him a few times but, God, is it worth it. No one beats Ward. He and Radiohead are my two favourite artists of all time. He's gained popularity recently though I'm not sure if it's that much because it'd be mostly in America he has. Any road, he has paired off with people like Bright Eyes (very, very often. Oberst and Ward are great friends), Neko Case, Jim James, Jenny Lewis and Zooey Deschanel. Indeed, Ward and Deschanel are releasing an album together in March and I have a lot of the tracks on it already because I am obsessive. Anyway, this song is off his first album from 2000 and whilst many would argue it's not his best I think it's unbelievable. People argue that his newer stuff is better and I do like it, don't get me wrong. "Headed for a Fall" is one of my favourite songs of the moment. But this? This is still one of the best ones in his backlog, I think.

Silverchair: Emotion Sickness
If you don't know who Silverchair are fix that. Now. Seriously.

Can you tell I fangirl M. Ward? I've also been in fangirling Duke Special mode as of late but I don't have a lot of his stuff up on Box and it just crapped out on me completely so can't force more on any of you or on Sophie.

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 21:00:46 GMT

Wow. It's been so long since I logged into this thing I completely forgot what the password was. That doesn't surprise me in the least, considering that the last entry I made was what? Back in August '07? Something like that, anyway.

Anyhow, I spent the last few months being absolutely run off my feet. I've been travelling a lot, 'round Ireland--both the North and South--and the U.K. as well as a few places abroad. I've had a horrid amount of fun, a horrid amount of times I've wanted to kill people and get generally frustrated at everything and there's been a horrid amount of time I've been so close to coming home, sitting down and just doing nothing. Like I was before.

I guess it was part of the reason I left home. I don't like doing nothing and I do it far too much. I get restless easily and after spending two years living on my own being forced into close proximity with three siblings, my parents and that bleeding dog just annoyed the piss out of me. I said it was for educational purposes, of course, which was kind of bollocks. I've kept up with my courses via mail, or e-mail, so I guess I'm lucky that way.

I'm only back recently. Like, seriously? My flight from Paris landed in Heathrow a fortnight ago. I've spent the last few days signing up to go to proper classes again, actually seeing my old friends instead of the e-mails I got sent to my personal e-mail (I say this because I see a terrifying amount of e-mails in my address linked to this account and I think a few people e-mailed me as well as LJ notifications), and just generally being run off my feet. This is the first time I've really thought to check this thing proper in ages.

Meh, I'm rambling and most of you don't care but I have to write it somewhere. And I've went off enough on all my mates that they're liable to kill me if I talk some more.

The weather was generally not nice, but abroad it was grand. Coming back and within two weeks we've had snow, torrential rain and, there, hailstones walking home from an interview for a job. Joy.

I do, however, have an extra twelve hours a week to add onto my training, classes and my other job. It's not that bad, I'm sure, but it looks a lot down there. I'm sighing right now. I wanted time to settle in first.

Of course, I didn't want to be sick either which I am right now. Horribly, annoying sick.

As a note, I've got scarily into weird, weird music (Joy Division doesn't count, though it's what I'm listening to at the moment). Like, seriously. At one point I'm spamming this journal with links to cool music.

Dude. Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward's CD? Should hurry up and be released.

Stopping now because I've rambled so much I suspect a cut is in order.

Cure For Writer's Block, Anyone?

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 16:46:41 GMT

I know it doesn't seem it since I've posted stories on this LJ in the past few days but, in all honesty, Come Hell or High Water chapter three has been all typed up for over a month now and, like I said, the prologue has been on my hard drive for about two months. Right now, I'm sitting on chapter thirteen for Come Hell or High Water and ... I have nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Fuck all, frankly.

Yep, that's right. I have writer's block. I've sat down every day this week and last and the week before that to write and I think in that time I have managed to type oh say, seven paragraphs. Three weeks and seven paragraphs. I am not very happy with myself.

So, with this in mind, I thought I would appeal to all the writer's on my flist -- the people who are writers now, or who used to be, it doesn't matter. The ability to write never leaves you, you just get tired of the bloody thing. But every writer has suffered from writer's block at one point. How have you got over it? What specific thing do you do to make this disease that irks me so leave you alone? Because I swear if I can't overcome this soon I will cry. Writing is my life; both fanfic and original. And I despise being struck down by writer's block because that's how my last story got abandoned and ... I really don't want to do that. So, please, writers ... do you have a cure for writer's block?

Help?

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 16:36:04 GMT

I know I haven't posted squat really ... well nothing but fic and a few random blabs and y'all probably hate me for doing this but I literally will get down on my knees and beg you all for some feedback on this. I wrote this a while ago -- about two months, I think -- with maybe two chapters after it and I have no idea whether it's worth working further on. I want to know what you all think and please be honest here because I don't want to waste time writing this piece of shit that people would much rather spit on.

Y'know, from that you wouldn't think I'd had a good day but I have. Oh well, *shrugs*.

So, here's the prologue for a piece I'm working on. Or rather, was. Tell me what you think? Please? I'll stop now.

Prologue

June, 1998

“Run, Draco!”

If Draco had been in his usual frame of mind it was possible that he would have sneered at Severus Snape for saying something so asinine, so obvious, and would have made a comment along the lines of, “No, really, I thought it would be high time I tried out my waddling skills.” As it was Draco was far from in his usual frame of mind and instead of sneering, or spouting sarcastic comments, he nodded ― even though he knew Snape couldn’t see him ― and began to run faster than he had in his life, his legs working quicker and quicker, muscles straining and crying out at the pressure he was putting them under but not once did he stop and not once did he dare look round. He just kept running, kept his head down, kept pushing himself and kept forcing his body, his aching legs, to carry him towards the nearest exit from the school because that’s what he’d been told to do and at that moment in time his own brain wasn’t functioning too well.

It wasn’t long before he heard the quickened breath of his teacher behind him, felt his presence running towards him and finally drawing level with him. He almost sighed in relief but knew it would have been a waste of breath. Instead he inclined his head in Snape’s direction and nodded slightly.

“Don’t bloody nod at me you damn foolish boy,” Snape snarled. “Just keep bloody running until we can Apparate!”

Draco almost nodded again but knew that it was very likely Snape would Avada Kedavra him if he even dared. So instead he just increased his pace, purposely pushing all the noises being made behind him, the shouts, the cries, the yells, the sounds of battle out of his mind because it was the only way he was going to get out of this. As long as he didn’t think about it, it would be okay. He would be okay. Oh Merlin please let him be okay.

The instant they passed the boundaries of the school ― and they had run towards the Forbidden Forest as it was the closest exit ― Draco felt Snape’s hand roughly encircle his wrist and a second later that gut-churning sensation of Side-Along Apparation overcame him. He barely stopped to think that he hated Side-Along Apparation far more than normal Apparation because by then there were so many things making his stomach heave and roil that he refused to blame it entirely on one sensation. Images of Fenrir Greyback flashing in his mind’s eye, the dead body he had stepped over on the way up to the Astronomy Tower, of Dumbledore, pale, old and grey, lying there, falling off the tower all contributed to the fact that when he and Snape had successfully managed to Apparate away he fell to his knees and began to vomit spectacularly, the meagre meals he had forced himself to eat for the past few days rising up into his throat and spewing out. It was awful and tasted horrendous but no matter how much Draco’s inner voice ― the one that sounded suspiciously like his father ― told him he was being weak and pathetic and yelled at him to stop he kept throwing up until there was literally nothing left in his stomach to throw up and he was just retching dryly, which was an even worse sensation and made his throat burn unpleasantly.

He had not been aware of the hand running up and down his back beforehand but he was now and the thought that Snape had not yelled at him once caused him to crack open eyes he had slammed shut and turn his head slightly to look at his professor ― ex-professor now; he supposed seeing as it was unlikely either of them would ever return to Hogwarts.

Snape was watching him impassively, skin only slightly sallower than usual although his cheeks were stained red from exertion. Draco quirked an eyebrow at him, meaning it to look inquisitive and aloof but the image was ruined by the pallor of his skin and the pool of vomit not far in front of him.

“Better?” Snape inquired; Draco nodded. “Good. We have to move.”

It took several tries for Draco to croak: “Again?”

Snape nodded and stepped backwards, dropping his hand from Draco’s back. “Yes. Here isn’t safe. I daresay the Order is too preoccupied to be looking for us at this moment ― hopefully Alastor will hold them back ― but the Dark Lord is no doubt tracking us at the moment. Gather your wits, Draco. You’ll need them.”

Draco looked blankly at Snape for several moments, uncomprehending until it hit him heavily like a ton of bricks. “Excuse me?” he spluttered. “Aren’t we supposed to go to the Dark Lord? Aren’t we … what do you mean Alastor will hold them back?”

Draco had been pretty sure Snape didn’t know anyone named Alastor although, he supposed, it was a stupid thing to think he knew all of Snape’s dealings.

Apparently Snape thought the same thing as he was now sneering at Draco and had held out his arm, offering it to Draco to grasp. “I mean exactly what I said, Draco. Alastor shall hold them back. Also I am aware that you have not been under the Dark Lord’s rule for long enough to know this but, listen closely here; he doesn’t care about you or your family, Draco. You failed him and he will kill you and your parents, make no mistake about it. Oh, yes, Dumbledore may be dead but you did not do it and therefore you failed your mission ― at least you did in his eyes. That is how he will justify it and because of that you shall die and the Dark Lord will not consider you, or Lucius, that big of a loss. So I can’t possibly return you to him, can I? After all I swore an Unbreakable Vow to protect you and keep you alive and I must continue to do so.”

Draco shook his head slowly, trying to wade through all the information he had just been given through the haze that had settled over his brain. It was hard and his movement ― he himself ― felt groggy but he finally managed to form a question which did not make him sound as large an idiot as he felt in his mind. “Where are we going then? Is Mother going to be there? And, Snape, who the Hell is Alastor?”

Snape looked coldly down his nose at him before sighing and shaking lank locks of black hair out of his face. “Take my arm, Draco, it won’t bite. I’m pretty sure it’s unable to, not having teeth, but then again maybe it’ll make an exception for you. Your mother may or may not join you ― she’s not aware of where you are going at the moment but I would have thought you had figured it out by now. At this moment we are going to collect a few items which will endear you to the Light side so much so that they will have no choice but to take you in. Then, we are going to find Potter and pray he takes you in which is more than likely exactly what he will do considering I am pretty sure he knows exactly what happened on that tower ― what other reason would he have for targeting me instead of you? And Alastor is an old colleague of mine … well I thought he was. Mad-Eye Moody,” he added at Draco’s look of complete incomprehension. “Surely you remember him.”

Draco gulped. “I do.”

“Good.” Snape thrust his arm forwards once more. “You’ll need to remember it because when Potter asks you for inside proof that you won’t kill them all in their sleep ― and believe me he will ― Alastor will be the one to verify it. Understood?” Draco nodded and Snape very nearly smiled. “Good. Would you know kindly take my arm? We have work to do.”

Draco slowly dragged himself to his feet, aware that his limbs felt like lead, shaking his head to clear the fog which had settled over it and reached forwards, wrapping his fingers around Snape’s arm. It was a second before they Apparated away that Draco realised they had been in bedroom in the Manor, possibly for the last time. His last thought before they disappeared was that he sincerely hoped one of the house elves slipped on the vomit.

Five months later ― November

There was teeth at his throat, biting, nipping, and then a tongue laving over the bite marks before the teeth resumed their ministrations as they always did. And they always bit down too hard and there was always a brief, rushed apology on a breath but Draco didn’t mind. He didn’t mind as long as the bloody prick didn’t take his hand off his cock because he was sure if he did that he would Avada Kedavra the infuriating bastard.

“I hate you sometimes, Malfoy,” Potter’s voice breathed in his ear, just before he nipped lightly at the earlobe and Draco gasped loudly. “Detest you. How can you do these things? How?!”

Draco thrust his hand up inside Potter’s shirt and hastily searched out his nipple, closing cool fingers over it and twisting harshly, for pain and not pleasure. At Potter’s sharp, short intake of breath he leaned over and returned Potter’s earlier favour, nipping at his neck, his ears, his jaw and biting too hard occasionally. He licked a trail up Potter’s jaw and dipped his tongue into Potter’s ear, before drawing back and whispering softly in his ear, “Because I can. Because I have to.”

“But you don’t have to.” Potter’s hand sped up slightly on his cock and his thumb ran across the slit and Draco’s breath all but evaporated in his chest. He was sure he would have forgotten to breathe if Potter hadn’t chosen that moment to thrust his tongue into his mouth, quickly, so that Draco didn’t have a chance to return the kiss before he was drawing back. “You have a choice.”

Draco growled in his throat; part frustration at Potter’s stubborn persistence on talking about this whole sordid affair and part annoyance that all Potter was doing was jerking him off when he would much prefer to have Potter’s mouth on his cock or Potter inside him. Or Putter buggering off so he wouldn’t have to deal with his moral dilemmas. “I chose already, Potter.”

Potter pressed his face into Draco’s neck and thrust his hips forward into Draco’s, moving his hand out of Draco’s underwear just in time so that their cocks came in contact, through only two layers of cotton. Both of them moaned at the contact. “Take the choice back, change it. I don’t like the choice you made.”

“It’s my choice, Potter, that’s the point,” Draco growled, thrusting upwards, desperately trying to ensure his entire lower body was touching Potter’s, whilst his hands roved over Potter’s chest, twisting his nipples, whilst Potter’s teeth and tongue returned to their routine of biting and licking. “It’s my choice, I made it, and I’ll live with it.”

“But―”

The groan Draco made now was pure frustration, annoyance and anger and Potter knew it, Draco knew, because his hips started canting more furiously into Draco’s and he bit down especially hard at the junction of Draco’s collarbone. He almost winced but instead he plunged his hands into Potter’s hair, seizing handfuls of soft, black hair and yanking Potter’s face up until his nose was pressing against his cheekbone and he was staring into vivid green eyes.

“Shut up, you sanctimonious prick,” Draco hissed. “Shut up and stop giving me lectures and making me regret choices I made for my own good, for my families own good and ultimately for the wizarding world’s own good because you don’t agree with them. Just shut up!” Draco was well aware that Potter was oblivious but if he did not catch on that Draco was pissed now, Draco was sure that the other would be suited for the insanity ward in St. Mungo’s. One had to be insane if they were that dense.

Potter licked Draco’s lower lip tentatively; his eyes searching Draco’s, searching desperately for something Draco didn’t want to know about. After a moment his eyes dulled slightly when he didn’t find it and he let out a sigh against Draco’s mouth and he stopped thrusting his hips towards Draco. Draco keened in frustration.

“Potter,” Draco said, voice low. “I said shut up, not stop. If you don’t proceed to fuck me senseless, right now, I will castrate you and don’t think I don’t know the spell to do it, because I bloody well do.”

Potter laughed softly, the sound light and airy and then ducked his head, capturing Draco’s mouth in a long, passionate kiss that would have robbed anyone else for breath and rendered them unable to talk: Draco had yet to come across anyone or anything that robbed him of the power of speech.

“Potter,” Draco repeated and he would not admit this time that his voice sounded a little breathless. “Stop being such a girl and get the lube already.”

Potter chuckled again but a moment later Draco felt a tentative finger prodding at his arse and he smiled.

Seven months later ― July

“Draco,” Potter yelled and Draco could hear his voice clearly even though it was so hoarse and sounded like he had just been forced to swallow a million knives. “Draco!”

Draco turned his head away from Potter and glared resolutely up at the sky, refusing to look around him at the faces of people who hated him, feared him, pitied him. Detested him. He tried not to let it get through to him and pretended that his eyes weren’t watering.

“Draco!” Potter yelled again and Draco could hear loud footsteps behind him that indicated someone was chasing after him. He spared a glance sideways at the tall wizard who had a tight grip on his elbow. The man had glanced back over his shoulder at Potter and looked stunned that he, of all people, was trying to get Draco’s attention. After all, to him, Draco was nothing but another scumbag who deserved to be burned at the stake at best. Draco closed his eyes.

“DRACO!” Potter practically thundered it now and he was right behind Draco, grabbing his elbow and spinning him around with a strength and ferocity that dislodged the large wizard’s strong grip on his elbow. Potter was staring at him, green eyes wide, jet-black hair messier than usual, face pale and what appeared to be tear tracks running down his face. It struck Draco then that he had never seen Potter cry: not once in seven years. It was a stupid thing to focus on but he focused on it nonetheless because it could get him through today; focusing on the mundane things that he never really cared about and still didn’t.

He realised Potter was looking at him as if he was gazing on the first sunrise he’d ever seen in his life, a small smile on his lips, a hopeful light to his eyes, and Draco suddenly hated him more passionately that he had ever before because Potter was going to be happy, and going to be loved by everyone, and going to be lauded as the hero and Draco was going to be miserable and lonely and cold and no one was going to give a flying fuck about all he had sacrificed and lost for their miserable arses. Draco wasn’t going to be lauded as a hero: he was going to be hated as a criminal.

White-hot rage coiled tight within his chest and, as always, he allowed himself to lash out at the first person, the first thing, in front of him that had ever offended or hurt him in anyway. He sneered angrily at Potter and ignored the way a nonplussed expression crossed Potter’s face.

“Get your fucking hands off me now, Potter, and don’t you ever bloody touch me again,” snarled Draco and he was proud of the venom in his voice at that moment. “I never wanted you to touch me, you know, and now there’s no need to pretend anymore so don’t ever do it again or I may vomit, you little shit.”

Potter’s face screwed up and the small smile which had been playing on his lips vanished. Draco’s heart gave a painful twist but he refused to acknowledge it and instead forced all emotion into a small locked box somewhere deep inside of him like his father had taught him all those years ago.

“Draco?” Potter sounded much less sure now and he looked confused, hurt … betrayed.

“It’s Malfoy to you, Potter,” Draco sneered. He hated himself.

“Draco …” Potter trailed off. “Malfoy. What … I’m sorry. I ― I’ll try to get you out. I’m sorry. They’re … I ― I lo―”

In that moment, something inside Draco knew what Potter was going to say even though his brain refused to acknowledge it and it was as if all sense and reason and emotions which weren’t hatred and spite and the desire to hurt had left him. He felt angry and ashamed and lost and so damned hurt that no one gave a damn that he had lost his bloody mother because he’d made the right choice in the end. He felt alone and afraid and smaller than he had even when he started Hogwarts and right now there was no one in front of him but the boy ― the man ― who was responsible, in some twisted way, for his mother’s death and he hated him with all his heart because he was so sure if his mother was here she would make it right and stroke his hair tenderly and sing to him when it was all over and done with.

So Draco did the only thing he could think of, the most undignified thing he could think of, the thing that his mother would most disapprove of but she wasn’t here anymore so what did it matter? He pulled his head back and then, snapping his neck forward slightly, spat angrily right in Potter’s face, sneering at him.

Potter flinched away as his face was coated in spit and then blinked, confused. Draco’s face contorted and his anger ran through his blood at a terrifying pace, causing his pulse to quicken to an almost dangerous level. He knew behind him the tall wizard and his reinforcements were clawing at his elbows, his chest, his arms and his legs but he kicked out furiously, face red with anger, eyes shining with unshed tears and madness and grief and hatred and white-blonde hair falling in front of his face.

“I fucking hate you!” Draco screamed. “I HATE YOU! I hate you and I never bloody liked you and now that I no longer have to spend night after night forcing myself to not scream when you lay your filthy hands on me I WON’T DO IT ANYMORE! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! You spoiled everything! Everything! I detest you and I never want to see you again! So fuck off and leave me alone! Leave me alone, you fucking arsehole! ALONE! I hate you!” An inner voice, which he tried to clamp down on, whispered in his head, ‘And yourself Draco. You hate yourself.’

The tall wizard, along with two other wizards, finally managed to restrain him properly, large, capable hands clamping down on him for they weren’t allowed to use magic to restrain him yet. That came for later. Draco was almost glad they had managed to restrain him because he now felt so drained he doubted he could move again for a long time with any amount of energy.

They spun him quickly and frogmarched him towards the courtroom but they weren’t quick enough to stop him from seeing Potter’s face, Potter’s reaction to his words and Draco was forced to take back what he had thought earlier: in seven years he had seen Harry Potter cry once. One single tear which flowed softly down his face and which he wiped away quickly so Draco was sure no one but he had seen it.

But he had seen it.

Totally Jodie Marsh gags

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 17:08:06 GMT

First of all I want to make this abundantly clear: this is NOT a joke. I am being 110% serious. Now that that is out of the way I can begin.

So, I was flicking through the Sky magazine, as you do when you want to find out what's on Sky. Y'know, it's a completely normal thing to do and not out of the ordinary at all. I was reading through some of the information about their featured programs when I came across the info for a new reality T.V. show called Totally Jodie Marsh: Who'll Take Her Up the Aisle.

I hate reality T.V. shows on principle: I think they're utterly ridiculous but this one ... this one was born of the inner-workings of some stupid arseholes mind, I'm sure. What happens is Jodie Marsh, who to put it nicely is a glamour girl and a bit of a slapper, goes on dates. With random blokes. Off the street. Because she wants to get married. Sorry, but can someone explain the sense behind this to me. Because, frankly, I just don't get it. Why would anyone who respected themselves do this? It's degrading, it's repulsive, and people are marketing it for others to watch. Don't believe? Here's an article to prove it. Plus, you get an idea from the picture what kind of person Jodie Marsh is if you've never heard of her.

Besides making me feel rather ill, and convincing me that Jodie is immensely stupid, I'll admit it gave me a bit of laugh. At her, though, and certainly not with her.

Come Hell or High Water: Chapter Three

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 16:29:40 GMT

Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every one/ two weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there are a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author's Notes:Thanks so much to lunadragon The Beta (yes, with capitals), who whipped this chapter into shape far better than Kingsley ever could and made me grin like a loon with her Ginny commentary. And, as always, thank you to ravenqueen55 who read my first draft and told me how horribly OOC Harry was! Thank you ladies for making this so much easier than I thought it would be!
Previous Chapters: Chapter One| Chapter Two

Chapter Three
Ulysses

Harry’s sleep had always been plagued with nightmares. He had struggled with them so regularly over the years that he thought little of it when he was woken once again by nightmares, some of which reflected real experiences and others which burned his subconscious with their terrifying images. Ever since Dumbledore’s death only three short months ago, Harry’s nightmares had increased in regularity. Lately he had found himself unable to sleep many nights because of the images his brain assaulted him with whenever he desperately tried to grab a hold on tantalising tendrils of sleep. As a result of this, it wasn’t uncommon for Harry to be the first to wake in his particular bunkhouse in the barracks ― bunkhouse number nine ― nor was it uncommon for him to be the first to wander into the canteen, usually shortly after six in the morning. Harry had never been an early morning person and, even when he did not sleep the night before, needed at least two cups of coffee to restore his mind to proper working order.

He was cradling a cup of warm coffee in his palms, staring down into dark brown depths, when the canteen door opened and he raised his eyes to see a slim girl enter the room. She was short, standing at about five foot three, with stunningly bright blonde hair which cascaded over her slim shoulders in careless waves. Her shoulders were stiff and seemed to give out the message that she did not like to be approached, and her posture was ramrod straight. Harry had seen her a few times before around the barracks; she always arrived shortly after he did at the canteen, always sat at the table closest to the back entrance, she was in Neville’s training group and was one of the few who challenged him while he ran. She did not smile at him, choosing instead to scowl, sneer or gaze inquisitively in his direction. She had not attempted to talk to him and appeared to be rather indifferent as to whether he was there or not. Harry, sipping at his coffee, decided he liked her and seized on the chance to talk with her when she sat in her usual seat, a cup beside her elbow and a book in her hands.

He approached her table slowly and as he came closer she glanced up, eyes a deep black colour, in contrast with her hair, boring into him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She nodded at him. “Hullo.”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, inclining his head to the seat across the table from her. She appeared startled before a mask slid into place and she shook her head, indicating the seat in front of her before lowering her head once more to her book. Sliding into the seat across from her, Harry noticed the book was one he would not expect many from the wizarding world to have heard of ― ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.

After at least ten minutes the girl closed the book, taking deliberate care to mark her place, and lifted her cup to her lips as she regarded him from over the rim. When she sat the china back down she asked, “What do you want?”

Harry shrugged. “To talk, I suppose.”

She snorted. “That’s why you’ve sat there for ten minutes simply drinking your black coffee?”

“How did you know it was black coffee?”

Again she snorted. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. I also know you usually take two sugars in your coffee, three in your tea, none in your hot chocolate; you run every morning before many others are even up, you disappear once a day and sometimes, like yesterday, you disappear for long periods of time to the town just over the way.”

Harry started visibly and gave the girl sitting across from him warily. “Who are you?” he asked finally. “And how the hell did you know I went over to the town?”

She smiled at him, black eyes sparkling. “I know you went to the town because my aunt just happens to work there. She owns a lovely little café in Vierge Fontaine, which was one reason I was so pleased to learn where we were. I always find it more comforting to be close to a place I know and, whereas most would argue, I know that I can turn to my aunt whenever I want help. I was in the café and I saw you walk past ― with two rather unexpected companions, I might add.”

Harry swallowed nervously and bit down on his lip. It was only when he realised what he was doing that he stopped; he did not wish to appear guilty. The girl sitting across from him laughed once more, flipping her hair back behind her shoulder so the ends settled comfortably in the middle of her back.

“Don’t worry,” she said, leaning closer so she could speak in lower tones and no one else would hear her although they were still the only two awake, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

The girl reached for her cup once more, bringing it to her mouth and drinking deeply before answering his question. “My name’s Daphne. Daphne Greengrass and to tell you the truth I’m not all that surprised that you did not recognise me. You always did pay more attention to Draco than to the rest of us, despite some of our best efforts.”

“Excuse me?” Harry asked, nonplussed. Daphne laughed at his expression.

“Slytherins, Harry,” she explained. “I was a Slytherin. In fact, I daresay that if I was still at Hogwarts I would be a Slytherin. However, I am more interested in fighting in this war so returning to Hogwarts is not an option for me.”

“You were a Slytherin,” Harry said, stating a fact and not asking a question. “Yeah, I think I remember you a bit. You were quite friendly with that dark haired bloke weren’t you? The one who looked rather like he’d be happier in a mausoleum?”

Daphne looked at him oddly for several long moments before she shook her head in amusement. “You don’t conform to opinions. I expected you to run a mile whenever you heard I was a Slytherin and insist I leave the camp this instant because I was likely an unmarked Death Eater spying for You-Know-Who. And, as for the dark haired bloke, that was Teddy. I suppose you could say I was friendly with him, although things became strained towards the end of sixth year.”

Harry leaned forward. “Really?” he asked curiously before blushing and hastily adding, “Er, I mean, you don’t, y’know, have to tell me, if you don’t want.”

“That’s okay,” she said cheerfully. “Teddy and I, well… it’s rather hard to explain. Draco was one of my best friends, you see,” she explained. “We did not really hang around school together because it would have upset both of our images; Draco’s father especially would have furious about it.”

“Why?” Harry asked, interrupting.

“My family is technically neutral,” Daphne informed him, “but, especially recently, there are a good few of us who have been actively working to rid the world of You-Know-Who. You probably don’t know this, but my mother’s cousin, Liza, is a Weasley by marriage and Liza has been working on relations between our two families. She convinced a few people on my mother’s side to contact members of the Order and inform them they would do anything possible to help them. My Aunt Carolyn has her house overrun a few times a month as the Order’s researchers make use of her expansive library, and my sister, Nicola, has been a member of the Order for two years now, although covertly. Not everyone knew that my family weren’t completely neutral like we claimed, but Lucius Malfoy, if he did not know, at least suspected and punished Draco whenever he was supposedly becoming too friendly with me. Therefore we tended to avoid being seen together outside of the Room of Requirement. Then, suddenly, in sixth year Draco became far more distant, even from me, and started calling off our meetings in the Room of Requirement; or he didn’t show up, or I couldn’t get into the room. I was really worried about him and talked about it constantly. Teddy is and was Draco’s friend, but he was nowhere near as close to him as I was and was not as worried. He quickly became annoyed and refused to talk to me if I mentioned Draco. In fact, Teddy and I started dating but called it off quickly because he said I was obsessed with Draco in sixth year. Which is ridiculous really because even if I fancied Draco nothing would have happened, right? Anyway, towards the end of sixth year Teddy became really withdrawn as well, and when I questioned him he said he knew what Draco was up to and was trying to do something about it. Now, looking back, I wonder if he was trying to help Draco or hinder him. Everyone knows Teddy’s dad isn’t the nicest person in the world, but what very few people realise is that not all people are their fathers and that Teddy is a good person.”

Daphne dipped her head and looked down at her cup at the liquid inside as Harry had done only shortly beforehand, long blonde hair falling in front of her face. Harry looked at her, trying to process what she had just told him but one thing was playing on his mind.

“Daphne?” he asked. “Who on Earth is Teddy?”

She laughed softly. “Teddy’s just his nickname, although for Merlin’s sake do not call him that until he gives you permission. Until then I’m sure he’ll be delighted if you simply call him Theodore. Theodore Nott.”

Harry stared at her shocked. “Theodore Nott? You call him Teddy?”

Daphne nodded. “Yes. Why?”

Harry shrugged. “Nothing. It’s its just I heard a Ravenclaw called him Teddy and he couldn’t walk properly for a month!”

“Oh that,” Daphne said dismissively as she sniggered into her cup, “that was because that bloody Ravenclaw, Paul Hamilton, was a complete git who was basically trying to rape him while calling him ‘Teddy dearest’. Awful behaviour you understand, and completely unacceptable. Especially since Teddy dearest is none too fond of being grabbed by the privates, doubly so if it is by someone of the same sex.”

“Ah,” Harry murmured, and then, glancing up at Daphne from under his eyelashes, asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”

Daphne lifted her elbows onto the table top, cradling her chin in her hands and looking contemplatively at him. “You know,” she said slowly, “few people would have thought you one to forgive those who murdered, or conspired to murder, your mentor. Everyone knew how well you and Dumbledore got on together, and I think quite a few people expected you to completely break down after Snape murdered him.”

Harry winced at her words, his mind straying back to the odd, and unexpected, conversation he had had with Malfoy and Snape yesterday morning. Daphne picked up on his wince and smiled reassuringly at him.

“Many people would have suspected but I don’t think I ever did. You see, Harry, I watch people, I listen to what they say and I listen to what they don’t say. I have never been really noticed throughout the school so no one really sees me watching them and, as a Slytherin, I am cunning about what I do. I know a lot about various members of our esteemed school, many facts that would straighten your hair. I see things no one else sees, which is why I noticed Draco’s change quicker than everyone else ― which is why I noticed you following him, Harry. Now, don’t worry, I didn’t tell him, “ Daphne reassured, “I figured that if you could discover what he was up to it would be better for all of us, and out of everyone you had more chance of bringing Draco around to seeing that maybe joining the Light side wasn’t such a bad decision. I guess I still think that. I’m right. I know I am because otherwise you would not have been in Vierge Fontaine with Snape and Draco yesterday. That means that a lot of what I suspected about you is right. Dumbledore’s death was not an easy time for you, but from what I have seen you have too much to contend with to bother with something as trivial as breaking down when the world needs you most.”

Harry did not answer her, just stared at the blonde girl for a further ten minutes. She did not attempt to strike up another conversation but when she made to leave the canteen he called after her, “Should I invoke the philosophy of second chances, Daphne?”

She turned back to look at him, her black eyes raking over him much like Malfoy’s had yesterday, taking in everything about him as if they were sizing him up. Finally she shot a small smile at him and, turning to leave, she said over her shoulder, “Harry, trust your instincts. I do.”

Shaking his head, he watched her leave before turning back to his cup of now cold coffee. Glancing down at the table he saw Daphne’s book left sitting. He slid his hand across and grasped the spine of the book, pulling it closer to him. He had never been an avid reader, choosing instead to leave that particular hobby up to Hermione, who had enough enthusiasm concerning that subject to more than compensate for his lack of interest. He had never before been remotely interested in reading any of James Joyce’s work but, on a whim, he opened the book’s cover and looked at the inside. What he saw there, written in a cursive, flowing script with loops around every appropriate letter, made him start. Underneath the script was a small, scribbled note taped to the inside of the book in handwriting Harry realised most be Daphne’s. He read the page before him once and then started to reread it once more ― just to ensure his eyes were not playing tricks on him. They weren’t.

Draco A. L. Malfoy: Journal, the cursive script read. Beneath that, on the note which had been Spellotaped to the page, were the words: Harry, read it. Please read it all. Maybe then you may understand. But tell Draco and prepare to receive more than a broken nose ~ Daph.

Harry stared down at the book, unseeing, for a long while before he was finally dragged out of his stupor as he slowly became aware of noise and movement around him. The canteen was slowly filling with the camp members and, glancing around, he saw his friends scattered throughout the crowd. He watched as a familiar redhead collected a cup of tea and, spotting Harry, walked over to where he sat.

“Hey, Harry,” Ginny smiled, sliding into the seat across from him, the one Daphne had been sitting in only half an hour or so beforehand. Harry flashed her a quick smile, only briefly lifting his gaze from the book in front of him. He had not turned the page and the book still lay open on the front page, declaring itself as Malfoy’s personal journal. He snorted as he thought that only someone who was a big of a ponce as Malfoy would keep something that was, in essence, a diary.

“Harry, what are you reading?” Ginny asked, leaning across the table to try and read the book ― or at least the title. Panicking, Harry hastily closed the book, slamming the cover forcefully against the pages of Malfoy’s journal. Ginny started and leaned back in her chair, brown eyes wide. “Harry?” she said tentatively.

“What?” He had to make a conscious effort not to snarl the word out at her or bar his teeth at his ex-girlfriend. Briefly he wondered why he cared so much about Malfoy’s privacy but he did not ponder the matter too much, simply putting it down to the fact that he was merely acting as any decent human being would.

Across from him Ginny swallowed nervously. “Are you… are you feeling okay?” she murmured, attention focused on the wood grain of the table in front of her. “You’ve been awfully distant and I know you called off… our relationship but I still thought we could, well, y’know. Be friends. And I thought that after all this we could maybe get back together but… but you’ve been so different recently.”

Harry shook his head at her. “Ginny, people change. I’ve changed. I’m sure that you have noticed; you tend to be nearly as perceptive as Hermione when it comes to these sorts of things. I liked you Ginny, I really did. I loved you and I wanted to go out with you. But I don’t like you that way anymore and I would appreciate it if you’d just accept that. Things are pretty hard on me as they are.” And oh God, I sound like such a selfish prick and I’m sorry, but please just leave me alone for now. Please.

Ginny opened her mouth and closed it a few times without saying anything and Harry could practically see her mind racing, trying to come up with something to say that would convince him to date her again. Harry sighed and raked a hand through his hair, pulling the long strands back from his face.

“Ginny,” he said before she could open her mouth once more. “I am not going to get back together with you. I told you I loved you and I did ― as a friend, as a sister, but as someone I could fall in love with and marry? No. I just can’t see it, Gin. I’m sorry.”

Ginny gulped and Harry was certain he could see tears forming in her large, brown eyes. She shifted her gaze from Harry to stare down once again at the wood grain on the table, swallowing back tears. She reached up a hand to tuck a loose strand of red hair back behind her ear, a habit Harry used to think of as endearing but now irritated him, seeing it as an unnecessary gesture made only to call attention to her. He resisted the urge to cluck his tongue disapprovingly, realising at the last minute that it would be scarily similar to Mrs. Weasley’s behaviour if he did.(

“Harry, I love you,” Ginny said quietly as she slowly stood, a few more strands of hair coming loose from her ponytail. “I don’t want you to forget that and I want you to remember it always. I want you, Harry. You have no idea how special you are. You’re noble and brave and loyal and loving and everything I, or anyone else, could ever possibly want. You’re nothing more than you and I love you for it. I don’t want you to forget that ever. I love you and I swear that I’ll wait for you. When this war is over, Harry, come back to me. Please.”

Her eyes, which had been pleading with him, finally tore themselves from his face and she ran across the canteen, slipping through the doors of the large, wooden building. Harry watched her leave, his thoughts racing. He had been so sure, only three months before, only just before Dumbledore’s death that he and Ginny were meant to be. They had been in love, he had been sure of it. They enjoyed each others’ company, got on well and where Harry could be weak, Ginny showed her strength by never once faltering in front of other people. He had talked about his relationship with Remus and had been told how much Ginny reminded Remus of Lily. Harry had been so sure that they would end up married, with children. It had taken him a few weeks after Dumbledore’s death to realise that wasn’t the case.

He and Ginny loved each other, but whereas he was sure Ginny was in love with him and knew she was pining for him, Harry had found himself too wrapped up in thoughts of Malfoy, Snape and Dumbledore to think much about Ginny. She had barely crossed his mind before he had arrived at the Burrow, and once he was there he realised that he didn’t miss her as he thought he would. In fact he missed his arguments with Malfoy where he could guilelessly vent his spleen much more than he missed the covert activities he and Ginny had engaged in. The realisation had left him cold and Harry had purposely tried to avoid Ginny since the thought had dawned on him. He did not want to look into brown eyes that pleaded with him to tell him he loved the person they were attached to, eyes that pleaded with him to take her then and there, eyes that pleaded with him to bestow love upon a person he felt nothing romantically for.

He now knew that, apart from a brief infatuation, he had never felt anything but brotherly love for Ginny Weasley.

Sighing, Harry stood and tucked the book Daphne had left sitting on the table under his arm. He turned to make his own way towards the exit and found himself face to face with Fred and George Weasley. They beamed brightly at him and he smiled weakly up at them.

“Hey, Harry,” George grinned.

“How’re you?” Fred questioned, placing his breakfast tray down onto the table Harry had just vacated. George slammed his tray down cheerfully beside his brother’s and indicated that Harry should sit with them. Harry shook his head at the invitation.

“I’m fine,” he said in reply to Fred’s question. “Really annoyed that Kingsley won’t let us work on spells but apart from that I’m grand. Although I really can’t sit with you. I’ve already eaten and I plan to continue training by myself as well.”

George looked at him worriedly, his usual humour missing from his face. This fact did not escape Harry’s attention and he wondered if this war would change everyone, twisting their personalities and priorities until the person was no longer recognisable. He thought back, with heart-wrenching melancholy, to the carefree twins who had left a swamp in their wake when they left Hogwarts to face the world by themselves.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?” George asked.

Harry smiled at the twins. “Of course I am. Don’t worry about me; I’m just desperate to get some fresh air. I’ll see you later, ‘kay?”

Fred and George nodded in unison and Harry smiled once more, turning and leaving the canteen. When he stepped out of the doors, into the large area of ground that had been dubbed the courtyard, his eyes scanned the surrounding area looking for anyone he knew. Seeing no one he sighed deeply and, tucking the book tightly under his arm once more, he made his way to bunkhouse number nine so he could store the book safely under the floorboard he had cautiously ripped up three days previously.
~|~|~|~

The sun was beating mercilessly down on the people assembled in the field just behind the canteen, causing beads of sweat to travel along many backs and form on many foreheads. People all around Harry were panting from exertion and he could feel his chest constricting painfully with every breath he took. Leaning over he placed his palms on his knees and took several deep, steadying breaths to attempt to gain control of himself. A minute later he decided he was suitably under control and straightened his body just as Kingsley began to talk.

“I can see that many of you did not expect the attack that was launched on you whilst you were out running today,” Kingsley said, wry amusement painfully obvious in his voice. “I have listened to and inadvertently heard many complaints about how we refused to train you in regards to using spells and curses. What many of you fail to realise is that the physical activity may one day save your life. It is never possible to predict the future completely accurately and you never know when you are likely to be attacked. With the attitude many of you have been taking I’m surprised that any of you managed to fight off your attackers. The attack certainly took you by surprise and, before many had time to react, more than half of you were decommissioned. Your side was severely outnumbered and it was highly unlikely that you would be able to completely defeat your attackers. With all the lessons in physical fighting, lectures on strategy and essays assigned in which you were to describe how you would react in certain situations, not one of you managed to put this into practice.

Not even Miss Hermione Granger managed to remember the lectures given. All of you reacted purely on instinct and for some, still, that reaction was to scream and surrender.”

A few people in the large group sniggered but Harry found himself feeling distinctly on edge. A moment later he discovered there was reason behind why he felt so uncomfortable when Kingsley’s voice suddenly changed drastically and he snapped angrily at the assembled group, “This is not a laughing matter, people! If Death Eaters had attacked, every single one of you would be dead by now ― or possibly fatally injured. Well, not every single one of you. I would like to draw your attention to people who did not necessarily react properly but who reacted in a far different, far more successful manner than many of you did. Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Susan Bones and Daphne Greengrass would you kindly come up here and stand beside me?”

Harry looked nervously around him and caught sight of both Susan and Daphne’s blonde heads moving through the crowd. He turned and caught Neville’s eye, winking at him before striding forward to stand at Kingsley’s side, purposely choosing to stand beside Daphne. From the look she shot him, he knew instantly she realised he had chosen to stand beside her rather than Susan. It appeared that other people were aware of Harry’s blatant choice as several people gasped loudly and fervent muttering broke out among the group of people. Kingsley lifted a hand and quieted them.

“Quiet all!” he barked. “Listen to me as this is important. Susan Bones was not completing the task that had been set for her and that saved her. This method is not a particularly recommended one but it worked nonetheless. Susan had dropped out of the run after the second mile, preferring to shelter in a grove of trees as she has done before. We are not stupid and we know who drops out, when they drop out and where they hide. Susan saw the attackers coming before everyone else and warned a few people, sending up a shower of sparks as is taught. She ordered a few others to form a circle to protect each other but they did not comply. If they had maybe they would be up here also. She defended herself, attacked when needed and protected those she could as she bravely ran on to inform others. She helped all she could along the way.

Neville was not aware of the attackers coming but he did hear Susan screaming for others to be ready for an attack. He whipped out his wand and began setting up spells which encased many in protective bubbles. This was a very smart plan with one flaw: the bubbles did not allow others to cast spells out of them, although they did defend against all but the Unforgivables.

Daphne and Harry reacted in much the same way. Both were well ahead of the rest of the group and were on their ninth mile when the attack was launched. We sent the groups of attackers in from both the front and the back so that the majority of you would be trapped between two groups. Daphne and Harry quickly began to work together, erecting a shield that covered a large area and would not allow the attackers to pass without first weakening themselves. The spell used to erect this shield is not widely known or used but it is not illegal … simply questionable.”

“NO WONDER A SLYTHERIN THOUGHT OF IT THEN!” A member of the crowd bellowed. Kingsley, Harry and Daphne all glared in the direction the voice had come from but Harry was the one to speak first.

“Daphne did not think of it, Seamus,” Harry said calmly. “I did. She did not know the words to chant so I told her them. I could have erected the shield myself but it would not have been as effective and it would have taken much longer and so it would have been likely that some of the attackers got through. With Daphne’s help we arranged enough of an advantage that we could turn and head back, to help others.”

A shocked silence followed as Kingsley nodded his head, acquiescing. “Harry is quite correct. The shield allowed Harry and Daphne to run and find others. They managed to call together a group who fought valiantly against the attackers, but some refused to go along with the strategy Daphne outlined, simply because she was a Slytherin. I assure you that should you have listened to Daphne and used the curses Harry told you to use, then it is likely more of you would have passed this attack. As it is, very few of you did this and so there are only a handful of people who passed this task: Harry, Daphne, Neville, Susan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ron, George and Bill Weasley, Ernie Macmillan and, another Slytherin, Blaise Zabini. It seems that a good many of you were too blinded by prejudice to see the logic behind Daphne’s plan. It is only because of Blaise’s intervention that Bill, Justin and Ron passed. It appears Harry could overcome prejudices. I advise the rest of you to follow his example.”

Harry flushed deeply as the majority of the crowd turned to look at him, either intrigued or disgusted. He turned his head to the side and saw Daphne watching him out of the corner of her eye, looking thoughtful. He smiled shyly at her and, leaning over, whispered in her ear, “Can I talk to you?”

She raised surprised eyes to his and, eyes scanning his face and obviously finding what they were looking for, nodded. “Where do you want to talk?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think you would be welcome in my bunkhouse. It’s mostly filled with people who would hex you just as soon as look at you.”

“And people wonder why I disappear into the woods regularly,” Daphne murmured wryly. “How ‘bout we meet after dinner? I’ll wait for you behind the canteen building?”

Harry nodded briefly and turned to leave when Daphne’s fingers curled around his arm. He turned and looked questioningly at her.

“Harry,” she said, “for Merlin’s sake do not leave until at least ten minutes after I do. There are many here who aren’t as oblivious as you.”

Unsure as to whether or not to be angry at Daphne’s comment, Harry settled for rolling his eyes and crossing his arms huffily across his chest. “I’m not oblivious.”

Daphne’s rather carefree expression changed to one of contemplative regret and sorrow as she whispered, her voice even lower than it had been before, “Ah, Harry, but you are. If you even knew how oblivious you were ―.” She stopped suddenly, shaking her head, and just smiled sadly at Harry. “Never mind. I’ll see you later, Harry.”

She turned and walked away and, confused, Harry turned and walked over to where Ron and Hermione were sitting, holding hands and talking about inconsequential issues such as what they would be having for dinner.

Harry smiled at them and dropped onto the ground beside his best friends. Ron beamed happily at him and Hermione shot him a quick smile, her chocolate coloured eyes roving over him as if searching for something, which they evidently found as the guarded expression left her face and her smile became a little brighter and wider than it had been.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better today, Harry,” Hermione said.

Harry glared at her and said, “I’m ―”

“Fine,” Harry, Ron and Hermione chorused together, the latter two smiling broadly at him. Harry looked at his two best friends and shook his head before, grinning, sat back on his elbows and began to chat freely with his friends, letting his worries fall away from him for a brief hour at least.

By dinner time however, Harry’s worries had returned threefold and he found himself more nervous than he had been in a long while. He selected food blindly, not really paying attention to the lasagna he had accepted, he nearly forgot to check his order in, his hands began to shake so badly that the tray in his hands shook, and when he finally sat down at his usual table he found he could eat little more than three slices of garlic bread. Even his throat seemed to be in on the plot to expose how nervous he really was, as the muscles would not allow him to do more than sip lightly at the pumpkin juice. It did not take long for the people surrounding him to realise but, surprisingly, Neville was the first to pick up on it.

“Harry?” the dark haired boy asked, concernedly. “Are you alright? You look ill and … well your hands haven’t stopped shaking.”

Harry smiled weakly at his friend, hoping to hold the questions off but it did not happen. If anything the wan smile seemed to draw out more people’s concerns and Harry silently cursed Neville for bringing up the topic, even if it was only because Neville had been worried about his friend’s health.

“Neville’s right, Harry,” Hermione said worriedly. “You do look really pale and you’ve barely touched your dinner! And I know for a fact you didn’t eat any lunch.”

“Or breakfast,” Fred piped up as he took a seat on Harry’s left. Harry glared at the redhead but just received an amicable smile in return.

“Harry!” Hermione’s shrill voice reprimanded, causing Harry to wince. “You can’t be serious! You haven’t eaten today?”

“I’m fine Hermione,” Harry said sighing. “Fred wasn’t even in the canteen when I ate. I had about three coffees and a plate of pancakes. Believe me, I ate enough to keep me going throughout the day.”

Hermione regarded him disbelievingly for a long moment but she did not press the issue and Harry was eternally grateful for that. A few people looked oddly at him during the meal and, finally, Harry gave in and pointedly took a large bite of his lasagna, nearly devouring half of the portion he’d selected in one go just to get his friends off his back. A few people smiled at him and Hermione hummed happily in his direction, leaning over the table and patting his hand with her own. Harry raised an eyebrow but she just grinned and turned back to the conversation she’d been engaging in with Ron. Ginny kept darting furtive glances in his direction and Harry was more than a little uncomfortable when he felt someone knock against his elbow. He looked up and glanced over his shoulder to see who had inadvertently hit him when he noticed Daphne sashaying towards the canteen entrance. Nearly everyone at the table noticed how abruptly Harry turned and they, in turn, followed his eyes to see Daphne disappear through the double doors. Several sly glances were exchanged around the table before Fred finally opened his mouth.

“So Harry, mate,” he said, talking around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “I reckon we can honestly say someone’s got a wee crush on a Slytherin, eh?”

Harry glanced at him, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Huh?”

Fred sniggered. “That Daphne Greengrass girl. You just watched her arse sashay outta here, Harry mate, don’t deny it. Isn’t that right, George?”

Fred’s twin nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right, Fred. Although I must say for a Slytherin, Daphne does have a fine arse.”

“I concur,” Fred concurred, stuffing another forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Hermione tutted loudly at Fred’s antics before glancing at Harry thoughtfully, saying, “Well, I suppose Fred has a point. You do seem to have a thing for blondes.”

“I do not!” Harry protested hotly, glaring angrily at Hermione.

Hermione just shrugged off his glare and said, “But, Harry, remember that girl you introduced me to over the summer? Awfully pale girl, with really blonde hair. I would have classed her as an albino except she had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. And then there the girls you told us about and we mustn’t forget your crush on Hannah Abbot.”

Harry blushed furiously and stood quickly, forgetting about Daphne’s fervent insisting that he wait at least ten minutes after she had left to leave himself. “Hermione!” he hissed angrily. “How dare you! I do not have a thing for blondes!”

“Then why on Earth are you protesting so violently?” she asked.

Harry spluttered angrily at her, unable to find words to voice his fury and terrified to call them up even if he could, in fear of how Hermione would interpret the meaning behind the words. Instead he settled on a rather safe topic he could argue. “I can’t believe you just told everyone I used to fancy Hannah!”

“I can’t believe you’re reacting like a thirteen-year-old,” Hermione remarked dryly as she slid her hand into Ron’s. Harry watched the movement, angry that his friends ― his two best friends ― were now so much closer to each other and were, in a way, excluding him.

Harry sneered at her. “This is coming from the girl who sent canaries after Ron for simply dating another girl!”

Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the canteen, his hands shaking furiously with anger rather than nerves this time. He supposed that anger was a rather poor substitute for nerves and would have much preferred to feel peaceful for once, but he gave it little thought, his hands stealing into the pocket in his tracksuit bottoms, pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. He slipped one between his lips, lit it and took a deep drag from the cigarette, not because he particularly wanted to but because it would give him something to do other than storming back into the canteen and ripping Hermione’s head off her neck.

Sighing deeply, he thrust the packet of cigarettes and lighter into his pocket once more and slowly began walking towards the back of the canteen. He had just rounded the corner when a pair of arms reached forward and dragged him behind a large tree, pinning his back against the rough bark of the tree trunk. Eyes wide he glared at the person who had manhandled him and found himself staring into eyes that wavered halfway between gold and green, with flecks of brown decorating the unusual combination near the iris. He tried to take a deep breath ― finding it incredibly difficult to do so with his cigarette still lodged in his mouth ― and smiled weakly at the boy who had pulled him behind the tree.

“Hello Zabini,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Blaise Zabini rolled his eyes. “Call me Blaise,” he said. “We’re on the same side; we may as well get passed the point where we still refer to each other by our surnames.”

“Absolutely,” Harry murmured, “but I did not know it was normal to drag someone on the same side as you behind a tree and slam them against it.”

Blaise snorted. “It’s not,” he admitted. “But I had no other way of getting you to listen to me.”

Harry raised a now steady hand to his mouth and withdrew the cigarette from between his lips. “I don’t suppose you could have just asked?”

Blaise’s lips quirked upwards in amusement. “I could have, but Daphne will tell you I’m known for being rather dramatic.”

Harry glanced over Blaise’s shoulder and finally realised that Daphne was leaning against a tree not too far from where Blaise had Harry pinned.. He smiled softly at her and she raised an eyebrow. “I never pictured Harry Potter for a smoker,” she said, half-sardonically.

He shrugged, the motion causing Blaise’s arms to hitch upwards too. “Yeah, well, I guess that could be a rather common misconception. I actually stopped a while ago but, hell, with current situations what they are…” He trailed off, shrugging once more, and realised Blaise was staring intently at him. Unnerved Harry asked, “Er, Blaise, do I have something on my face?”

Blaise shook his head.

“Then why are you looking at me like I have ice-cream smeared all over my face?” Harry asked matter-of-factly.

Blaise’s eyes sparked with something Harry couldn’t pinpoint and he murmured, “Now wouldn’t that be an interesting predicament?” Harry blinked stupidly up at him before Blaise shrugged and said, “You surprised me Potter.”

“How?” Harry questioned. “I haven’t really said anything to you.”

“No,” Blaise agreed, “you haven’t. But Daphne has.”

Harry quickly flicked his eyes over to where Daphne was leaning in the circle of trees, eyes boring into her. “Excuse me?” he said, a slight threat belying his polite words.

Blaise chuckled and shifted his arms so he no longer had Harry pinned up against the tree. “Calm down, Harry, I’m not here to yell at you. Daphne told me something interesting.”

“And private,” Harry pointed out, still glaring at the blonde girl. He transferred his gaze back to the boy in front of him to answer his question.

“Excellent,” Blaise murmured. He stepped back from Harry and went to stand beside Daphne, stooping down to whisper in the short girl’s ear. Daphne’s eyebrows shot up but otherwise she gave no indication that she had heard whatever Blaise said as she continued to scrutinise Harry. They stood like that for long moments, Blaise murmuring in Daphne’s ear, Daphne scrutinising Harry and Harry squirming uncomfortably under Daphne’s gaze. Finally Daphne nodded at Blaise and said, her voice ringing out clearly in the silence, “I think we can risk it.”

“Risk what?” Harry asked immediately.

Daphne laughed, the sound a light, tinkling melody that floated pleasantly across to his ears. “I knew you were impatient, but still, Harry keep your shirt on.”

Blaise murmured something once more in Daphne’s ear but it was sufficiently loud that Harry could hear it also: “Aw, Daph, does he have to?” At the comment Harry felt his cheeks flush bright red and Daphne laughed once more, this sound more open and honest than the previous one. Blaise raised his eyes and saw Harry’s brightly coloured face and after only a beat joined in with Daphne’s laughter. Harry shifted his weight onto his left foot and raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag to stifle the urge to yell at the two Slytherins facing him.

Daphne stopped laughing first. One moment her eyes were wide and laughing and the next they were focused on him with such starling intensity that he felt rather naked under the gaze.

“Harry,” she began. “I want you to know that you can trust us. Neither Blaise nor I have any desire to join the Death Eaters nor have we ever. I despise them, especially after what they did to Blaise’s cousins. I don’t think Blaise would be comfortable talking about it so let’s just say that the incident was quite horrific and only happened recently so the horror is still fresh with both of us. We want more than anything for the Light side to win this war, but we also want to stay as close to our old friends as is possible. Both of us were good friends of Draco’s, although Blaise was more often with him than I. I respected Snape even if I wasn’t his biggest fan and Blaise is very distantly related to him. These are some of the reasons both Blaise and I wish to believe that if Draco and Snape aren’t innocent, there are at least extenuating circumstances to take into consideration. We want to help, Harry. Tell us how.”

Harry stared blankly at the two in front of him. “I don’t understand,” he said finally.

Daphne made to speak once more but Blaise quieted her. “P ― Harry,” Blaise corrected himself, “Draco was my best friend. I said was because he began pushing me away halfway during sixth year and I actively let him. At that point I was aware how involved he was with You-Know-Who and didn’t wish to be associated with anyone with active allegiances to that bastard. So, I let Draco push me away and I reckon you could even say I encouraged it. I know now that I should not have; that if I had only talked with him I may have been able to help him. I didn’t get the chance to help him back then for I would not allow myself. I want a chance to make that right.”

Harry nodded dumbly at the Italian boy who was talking solemnly at him, pinning him with a gaze that matched Daphne’s in intensity but in a different kind so far removed that it was disconcerting; a desperate intensity, one begging Harry to see the truth behind Blaise’s words. Harry could do little more than comply.

“Then I will do all I can to ensure you get a chance to make it right,” Harry said quietly. He looked down at his shoes and realised that the butt of the cigarette he’d been smoking lay, stamped out, beneath one of his trainers and wondered when he had thrown it onto the ground. He shrugged, unconcerned, and did not look up until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He raised his eyes and found himself once more staring into Blaise’s wide eyes. Before he could say anything he felt Blaise pull him closer to him and found himself enveloped in a tight hug, which squished his arms against his sides. Blaise’s fingernails were digging painfully into the tender, exposed skin of his forearm but he decided against mentioning it, not wanting to disrupt the fragile trust Blaise had placed in him. When the other boy finally let him go Harry smiled shyly at him and rubbed covertly at his arms, specifically the places Blaise’s long fingernails had dug in. Daphne noticed but did not say anything and Harry was suddenly grateful for just how secretive Slytherins could be.

“That’s good,” Daphne said briskly, her no-nonsense attitude reminding Harry scarily of Hermione. The thought flittered across his mind that maybe the house systems really were just a way of segregating everyone as, from what he had seen, many Slytherins were simply the same as everyone else. Daphne was chatty, friendly, intelligent and brisk when the occasion called for it, and Blaise seemed to be genuinely concerned as to his friend’s welfare. Harry was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely registered Daphne’s next words and had to get her to repeat them as he feared he had been mishearing things. He had not.

“We want you to take us to see Draco,” Daphne repeated patiently. Harry’s eyes flickered from Blaise to Daphne and back and he began to chew on his lower lip, tearing at the tender flesh.

“Why?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“We want to see him, talk to him. We want to tell him we’re still his friends and that we will be there for him if he wants us to be.” Daphne lifted her hand to her mouth and bit the fingernail fiercely, displaying the first sign of nervousness he had seen from her.

Harry blinked at the duo that were looking at him with expectant eyes. He sank his hands into his pockets and lowered his face so his chin was resting against his chest. “I’m not sure where their loyalties lie, Daphne, Blaise. I’m not sure if it’s safe to bring you to them.”

Blaise snorted. “Of course it’s not safe. It’s Draco. Nothing around him is ever safe. But, Harry, don’t you see the significance of both Snape and Draco approaching you and talking with you? Talking with you and sending you back here unscathed and probably waiting for you to return to them? That should tell you right away where their loyalties lie: certainly not with You-Know-Who.”

Harry nodded. The same thoughts had already crossed his mind last night as he tossed and turned, the scene between Snape, Malfoy and himself playing through his mind constantly, the revelations troubling him to the core. He had analysed everything that was said, considered every option and had already come to the conclusion that he would return to the small motel room tomorrow. He raised determined eyes to Blaise’s, staring straight at the boy as he said, “I’m going to meet them tomorrow. Meet me here, after afternoon training. If you aren’t here by four I’ll leave.”

He turned on his heel once more and left the two Slytherins standing together, discussing matters Harry had no doubt he would not be welcome to listen to.

The Community Has Landed

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 20:46:43 GMT

I mean to mention this in my earlier post but I completely forgot and browbeat my Aunt to let me on her computer. Gee (kodak_moment) and I finally managed to set up the debate community for Harry Potter. It is not just a Harry/ Draco community -- they are plans to do Snarry, Sirius/ Remus, maybe Snupin and other (mostly slash) 'ships as well. Head over to hpslash_debates and check it out, join up and help us get off our feet!

There'll be cookies and loads of gratitude and love!

... Also if you have any suggestions tell me about them -- or tell them to Gee! Thank you!

I'm baaack

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 17:08:41 GMT

So it's been ages since I've been on this thing. In absolute honesty I haven't been well at all but things are getting back on track. I planned to post chapter three of Come Hell or High Water today but, really, I don't have the time *sighs*. I shall do it tomorrow ... I think.

In other news: Harry Potter RPG are fun! I didn't realise what all the hype was about before but I went out and signed up for a new RPG -- a post-war one hp_sympathy -- and I'm really enjoying it. They are some pretty cool people over there and sayyida_jaida had me laughing my arse off because of comments she made about the 'half-breeds' in the Order. Excellent!

Shall post tomorrow. Something more informative, hopefully. And fic. Can't forget fic!

~ R (who is so excited to be back and well she's fit to burst!)

Drabble: Under Authority

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 17:04:05 GMT

Title: Under Authority
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: 15 for language.
Genre: Gen. With no pairings. Nope, not even H/D. Shocker, eh? Oh, and humour.
Summary: This, Draco felt, was the worst day in the history of bad days.
Author's Notes: Right, well, this is a pretty random scene that floated into my head. It has absolutely no basis in canon, there is absolutely reason for me to post this and really I guess I shouldn't have even wrote it but, really, I was into deep into a rather angsty scene with my WiP and in a bouncy mood. So, this is the result. Enjoy!

Sorry, I forgot the cut when I first posted this.

Under Authority
by Ebonie Rose

December 3rd 2005

This, Draco felt, was the worst day in the history of bad days. It wasn't as if things hadn't started bad enough, what with his alarm startling him so much he had rolled out of bed and landed in a heap on the floor, they simply had to progress onto worse things. Worse things which included a meeting with the Headmaster, who obviously felt that Draco's teaching methods were not up to expectations.

"Draco," Severus Snape said slowly, "I trust you understand why it is necessary for me to suspend you from teaching for the next two months."

Draco nodded. "Of course I do," Draco said bitterly. "It's because of that bitch over there." He raised a hand and pointed one perfectly manicured finger at the blonde Ravenclaw sitting across from him in Snape's office, beside her parents. The third year girl's eyes narrowed and both her parents scowled at him. Draco was almost positive he didn't give a shit.

"Draco!" Snape cried. "That is not proper behaviour for a teacher, who is supposed to hold up the ideals of our school.'

Draco sighed and stood up, kicking back the chair he was sitting on. He strode towards the door, flinging over his shoulder, "Excuse me, sir, if I say I don't give a bloody shit about the ideals of the school. Ex-Death Eaters tend not to thrive under authority."

At the door he turned and gave Snape the two fingered salute before promptly hexing a tail onto the Ravenclaw's face, aiming a Bat-Bogey hex at Mrs. Patterson and turning Mr. Patterson, the head of the Board of Governor's, into a squirrel.

The next day, shortly after lunch, an owl arrived with Draco's official notice of termination.

Come Hell or High Water: Chapter Two

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 16:46:08 GMT

Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every one/ two weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author's Notes: So, originally, I was going to wait a few weeks between chapters but I want to try and get as much of this story as I can out before DH is released, so it's going to be posted as is beta'd. Thank you to lunadragon for the marvellous beta, for pointing out things I never would have noticed, and for making comments that made me laugh. Thanks also to ravenqueen55 for her suggestions, encouragement, and e-mails which always make me smile. As always, concrit is welcomed and I hope you enjoy!
Previous Chapters: Chapter One

Chapter Two
The Unbreakable Vow

Hermione was standing by his bed, looking down at him with brown eyes filled with pity. He couldn’t stand pity; he hated pity. Pity was for the weak, for the people who buckled under pressure, for people who would have died long before they reached fourteen if they were forced to live his life. Pity was not for the likes of Harry Potter.

“Hermione,” he began slowly, preparing to launch into a scathing tirade about how she should really save her pity and concern for someone who would appreciate it. He didn’t get the chance to. Hermione leaned forward, a gentle smile ghosting across her face, and pressed a finger to his lips as she shook her head.

“Sh, Harry,” she said, smiling still. “Please don’t speak. I want to talk to you.”

He looked at her strangely for a moment. Hermione never asked Harry or Ron to be quiet and listen when she talked, she simply took it for granted they would. Finally he nodded and she smiled once more.

“Good.” She withdrew her finger from where she had set it on his mouth and settled back onto his bed, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her body against the night chill. “I wanted to talk to you about… about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric.”

“Hermione ―”

“Shut up, Harry,” she snapped. “I asked you not to speak. Let let me have my say, ‘kay?” She did not wait for his answer and just plunged forth. “I just thought we should talk about and get it off your chest. It’s not good to let emotions fester, really. We should talk more, Harry.”

She looked at him expectantly so Harry nodded his agreement although he felt it was rather a ridiculous thing to say: ‘We should talk more’. What did she think they were currently doing?

Waking tired people up from their much needed sleep, he grumbled to himself before returning his attention to the brown haired girl in front of him. She was watching him intently, her brown eyes drinking in everything about him and he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted restlessly and the wafer thin sheet on his bed shifted with him. Hermione glared at him.

“Oh, honestly, Harry sit still will you!” she snapped, furious for reasons Harry couldn’t even begin to understand. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel about these matters so it can benefit you, for pity’s sake! It would do you well to listen and stop being so bloody selfish!”

Harry was too busy gaping at her to even begin to formulate a reply.

“The wind will change and you’ll get stuck that way, Harry,” Hermione said viciously. “So close your damn mouth! There, that’s better isn’t it?” Her voice had begun deceptively sweet, low, calm… caring. “Now, as I was saying about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric. Well “ ― here she leaned closer to Harry so now her lips were mere centimetres from Harry’s and, for one panicked moment, he thought she was going to kiss him ― "I think it was your fault. Stop looking so shocked, Harry, they are your fault. Everyone knows it; it’s just no one dares to say it. Well, I’m daring to say it Harry. I want nothing more to do with you. You use people and manipulate them so you can lead them to their deaths later. I’m tired of it, Harry. I’ve spent years following you into perilous situations because it was your current whim and I am just so… tired of it all. So don’t talk to me, Harry because it’s all your fault! All your fault, Harry. Can you imagine how much pain you’ve caused others because of your selfish actions? People are hurting because of you, Harry. People are hurting because you are a manipulative, malevolent, vicious human being. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as decent people, Harry. You deserve to have been the one Snape murdered that night, Harry. It should have been you. Everyone would be so much happier then.

“And everyone would know then who you really are, Harry.”

His voice somehow returned to him, although it sounded hoarse and raw even to his own ears. “And who am I really, Hermione?”

A vicious gleam in her eyes, she leaned even closer then, a feral smile on her lips. She leaned so close, Harry felt her lips brush his before she murmured; “You’re a murderer, Harry.”

Harry awoke screaming.
~|~|~|~

“Are you alright, Harry?”

“Er... yeah, fine.”

“Harry, seriously, we’re your best friends you can tell us.”

“I’m fine, Hermione.”

“So you call screaming down a bunkhouse ‘fine’, Harry?”

“Yes, Ron, I do.”

“Harry, you are not fine. You’re suffering from depression, survivor’s guilt and your nightmares are increasing in regularity. Don’t think I didn’t notice all the Dreamless Sleep potion you’ve been taking over the summer. We’re worried about you, Harry. We’re your best friends and you have to understand you can talk to us anytime you want to.”

“I’m fine, Hermione.”

“Can you say anything other than you’re fine, please, Harry? We know you’re not! Why won’t you trust us?”

“I’M FINE!”

“… Well that went well didn’t it?”

“Shut up, Ronald.”

“Well, I did say if you pushed him he’d just disappear again.”

“Shut up, Ronald.”

“Well alright, you only had to ask……Hermione?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“Will you pass the butter?”
~|~|~|~

The stark sunlight was playing havoc with his raging headache, and he could feel the all too familiar uncomfortable throbbing behind his eyes and in his temple beginning to form. Squinting ahead in the face of the bright sunligh, he rubbed furiously at his temples, trying to chase the headache away but not succeeding as he knew he wouldn’t. After a moment he stopped massaging his forehead and, sinking his hands into his jeans pockets, once more began to walk toward the small French town he had first found five days before.

He sighed as the memory of seeing Malfoy suddenly appeared on the fringes of his mind. He was sure it had been him; that hair and pale, pointed face were impossible to miss. He didn’t know what he had planned to do but he’d planned to do something: hex Malfoy and hand him over to Aurors, kill him, bring him back to the training ground, demand answers, something, anything. He’d meant to do something ― and he had. Still, he had not expected to find himself chasing Malfoy’s back down dark, twisting alleyways that had no pattern to them and ran seamlessly into one another. Since then he had avoided the town, he wasn’t sure why. He supposed it was because he didn’t want to run into Malfoy again. The more perplexing issue, however, was why he had not mentioned Malfoy’s appearance to anyone ― not even Ron or Hermione.

No, he didn’t want to return to the town but neither could he stay in the training grounds. He was tired, sore and angry. He had been led to believe they would be doing actual training for war here; magical war. As of yet however they had not been trained, not in the way they had been informed they would. There had been many instances when the whole camp was rounded up and forced to participate in physical activities, many of which involved running more than ten miles at a time. The first time Harry had attempted it he had been sure that Kingsley would kill him before Voldemort even got the chance. It had taken more out of him than he thought it would and this had resulted in Harry forcing himself to go for long runs whenever he got the chance. He had eaten little, slept less and run more than he talked, all of which resulted that, in the past five days, he had lost close to four pounds. He could not bear to put himself through another day of training. He was top of the class, so to speak. Now, thanks to his private endeavours, he could outrun close to every single person in the camp and, if not outrun them, he could outlast them at least. He was exhausted, annoyed and tired. They could spare him a few hours of peace. They they needed their main weapon to be healthy, happy and self-sacrificial after all.

He snorted at his inner monologue ― weapon, he though, how had he not realised it before? ― and, taking his hands out of his pockets, began to run although this time it was purely for fun. He had not realised how freeing running could be; the wind running through his hair, that familiar tight, burning feeling in his chest, the muscles in his legs screaming out in protest as he pushed himself and pushed himself until he couldn’t possibly go any further, the warm French summer sun beating down on the back of his too small, regulation deep green T-shirt. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise he loved the freedom of running by himself, instead of against others. He loved his freedom. It was only too bad he did not truly have his freedom.

He was barely sweating and his leg muscles were still fine when he arrived in the small town once more. He didn’t pay attention to those surrounding him; like the first time he had been here he could not understand much of what they said. Instead he made for the first place he recognised ― a small building that looked remotely seedy, with painted bottle green walls and a rack holding newspapers from the region placed outside. His eyes flicked up to read the sign as he came closer and with a feeling of smugness he recognised a phrase from Dudley’s French vocabulary books: coin magasin. Corner store, he thought gladly, or shop. Whatever, it still meant he’d found a newsagents.

Grinning, he slowed down and entered the small shop, and was quickly assaulted by the smell of stale smoke, burning incense, and the distinctive smell of newly opened glossy magazines. A tall man stood behind the counter, leaning lazily against the glass length of it, his bright blue eyes watching Harry suspiciously as he entered and the man's shoulder length, lank blonde hair falling into his face. Harry thought briefly that the man looked as pointed as Malfoy and had as large a nose as Snape. He wondered, with a brief shudder, whether Narcissa and Snape had had an affair and this ugly creature was the result. He felt a rush of sympathy for the bloke.

Giving the man a tentative smile his eyes wandered over the slim pickings available in the store: a handful of chocolate bars and crisps; a few ready made sandwiches that looked out of date; a few magazines and newspapers Harry didn’t recognise; plastic children’s toys and, as seemed to be custom in all newsagents, behind the counter was a large display of cigarette brands. There was a small turnoff in one aisle and Harry saw a collection of old movies, mostly black and white or starring ‘B’-list actors, and a fridge holding a staggering amount of alcoholic beverages. Rolling his eyes, he lifted a few packets of crisps, several chocolate bars, pulled a Coke can out of the fridge from beside a rather hefty bottle of champagne and wandered up to the counter. He set them down in front of the man who was still glaring fiercely at him, as if he suspected Harry would suddenly pull out a gun and blow his brains out. Harry suppressed the urge to chuckle at the thought of what the man would do if he pulled out his wand and shouted, “BANG!” Probably shit himself, he concluded, smiling genuinely at the man.

“Autre chose?” he asked, swiping Harry’s purchases through the till. For a second Harry stared at him, oblivious, with no idea what he was saying until he remembered: they were in France. These people spoke French, not English and certainly not gibberish as Harry had suspected he was doing. He wracked his brains, desperate to remember what the phrase meant and the image of his primary six teacher asking him if he wanted ‘autre chose pour dejeuner’ came floating into his head. Heaving a sigh of relief he beamed at the shop assistant, which caused him to back slightly away from him.

“Er,” Harry said, “n… um…”

His eyes fell on the cigarette display behind the counter. He had smoked before; Dudley had practically forced a cigarette into his mouth during the summer after fifth year, stating that if Harry was going to sit around and mope like a girl’s blouse he could at least look remotely ‘cool’ whilst doing so. Harry had scowled, as he had deemed it the proper response, but had accepted the cigarette anyway figuring that anything which provided a distraction from thoughts of Sirius was fine with him. He had started smoking and had quickly become if not addicted to it, at least partial. He couldn’t remember actually wanting to smoke; it was simply that the repetitive, rather soothing action allowed him time to let his thoughts drift to mundane topics and provided him with something to do when activities were not forthcoming. On returning to Hogwarts he had quickly found that it was quite easy to manoeuvre his way onto Gryffindor Tower’s roof from his dormitory window and was equally easy to find time alone to spend down by the lake a few times a day. Ginny had discovered his habit two days after they had begun dating after she demanded to know why he always tasted of smoke. She had instantly demanded that he stop smoking at once and he had agreed thinking, simply, that he would do anything to make Ginny happy.

Well, he thought savagely, she sure as hell isn’t your girlfriend anymore. Fuck Ginny!

He smiled once more at the shop assistant and, biting his lip, began to say, “Er, um, donnez-moi… er… um… er… des cigarettes?” At the shop assistants raised eyebrow he hastily added, “S’il vous plait, Monsieur.”

The blonde man shook his head and lifted a random pack off the shelf. At Harry’s nod he handed them over and Harry hastily paid, after having much difficulty requesting a lighter as well, and left the small shop rapidly fumbling with the packet. He had just managed to rip the plastic wrapping off the box when his shoulder collided with a body and he stumbled forward, tripping over the person’s foot. A small yelp burst forth from his mouth and he reached out blindly, grabbing a handful of the clothing of the person he had just collided with. His fingers curled in the material and, for a second, he teetered as if he was about to fall, before his balance finally returned to him. Letting go of the clothes his fingers had grabbed to support him, still not looking up, Harry’s fingers deftly lifted a cigarette from his packet and he took it out.

Placing it between his lips, he mumbled, “Sorry, mate.”

Fumbling in his pocket for the lighter he had just purchased Harry began to walk off, head bowed, when behind him a soft voice said, almost imperceptibly, “Mate? Really, how common and, anyway, like we were ever ‘mates’.”

He knew that voice. Slowly, so as not to arouse Malfoy’s attention, he slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans and gripped his wand, drawing it out of the material. Once his hands were soundly clasped around the piece of wood he spun, swiftly, and watched Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise. Harry smirked at him and, shifting his body so as to obscure his right side from passers-by, pointed his wand straight at Malfoy.

“Hello, Malfoy,” he said sneering at the Slytherin.

Malfoy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically, as his eyes flicked from side to side; searching for a means of escape, Harry supposed.

“Don’t even think of moving,” Harry said casually as if talking about the weather, “if you do, believe me I have no qualms about using any means necessary to ensure you cannot move. Understood?”

Malfoy sneered at him but still refused to settle the rather unnerving flickering of his grey eyes. “Please, Potter, in case you’ve forgotten I saw you duel against Sev ― um, Snape. You’re hardly up to my standard.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Please, Malfoy,” he said, imitating Malfoy’s drawl perfectly, “at the time I was overly emotional ― and I’ve been training since then. Believe me when I say I’ve improved.”

“Potter, if you could perform a decent Summoning spell it would be an improvement.”

“Ah,” Harry sneered, “but at least I can perform a Levitation charm, Malfoy.”

Malfoy flushed at the reminder of his failure to keep a goblet floating in the air during his OWLs. Although, in all honesty, it wasn’t much of a flush; his skin seemed to glow slightly but the embarrassing red tinge to his skin did not appear and Harry was momentarily jealous that Malfoy did not have to suffer through this particular affliction that he was doomed to bear. Harry cocked his head to one side and smirked at the pale boy standing across from him ― and then instantly regretted titling his head at all. His hair had grown at a rapid pace and now the tips brushed the tender skin half way down his neck and the length had done nothing for the unmanageability of his hair. Jet-black hair, the colour of a moonless midnight sky, still wound around his face in what Harry had deemed his unflattering curls although Hermione insisted they were gentle waves. Harry had no interest in such things however, what he did have a problem with was the way the slightest movement caused his hair to fall into his eyes.

Impatiently, Harry blew air out of the side of his mouth to shift the wavy, black strands out of his face only to have the wind blow the long strands back into his face. Malfoy sniggered at him, Harry glared, but this appeared to have no effect.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you desperately needed to visit the hairdresser’s, Potter?” Malfoy said, sniggering still.

Harry raised a hand and raked it through his hair, pushing the hair as far away from his face as he could get it without pulling it out. “Did anyone ever tell you that there’s an arrest warrant out on you?”

Malfoy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Brilliant isn’t it? I always used to wish, when I was a young boy, for an arrest warrant to be out on me. While all my friends had dreams of taking over the world, wooing some hot, young, rich pureblood witch or earning the world’s largest fortune, I sat in my bedroom telling my teddy bear how much I wished to grow to be seventeen, have an arrest warrant taken out on me and, as a result, be forced to sleep on mattresses that have more spring in them than a kangaroos hop.”

Harry felt his eyebrows rise up into his hairline and, biting his lower lip to suppress it at first, he let out a short burst of laughter. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly stifled his laughter. He wondered briefly whether to question Malfoy or make a sarcastic remark about his teddy bears. He decided to forego the latter.

“Malfoy,” he began his voice calm and perfectly even, coaxing he supposed, “What exactly are you doing here?”

“I thought I just told you.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I did, Potter.” Malfoy flinched when Harry, on a whim, jabbed his wand forward, prodding Malfoy’s ribs. “If you weren’t so self-absorbed you may have picked up on the rather glaring hint that I was sleeping on mattresses that have more spring in them than kangaroos.”

Harry nodded. “And you may have picked up on the fact that, whereas I may be able to believe that on one level, it doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? Why the hell did you come here?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Potter!” Malfoy spat. “I am not here to see you, I am not here to see any of your pathetic friends, I am not here to kill all the Muggles in this fucking town, and I am only here because I was forced to come here! I, frankly, don’t give a damn about you and your precious Order nor do I give a damn about why you are here, which I would consider highly suspicious as I sincerely doubt you’re one for French culture or cuisine. So, kindly, hand me over to the Aurors now or fuck off. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” Harry snapped. “In case you’ve forgotten, you let bloody Death Eaters into the school! It is your fault that Bill’s disfigured for life and, as you just said, you don’t care ―”

“Mr. Potter, it would do you the world of good to lower your voice ― your less than dulcet tones are attracting unwanted attention.”

That voice. Harry knew that voice. It was a low voice, a sneering voice, which rarely talked above a whisper except to yell at Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and indeed the world at large for being incompetent morons. It was a voice he had come to loathe easily ― one that flung insults his way whenever it could and one which had finally flung the Killing Curse at Albus Dumbledore. It was Snape.

“Are they now?” Harry murmured, almost disinterested. “Intriguing; couldn’t possibly have thought that a raised voice would cause unwanted attraction. Thanks ever so much for pointing that out.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled and Harry, listening intently, heard the soft sound of robes ruffling, which told him Snape was reaching for his wand. He turned slowly to stare his ex-professor in the eye. Snape, dark eyes glaring down at him, watched, noting that Harry only had a brief and limp grasp on his wand now.

Harry, forgetting himself, once more tilted his head to the side asking quietly, “Are you going to kill me too, Snape? I’m sure Voldemort would be pleased with you. His star Death Eater who murdered not only Albus Dumbledore but Harry Potter.”

“I assume he would be, Potter,” Snape said. “I, however, have no intention of killing you as of this moment nor do I have any intention of being the Dark Lord’s star Death Eater.”

Vivid green eyes swept over Snape’s face taking in everything about the man. His face, normally pale and sallow, had never looked as gaunt. Cheekbones jutted prominently out of his face, the sickly pale skin stretched over the sharp bones to a large extent. There were bags under dark eyes, which made his eyes only look even darker and bigger, the purple discolouration blending seamlessly with the dark black of his eyes. The older man looked ashen, ill and the sneer he aimed at Harry was decidedly wan. Looking at him, words Dumbledore had said to him floated into Harry’s mind; words in which Dumbledore had informed Harry that Snape was a good man. Written words, the last words Harry had received after Dumbledore’s death according to his will, which, even in death, proclaimed that Snape was a good man at heart. Harry snorted even thinking about it.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “Do go on.”

“With what, Potter?” Snape drawled and then his voice softened as he said to Malfoy, “Draco, come here. We’re going to go visit your aunt’s cottage.”

“We are not!” Malfoy sounded outraged, frightened and disturbingly annoyed.

Snape aimed his piercing glare at Malfoy now, taking his eyes off Harry for a brief second. Harry, seeing his advantage, stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Snape’s wrist, digging his nails into the skin and using his other hand to forcibly take Snape’s wand from his grasp. He drew his arm up rapidly and aimed his own wand at the older man, joining it a second later with Snape’s own.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Harry said conversationally, “if you died by your own wand?”

Snape shrugged a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. “To the Dark Lord it would, I suppose.”

“Don’t think I’ll back down just because you compared me to dear old Tom,” Harry snarled. “I have no intention of ordering others to kill Muggles because, heck, I had a bit of a downer day today.”

Snape’s lips quirked upwards but the effect was not a genuine smile and, with his sickly complexion, he managed to look like the Bloody Baron. “Surprisingly enough Potter, that news is the best I’ve heard all week. It it releases a feeling close to elation.”

“Oh, I am glad,” Harry said sarcastically. “If there’s anything I can possibly do to make that feeling awfully close to elation return, pray tell. Maybe then I can actually do something,” he added in a bitter undertone. Looking up he noticed both Snape and Malfoy had raised their eyebrows and he fought the urge to shake his head at such blatant similar mannerisms. He didn’t really need anymore proof than that as to why he detested the two; they were too similar for him to do anything but hate them equally.

“Potter,” Snape said slowly, “I know you detest me and I know, in your mind, you have every right to. You, however, do not know all the facts, nor do I presume that I do. I do know more about the circumstances than you do, Potter, and I need you to understand them as they are: the facts, laid bare, if you will, for you to draw your own conclusions.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Why what?” the older man asked, exasperated.

“Why do you need me to understand the facts, Snape, you dunderhead,” he grinned at Snape as he used Snape’s own personal catchphrase against him. Snape, apparently, did not miss the irony and smirked at him.

“Because, Potter ― and this is not easy for me to admit so don’t presume that this was my plan all along ― I need your help. More to the point, Draco needs your help.”

Malfoy, shock written across his pointed features, took the opportunity to finally add something to the conversation.

“I’m sorry, Severus, but I could have sworn you just said that I needed Potter’s help.”

Snape nodded. “I did.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“I am not.”

“You must be.”

“Draco,” there was a hint of warning in Snape’s voice now, “you did not misunderstand me; you need Potter’s help.”

“You must be mistaken!” Harry watched with a certain detached amusement at the anger on Malfoy’s face, which was quickly followed by a flash of his own anger towards the boy when disgust reared its face across Malfoy’s features.

“No, I must not be mistaken, Draco. Now kindly do not take a leaf out of Mr. Potter’s book and jump to conclusions before you know all the facts,” Snape snapped. “Now, can we go somewhere private? Potter keep my wand if you want. Call it an act of goodwill but if I wish it so you will find yourself Obliviated of the memory concerning our meeting and the subsequent conversation. That is,” Snape muttered, “if you agree to listen to me.”

“Why should I do that, Snape?” he demanded.

Snape rolled his eyes. “I remember Albus writing a letter, Potter. I do not know what was said within it but I know that he told me, should I be forced to participate in the Dark Lord’s activities after his death and you were not being cooperative, that I was to tell you to remember his last. Mad old bugger,” Snape finished his voice almost fond.

“Completely daft,” Harry murmured his agreement. “Manipulative, too.” Sighing, Harry extended Snape’s wand towards the older man. “Take it,” he ordered, “If you do one thing to make me regret it, the rather vigorous training I’ve been doing shall finally be put to bloody use and, Snape, I have also been trained regarding how to kill without magic, and if forced to I’ll use that knowledge. Are we clear?”

Snape regarded him for a long moment before nodding. “Yes.”

“Good,” Harry sighed, sinking his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the packet of cigarettes he’d shoved into his jeans when he’d been reaching for his wand. “Let’s go then.”
~|~|~|~

Draco walked behind Snape, his eyes fixed on the man’s dark head, venom in his gaze. Potter was walking beside him, hands deep in pockets that were equally as baggy as the ones he’d seen him wearing that day by the fountain, also staring fixedly at Snape’s head. Both boys were ignoring each other to the best of their abilities and the tension in the air was so thick Draco suspected a Cutting Curse would be required to pierce it even the slightest bit. Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt the urge to reach over and yank Potter’s hair, pull his head back and… ‘And what, Draco?’ he asked himself. ‘What then? Say something witty and watch him burst into fits of giggles like Pansy? Hardly likely. This is Potter after all ― Potter who would not know a witty comment if it smacked him ‘round the head.’

He sighed and made a conscious effort not to stoop as he walked. It was something his father had drilled into him at a young age. Narcissa Malfoy had not minded terribly if her son stooped while he walked as long as he smiled, made polite conversation and behaved appropriately with and around guests. She had been obsessed with image, insisting that Draco was brought a new set of robes once a week to keep up appearances, but even she had not minded if occasionally he faltered. Lucius Malfoy, his beloved father, had not been as merciful. The first time Draco had stooped whilst out on a shopping trip to Diagon Alley with his father, Lucius had told him to stop it immediately. He had but faltered later on in the day, his shoulders slumping unconsciously. When they had returned home, Draco had been struck with his father’s cane or disobedience. It had only been once but the blow was hard, the metal dragon head on the tip of the cane dragging into Draco’s skin, splitting it open. There was still a faint scar on Draco’s collarbone from the incident. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise that his father was deadly serious about proper decorum and was of the opinion that stooping whilst walking was not proper decorum for a Malfoy. He had threatened and punished Draco until he adhered to his will; and adhere Draco had. That was why he was here in the first place.

“Malfoy?”

His head whipped up, blonde hair flying through the air and grazing against his cheekbones, and he stared at Potter who was gazing at him, green eyes clouded with something Draco couldn’t place.

“What?” he snapped.

“Are… are… I mean, er… er,” Potter blushed.

Draco sniggered. “Potter, only talk to me when you’ve got a grip on the basics of the marvellous language that is English outside of ‘er’; otherwise you’re wasting my time.”

Potter’s cheeks coloured to an even deeper red hue and Draco tried not to snigger ― and failed. He almost apologised for finding hilarity in the boy’s embarrassment but it took only the memory that this was Potter for that feeling to be quenched.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter hissed. “In case you missed the memo, you apparently need my help.”

“I highly doubt that,” Draco snorted glaring at the boy. He realised how badly the current red in Potter’s cheeks contrasted with the deep, dark moss green of the T-shirt he wore and instantly decided that he could not be seen with anyone dressed so poorly; even Snape was dressed better. Sighing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and began deftly unbuttoning the pale green silk shirt he wore. Glancing up he realised Potter was looking at him, green eyes wide and an amusingly shocked expression on his face. Draco smirked at him. “My, my, Potter,” he murmured, “I had no idea you were such a voyeur.”

Potter shook his head. “I have no idea what that means, Malfoy.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he drawled as he slipped the last button out of its proper place. He could almost feel Potter’s palpable relief that he wore a black T-shirt underneath. “A voyeur is basically someone who watches, Potter. If you want a further explanation go ask that bloody bookworm friend of yours.” Sliding the shirt off his back he shook it out and thrust it at Potter saying, “Here.”

Potter spluttered and gaped at him until Draco, rolling his eyes, said, “Look, I don’t care how you look personally. I do, however, care what more important people think about the company I keep. It just so happens that if anyone sees me associating with a skinny runt wearing a Merlin awful shirt and jeans big enough to swathe Hagrid several times over I am no longer regarded as respectable. I can’t do anything about the jeans ― I can do something about the shirt. Now bloody well put that on before I begin to regret my munificent generosity.”

“Doesn’t munificent mean generous?” Potter asked, taking the shirt from his hands. Draco’s jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes at the younger boy.

“Are you telling me you know what fucking munificent means but not voyeur?” Draco almost laughed. “Merlin, Potter, if I didn’t think you were all kinds of messed up before I certainly do now.”

He watched as Potter yanked the silk shirt up his arms and flinched. Potter looked down at the buttons and, shrugging, obviously decided to leave them open, the pale green material flapping wistfully around the moss green T-shirt underneath. Potter glanced up at him and said, “Well, that’s good to know.”

“’Tis isn’t it?” Draco nodded. “Now, Potter, you just pulled a fine, expensive silk shirt on like it was a burlap sack. Kindly refrain in future.”

Potter stared at him in surprise. “Malfoy are you trying to say that you expect me to be wearing your clothes in the future?”

Draco could have sworn that in front of them Severus snorted and apparently Potter heard it too as they exchanged a brief, mystified glance before Draco answered. “No, of course not. I am simply stating that, in the case of dire emergency in which you will likely die unless you manage to get your hands on some decent clothing in future, treat my finery as if it were the Tiara Jewels those Muggles have.”

“Crown,” Potter corrected.

“Excuse me?” Draco asked blinking.

“You said Tiara Jewels ― it’s the Crown Jewels.”

Draco shrugged, uncaring. “Whatever. Tomato, to-may-to situation.”

“Hardly,” Potter said snorting. “To the best of my knowledge there is no such thing as the Tiara Jewels.”

“Well,” Draco mused, “seeing as your knowledge doesn’t even extend to the ingredients of a basic love potion I wouldn’t put too much stock in it if I were you.”

“That’s because love potions are illegal, Malfoy, in any shape or form ― even basic!” Potter countered hotly.

“Ah,” Draco said his voice deliberately low. “But then again, Potter, so is the Sectumsempra curse.”

Draco noted happily that Potter did not say anything further until they reached the motel he and Severus were staying at. Draco, eyes wide, glanced at Severus out of the corner of his eye and the man simply stared back, his face impassive. Draco resisted the urge to fidget.

"Severus," he began but was quickly cut off.

"Draco, we both need to discuss matters with Potter. We can not possibly do that adequately if we converse in a Muggle bar or in the middle of the street where anyone can hear our discussion."

"Well," Draco huffed, crossing his arms across his chest, "if you had only not insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town that wouldn't be the case would it?"

"If I hadn't insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town, Draco, it is highly likely that both of us would be dead by now," Severus pointed out as he ushered both Harry and Draco quickly into the dingy motel room Severus and Draco shared.

"Oh."

Draco said nothing more, choosing instead to watch Potter as he entered the room. His eyes, which still looked an unnaturally bright green, did not widen in surprise but rather began looking around the room quickly, eyes sliding from one item to another. He made no comment, just standing in the doorway taking in the scene before him as if entranced. Draco had to admit he was confused; he had been living in this motel room for just over a week and found nothing entrancing about it at all. It was smaller than his bathroom at Malfoy Manor; the windows were set high up in the wall and difficult to reach so the air in the room was musty and carried the smell of smoke, sweat and sex through the air. As Severus and Draco both required utmost privacy, the blinds were lowered and very little light managed to creep into the small room. One large bed lay in the middle of the room and, like Draco had told Potter, the mattress resting on the bed truly had more springs than a kangaroos step. Hard, sharp springs that prodded into his back and kept him awake so many nights that he had taken to sleeping on the floor or on the lumpy armchair shoved over to one side of the room. It was almost as uncomfortable as the bed but at least he did not wake up with a backache so distracting he would be forced to walk like a hunchback for two days. He had asked Severus why he refused to conjure a new bed and had received a curt answer, this was a secluded Muggle town and no magic would be expected to occur there. If it did the Ministry would no doubt attempt to discover where it had come from, which would mean trouble for Severus and Draco. So the room had stayed as it was: small, smelly and uncomfortable.

Draco wondered briefly if this was what his room in Hell would be like.

"Potter, sit down and stop gawking," Severus ordered, his curt tones breaking into Draco's wandering mind. Potter shuffled his feet for a second and made to sit on the armchair. Seeing his favourite place in the room about to be taken (not that there was much choice in the matter) Draco strided briskly over to the chair and gracefully sat on it, aiming a glare at Potter that he had perfected after years of watching his father and Severus. He did not know why, but he found himself excitedly waiting for Potter to begin an argument; when the other boy simply shrugged and sat on the bed he felt a wave of disappointment rise up inside him.

'Honestly, Draco,' he thought, 'looking forward to arguing with Potter? You really must be starved of human contact.'

Watching Potter squirm uncomfortably on the bed, a long list of insults automatically scrolled through Draco's head, their topics ranging from insulting Potter's atrocious glasses, to his friends, to his fame, to his family and back to his fashion sense. It was almost too easy, Draco concluded. Almost.

He opened his mouth to say something but Severus beat him to it:

"Potter, I trust you read the letter from Albus then?"

Potter nodded.

"Did you agree with what it said?"

Potter tipped his head back slightly, almost as if he had discovered something interesting in the ceiling. After a moment he shrugged.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Potter shrugged again and Draco's eyes slid over to Severus. His cheeks had taken on a slightly yellow tinge, his black eyes were glittering and the skin on his face appeared to be stretched tautly across his bone, even more so than usual. Draco recognised the look and smirked. Really, if Potter was going to be so idiotic to think he would get away with not answering Severus he deserved whatever the older man could throw at him. Draco felt a bubble of anticipation rise up in him, but then Potter had to spoil it all by answering Severus.

"It's an I don't know, Snape," his soft voice murmured. "I don't know what to make of the contents of the letter. It was truthful, that I know, or truthful from his point of view at least. I had Hermione perform charms on the parchment to detect spell work and only one came up - a spell which forces the writer to only write the truth onto the parchment. So I had to conclude that everything in it must be the truth. There was some information contained that was obviously truthful, it was informative and I suppose you could say it helped me. However, there was also information in the letter that was... well, it was about you. And I don't like you so I choose to believe it was Dumbledore's truth, not the all-inclusive truth."

Severus sighed. "Potter, for a moment there you almost sounded intelligent."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "Pardon? What do you mean almost?"

"Exactly what I said; almost," Severus snapped. "Tell me, how long did you know Albus Dumbledore? Six years?"

"Yes." Draco noted that Potter sounded confused; Draco could not blame him. He was too, but he would not admit it. He strongly suspected that he was about to hear something he had not expected to hear and that Severus had refused to tell him before.

"Well, Potter, seeing as I have a little confidence that you are not a complete idiotic moron such as your good friend Longbottom I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"

A gleam of recognition appeared in Potter's green eyes and Draco felt comprehension begin to dawn on him as well. For a moment he wondered how Potter knew Dumbledore had begged Severus and decided that he would need to inquire afterwards.

"I said," Snape repeated. "I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"

"Of course I noticed!" Potter snapped, his eyes shining with fury. "Of course I bloody well noticed but I think that that fact may change when you're ill, shaking, poisoned and most likely dying and you are suddenly confronted with someone you trusted pointing a fucking wand at your face!"

Severus shook his head once more and sighed. "Potter, Albus had great strength of will. He refused to beg when Grindelwald had him at his mercy, and believe me when I say that was not a wanted position at all, such as your being at the Dark Lord's mercy is no doubt unwanted and painful. Albus did not beg when the Dark Lord threatened him, or when he killed most of his family in front of his eyes for revenge. He did not beg when the Dark Lord told him he could return his family, could return Lily and James Potter at a price and, even though you know nothing of it, again believe me when I say it was a position in which begging may have been quite useful. Again, Potter(,) he did not beg whenever doctors told him, six months prior to his death, that he would not live a year and there was nothing they could do. He did not beg for them to try and help him just as he did not beg me to not kill him. He asked me to remember a promise I had made and I fulfilled that promise by killing my mentor."

For a second no one spoke. Sometime during his speech Severus had made his way to sit on the bed and had rested his head in his hands in an uncharacteristic display of weakness. Draco, eyes wide with shock, glanced up to gaze worriedly at him. When his eyes shifted from Severus they landed on Potter. Potter whose eyes were wider than he had ever thought eyes could be, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears and blazing with a range of emotions that awed Draco to watch. Anger, disbelief, shock, understanding, acceptance, anger and curiosity all passed across that face before Potter next spoke.

"What promise, Snape?" His voice was low, controlled and Draco suspected there was deliberately no judgement in the tone.

"A promise I made during the summer leading up to your sixth year." Severus raised his head from his hands to look at both Draco and Potter. "A promise that came about after Draco's mother arrived at my house on Spinner's End."

When Severus did not continue and instead stayed silence, Draco was the first one to give in to curiosity.

"My mother was at your house over the summer?" Draco asked softly.

"Yes," Severus nodded.

"She never told me."

Severus smiled ruefully. "I did not think she would. She came to me to request I enter into an Unbreakable Vow with her. Bellatrix was there also, awful beast of a woman. Of course, she's completely insane but not altogether unperceptive. She had doubts about my loyalty to the Dark Lord and berated Narcissa constantly for her decision to talk with me. When I agreed to participate in the Unbreakable Vow she nearly died of shock."

"Good," Potter said sharply and his voice was so laced with hate that Draco's head snapped around so he could look at him. Ice grey eyes bored into green ones for several moments before Draco remembered that he wanted to ask Severus something.

"What Unbreakable Vow?" he questioned. "What was it about?"

Severus sighed. "It was about you actually, Draco. Your mother had heard of what the Dark Lord wished for you to do and was not happy. She told me she wished that you had not agreed and Bellatrix told her to stop being dramatic; she said that if she had a son she would willingly sacrifice him for the Dark Lord's cause."

"Yes, well, dear Aunt Bellatrix was never the most empathetic person on the planet," Draco drawled.

"Draco, you must understand how much your mother was worried about you. Narcissa insisted that she could not allow you to go through... the mission on your own and begged me to watch over you, to guide you, if you will. She was hysterical, begging and crying and Bellatrix, as usual, sneered and made derogatory remarks. She was no help and I think Narcissa knew that her sister would not help you out at all. She asked me to agree to look over you at school, to try and help you and, finally, if it looked like you were going to fail I must complete your mission for you. She said, afterwards, that she would not have been able to bear it if you failed and then died because Albus was still alive."

"Mother can be overly emotional," Draco murmured, not really meaning the words but saying them anyway as an offhand apology. "Was... was she adamant that you agree?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"This is all well and good," Potter said, "and rather... interesting I'll admit. But, Snape, this has nothing to do with what I asked you. What promise did you make to Dumbledore? I asked you nothing of a promise between yourself and Narcissa Malfoy."

"I know, Potter, but I needed Draco to know of the Vow, and you too. If you had listened you would've realised that I was magically bound to kill Albus if Draco could not." Severus stood and walked over to one of the windows, pulling the blinds up slightly to look out.

“I was bloody listening, Snape, but that hardly explains a promise with Dumbledore now, does it?” Potter said sarcastically, eyes blazing.

Draco watched as Severus’ fist clenched and silently begged Potter not to say anything to anger him further; after all this time spent living with the man he knew it was not pleasant when Severus became angry while ill and tired even if he would not admit to either condition. Potter, it seemed, either could not see Severus’ clenched fists or he chose to ignore this angry gesture when he opened his mouth.

“Listen, Snape, I don’t particularly trust you here and you are giving me no reasons to!” Potter spat. “All you’ve done is prove to me how loyal you are towards the Malfoy family!”

Severus whirled ‘round, black hair fanning out around his face and his dark eyes blazing angrily at Potter. “Shut your mouth, Potter. You know nothing of many matters, which you should be clued up on. Dumbledore himself admitted to mollycoddling you and not wishing to expose you to the evil of everyday people in the world! Believe me, now that Albus Dumbledore is gone there will certainly be no holding back from me! You shall hear what I want you to hear and you shall learn things you should’ve known all along. And one of the first things you should’ve known all along is what really happened the day you and Albus went off to hunt for the Horcruxes.” Potter gasped and Severus sneered. “Oh, don’t look so shocked Potter, of course Albus told me about the Horcruxes. I was the one who had to attempt to heal his blasted hand after all ― he wholeheartedly refused to visit more experienced healers at St. Mungo’s.”

“He … he refused?” Potter’s voice was shaking.

“Of course, Potter, don’t be naïve. I’m sure you know that Albus even looked forward to death, saying he could not wait for his next grand adventure,” Severus said sarcastically. “Foolish old man at times, but not always. You see he knew about the Vow Narcissa begged me to take part in ― I myself informed him of this fact. I also informed him as to what exactly the task entailed that the Dark Lord had set for Draco.”

Draco’s mouth fell open as he looked at the man standing in front of him. He had never even considered for one moment that the man had not been completely loyal to the Dark Lord ― there had been no reason to, especially after he killed Dumbledore. What he had questioned was why, if Severus had completed a task the Dark Lord wanted completed so fiercely, they were forced to hide out in seedy motels across Europe.

He couldn’t believe what he was being told; to even consider the idea would be preposterous. There was no way Dumbledore had known what his task had been. He had not fully believed that the man was completely unintelligent but, surely, if someone was aware there was a plan operating ― under their nose ― to ensure their imminent death they would go out of their way to stop it. And Dumbledore had not, for Draco would have known. Draco would have felt resistance surely ― the Room of Requirement would have stopped working, he would have been watched more closely, and he would not have been able to disappear from Quidditch or classes whenever he pleased. He should not have been able to do such things if Dumbledore had known he was going to die. He should have been doing something, for Merlin’s sake! He should’ve kicked Draco out of the castle, handed him over to the Ministry and dusted his hands completely of the Malfoy family. Draco knew without a doubt that that was exactly what he would have done, like he knew that Albus fucking Dumbledore should have done every single one of these things. Then the leader of the Light side would still be alive and Draco… Draco would be dead. But at least he would not have had to live with the guilt that ate at every moment he was awake.

“Severus are you joking?” he asked suddenly, voice curt. Severus and Potter both turned to stare at him, black and green eyes blinking in surprise.

“No, Draco, I am not,” Severus said softly.

“So he knew? He knew what my… my mission was and,” Draco heard his own voice catch slightly but did not pay much attention to it, “he let me do it?”

Draco’s gaze had shifted to his hands and he was now studying his fingernails intently, glaring at the cuticles fiercely as he blinked back tears he desperately did not want to fall. Potter had witnessed too many of his most humiliating moments before; there was no need to add another to the no doubt lengthy list. He saw shiny black shoes come into his eye line and felt Severus place a hand on his shoulder, but he still refused to look up, instead choosing to use the fingernail of his right thumb to push back the cuticles on his left thumb. Severus squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and Draco glanced briefly up, scowling at him before returning his attention back to his fingers.

“Yes, Draco,” Severus murmured, his voice close to Draco’s ear; “I suppose that would be a fairly accurate conclusion.”

Draco sunk his teeth into his lower lip and gnawed on the tender flesh for a moment before vehemently declaring, “Dumbledore was a crazy bastard who should have had me thrown in Azkaban.”

“Yes, I reckon he should’ve had,” a quiet voice said from the middle of the room. Draco’s head shot up, strands of white-blonde hair unfurling from behind his ears and falling in front of his face. He stared at where Potter was seated and expected to see the other boy glaring hatefully at him, green eyes sparkling with anger and words laced with disdain. None of this seemed to be the case, however. The words had been a simple statement, filled with no particular emotion, the eyes were inquisitive and Potter’s face was blank as he watched Draco intently. “But then again,” Potter continued, “I don’t reckon you’d have survived long in Azkaban.”

“And you would care why exactly?” Draco’s tone was similar to Potter’s: blank, non judgemental and receptive.

Potter tilted his head to one side once more, surveying Draco from behind old glasses that Draco recognised as the same ones Potter had been wearing the first time he met him, vivid green eyes bright. “I’m not sure why exactly,” Potter said, “but I think it may have something to do with the fact that, annoying, petulant bastard that you are, you still lowered your wand that night.”

Draco started. “Huh?” he gasped, eloquence forgotten.

Potter smirked. “You heard me, Malfoy. I saw you lower your wand that night. You wouldn’t have killed him would you?” he finished, his voice low, soft and sounding to Draco slightly as if he had just reached this realisation himself recently.

Draco’s eyes swept over Potter once more, taking in everything about his expression and body language, searching for some hint that Potter was playing him, was urging him to confess that that had been the case only to turn his small advantage to his own use, as many of his Slytherin friends would have. He did not find any such signs and had to remind himself that Potter was in no way akin to Blaise or Pansy.

“No,” Draco admitted, his eyes skittering away once more from both Severus and Potter and instead coming to rest on the blinds of the window closest to him. “No, I don’t suppose I would have.”

Potter did not speak, but Severus did.

“I suppose then that is a good thing I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Albus also,” Severus sighed. “You see, Potter, there are many reasons surrounding why I killed Albus that night and I suppose you could say that the most important reason was because both Albus and I were convinced that Draco would not be able to kill the Headmaster. Draco, I do not wish for you to take this as an affront to your abilities whatsoever as it is not ― Albus especially was convinced that, at heart, you were simply to(too) good a person to kill someone because another did not like them. He said he did not believe you would spill his blood and that he did not wish for you to even reach the point where you were in a position to do so. However, he told me that he did not underestimate you and thought that, if you should have the chance, it would be a smart idea to insinuate myself into the situation and swing it so that I would be required to kill him.”

Severus stopped and glanced over at Potter. Draco, whose eyes had settled once more on Severus, followed dark eyes to where Potter sat, cross legged, on the mattress, his fists gripping the threadbare blanket, knuckles white. Potter glanced up and green eyes clashed with grey as they both regarded each other for a moment before Severus continued with his speech.

“Albus requested that I enter into a Vow with him, stating that should the chance come for either Draco or myself to kill him, I was to immediately take the chance. I assented with his request and questioned him about it afterwards. I was told that Albus did not wish to be killed by Voldemort or any of his other followers and, should the time come when this would inevitable, he would much prefer that I kill him for then he could go peacefully to his ‘next great adventure’,” Severus said bitterly. “He said he would write a letter that would be delivered by Fawkes to you should I or Draco be the ones to kill him. He implored me to find you after the deed was done.”

“That’s why you demanded we stay here wasn’t it?” Draco asked. “I said that we should leave, I told you that I had seen Potter and you still insisted that we would be safe here.”

“And we are,” Severus murmured.

Draco snorted and just barely restrained himself from responding crudely to Severus’ statement. It seemed Potter had no qualms whatsoever about talking crudely to Severus.

“Bullshit,” Potter stated, staring straight at Severus and Draco. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the weight of that green gaze. “If you knew I would be here then you no doubt are also aware of the fact that right now, not far from here, there is a rather large group of Order members training for this war. I reckon you also know that every single one of them would turn both of you over right away.”

“Ah,” Severus said, “but you did not, Potter. You did not inform anyone that you had seen Draco and, when you leave here, I doubt that you will tell anyone of our conversation, will you?”

Potter blinked at him and Draco wondered absentmindedly how it was possible for a male to have such long eyelashes. “How did you know I hadn’t told anyone about seeing Malfoy?”

“It seems that you underestimate how much I know your psyche, Potter.”

“It does rather, doesn’t it?” Potter sighed and dropped his head into his hands. When he next spoke the sound was muffled as a result of his hands being placed so closely to his mouth. “Snape, how exactly can I trust you?”

Severus placed one hand on the back of the armchair Draco sat on and leaned heavily against it. “Have I not given you enough information yet, Potter?” Draco did not miss how much sorrow seemed to be laced into Severus’ words and Potter appeared to have heard it also as he raised his head and looked right into Severus’ eyes.

“Set up a Pensieve.” Potter did not once glance away from Severus. “If you want me to believe you set up a Pensieve.”

Severus swallowed and stared straight back at Potter. “Why?”

Potter smiled, almost sadly, and said, “I cannot perform Legilimency but I can tell when a memory has been tampered with, Snape. If you want me to believe you I want to see the necessary memories, collected, in a Pensieve. Then I can view them and draw my own conclusions and, if they show what you told me and don’t appear to have been doctored, I can believe you.”

“What if they don’t?” Severus questioned.

Potter shrugged and uncurled his legs from under him, standing tall in the small room, glancing at both Draco and Severus as he walked towards the door, hand already on the door knob when he murmured, “Then, basically, you’re buggered.”

The door was opened quietly and Potter slipped through, shutting the door as quietly as it had been opened. Silence reigned in the room for quite some time, neither occupant wishing to say anything regarding what had just happened. Draco lifted a book from the pile he had purchased at the local bookstore days previously and, in an effort to stave off thoughts and memories he did not wish to dwell on, he immersed himself in the tale of Mrs Bennett’s quest to marry off her daughters.

It was only much later as he settled down for sleep that Draco finally realised that Potter had buggered off with his shirt.

Next Chapter

Two Rants That May be Semi-Interesting but really are just Ruth's Brain on Crack

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 16:57:06 GMT

This post is likely to be considered rude, controversial, me bitching, whatever you want to call it. Whatever. I'm being honest. Blunt, but honest. (Also this was written around one in the morning, so yeah.)

So, rather recently, there have been two issues I've read about on my flist which grabbed my interest, although I'll admit one more than the other. I want to say right off that what I write here is my own personal opinion, and that I mean no harm and am not trying to attack anyone for their choices, because I believe that people should make their own choices and we should accept them. Well, for the most part.

Lani

The issue to which I am referring is, of course, the whole debacle about Lani leaving the fandom. Now, I don't know about anyone else, but I was in fandom four years ago before dropping out about two years ago, only to be sucked back in eight months previously. I was in fandom when Lani was publishing stuff left and right and, although everyone else seemed to be raving about her work, I will admit to never having read them. The first I ever attempted to read Lani's fanfiction was her novel-length H/D, A Priceless Gift, on the recommendation of a friend of mine. Now, for the most part, I am more inclined to stories that are, as house_illrepute said, more "canonical". I didn't get very far in A Priceless Gift at all, because to me it seemed very far removed from canon, which puts me off in novel-lengths. This, however, is not what I want to talk about. What I wanted to truly mention right off is, although I may not personally have enjoyed her stories, others have. Real life friends of mine have, online friends have and people I have never met adore Lani's work and leave reviews filled with admiration and praise. Now this, to me, is one of the main reason's people publish their stuff. Most writer's, not all but most, love what they do with a passion. They could simply not imagine not being able to write again and would rather loose their leg than never, ever, ever write again. They write because they love to. The fact that what they write pleases their audience is an added bonus and comes second only to personal satisfaction. Lani's fics were well loved.

Then everything, excuse my language, went balls-up. Now, I haven't read either Lani's fic or silentauror's, and after all this fuss I don't know if I will in the future. Because, basically, that's what all this bollocks is: fuss. If someone who loved writing with all their heart, and was accused of plagiarising something do you honestly think they would quit? No. God knows I wouldn't. If someone accused me -- someone I didn't even know accused me -- of stealing idea's of another's person's fic from fandom my response would most likely boil down to one thing: fuck off, please. In a fandom this large it's hard to come across entirely original ideas because there are so many good author's around the world writing in the Harry Potter fandom and in any fandom, with so many good ideas, that if you think you've struck gold with an original idea you'll quickly find that someone has already used it. I recently discovered it myself with my own fanfic as, halfway through chapter eleven, I started reading CDumbledore's Harry Potter and the Ace of Cups and swore at length when I realised a plot device had been used in that already. Now, technically, does this mean I'm plagiarising from CDumbledore's work? I would hope not! I've put my own spin on things, I've used different settings, my characterisation's are different and it's only one detail. But, still. I was quite annoyed and no one has accused me of plagiarism.

Now, I don't know and I don't presume to know if these accusations are real are not because, frankly, I don't really care. I doubt I'll read both fics and if I do, I'm not ashamed to say it's more likely to be silentauror's. I'm a fan, I think she's a great writer, and I like the way she can write about a range of topics. No doubt there are people, possibly on my flist, who prefer Lani's work so don't be afraid to tell me your opinions of the whole mess.

Because this is simply my opinion and my opinion is that Lani should have shown some backbone. If you think about every fandom writer is plagiarising. We can add as many disclaimers to our work as we want but we are till taking another person's characters, settings, plot lines and using them, integrating them into our own stories made from our own imagination. Fandom is picked on so often by those outside it and, to try and face up to it, we all have to band together. I went to a school, a short while ago, which housed what is, frankly, one of the bitchiest group of people I have ever met and sometimes I think I've landed right back in it. Lani is accused of plagiarism, Lani doesn't like it, so instead of making it clear that she didn't plagiarise, or possibly as many of us writer's have done used a plot device she thought was original when really she had simply remembered it from another fic. It's happened before and it'll likely happen again but the difference this time is a lot of people followed Lani and her fics. So, Lani was a bigwig I suppose. Good for her. Shows she had talent, obviously, if so many people read and enjoyed her work. I say congratulations. I also say grow a backbone. Because, really, someone slags you off and instead of standing up, issuing an apology or waiting it out and then going back to writing, trying to show her fans why she was one a celebrated H/D author, she crumbles. She quits. She lies down on a bed of glass and takes the trampling.

I am aware, from what I've managed to pick up, that she has had to suffer a lot of stress in the past while. I don't enjoy hearing this, and I sincerely hope things get better for her. I wish her all the best, although it's likely she'll never read this, but I also wish that she could have made herself an example. Because, frankly, I was following the "Lani issue" on harrydraco and was slightly disgusted. So many people came off sounding like twelve-year olds and there was a particular comment that I completely agreed with, posted by furiosity in which this was said: Now I understand what people mean when they make fun of our ship for being a bunch of whiny, self-entitled 12-year-olds. . It's true, it does seem to be populated by 12 year olds, in that people were either mouthing off about Lani, or were begging her to come back. Don't beg. If Lani wants to leave, Lani wants to leave. It's her choice to do so. If you want to continue to read her fics do so. If you don't want what happened to Lani to happen to you, make sure you don't let it. If you do get accused of plagiarism tell them all were to stick it if it's a false accusation. Even if it's true, but you love writing, wait it out. It's a vicious storm at first but people, as twelve-year olds generally do, quickly get tired and move on, finding someone else to pester and you still have the ability to write. Use it, for Christ's sake, and for God's sake stop making me write these posts which reduce me to a 12 year old because it's painful people. I thought I'd matured, but I still feel the need to vent my spleen.

Fanfic Writer's: Their Responsibilities

Oddly enough, the Lani issue, despite all I had to say about it, was not the one that really captured my attention. The issue that did really grab me was one I discovered via megyal's journal, when she posted an entry, linking two posts talking about the responsibilty fanfic author's have. Now, I'm inclined to think I'll have far less to say on this one as I haven't been researching it avidly I just thought I may as well share my thoughts and opinions, because I am just so good at that.

I want to make clear right away that I do not want to disrespect th post megyal linked to heatherly's journal because I do think that posts is interesting and I do think it has a lot of valid points in it (post found here. It certainly played on my mind for a bit and I know now things I didn't know before and I'm always open to learning new things (it's this Ravenclaw vibe apparently). I know now also that, should I require to ask help for any piece of fanfiction I'm working on dealing with issues such as incest, child abuse, etc that I can ask heatherly to provide me with information so I can make my fic more realistic. And responsible I guess. However, there are always two sides to every coin and the flip side was just as interesting and explained, in an interesting and succinct matter, here.

To anyone reading the posts it becomes apparent that both of these people feel strongly on the subject although they argue for different sides. They both, to me at least, are very well presented and gave me a lot of information which I drank in greedily and processed, before spending a few days mulling it over. Now, I would advise that any fanfic writer -- or even reader for that matter -- read these posts because they are both very interesting. No doubt people will draw their own conclusions and I want to throw my own out there, because if I can't use my LJ to rant what can I use it for?

Anyway, when it boils down to it, I agree with both posts, which may sound a bit contradictory but bear with me. I believe, should someone choose to write a story centered on incest, they should research it. They should discover what affects it has on the people who are the victims of incestuous abuse, how long it take to get over the mental scars it's bound to leave, if people get over it. They should be prepared to treat the issue for what it is and what it is, is simply horrifying. I am relieved to say that I have not suffered from incest, and I am disgusted everytime I learn about another case because I can't imagine what would possess someone to do that. My heart goes out to people who suffer through these things and I think everyone's does when they hear stories like one I read about not that long ago: the story where a man repeatedly raped his daughter. That sickens me. It sickens the victim. It leave scars and, even in fanfiction, I don't believe it can be brushed off lightly. I don't believe this because I can't believe it, because no matter the amount of creative license one takes with their work is it really likely your character, say Draco, who has been sexually abused by his father for years, wakes up and says, "Hey. Screw it. I'm better." No. He'll feel terrible, no doubt, ashamed, confused. These, and many others, are the affects of incest. If an author wants to write about an incestuous relationship they must research it to make it believable. I know the few incest fics I have read have been well researched, well written and poignant. (Virginia Andrews' Flowers in the Wind/ Petals in the Attic etc. anyone?)

However, this being said I also agree with the second post. If you, as an author, want to write about incest you goddamn well do it. Your imagination is yours, your writing is yours, and no one can take that away from you. If there are issues you want to explore, scenes you want to write, write them. I personally wouldn't forgive myself if a scene was playing in my head which I knew would evoke a strong reaction from anyone who'd read it and I didn't put it down on paper because I was frightened. Frightened of what people would think, what they would do. For God's sake, people, we're authors. We can't please everyone; we never will and it's useless to try to. It only makes the author unhappy. So if you want to write a story where Draco's father molests him, write it. Put the warnings on and, like it says in the second posts linked, "please don't hold back or tailor your writing with those impulses of hesitation, fear, and reluctance. This is one of the widest sandboxes you'll ever get to play in -- fanfiction, other people's characters, zillions of scenarios waiting to be born out of the seeds of this chapter or that episode or that throwaway look between two characters onscreen. Don't take other people's potential disapproval as the starting point for something that should instead come from careless bounding of crazy plots or fierce emotion wrapped up in weighted words or pleasure in the refining of sentences, or whatever delicious self-indulgence that prompts you to put pen to paper or fingers or toes to keyboard. Don't write responsibly."

This sentiment is very, very true of how you should initially write. Write what you went, when you want. Write your characters into scenarios that you may not be able to conquer yourself. Write your characters emerging from abusive relationships, write them into scenarios were they live next door to a paedophile, write them into scenarios were they are the paedophile if that's what you really want to do. Notice my use of the words 'really want to do'. If you don't, what's the point? Honestly? If you don't want to write it don't bother. If you do want to write it, write it. Get your plot mapped out. Find out what the endings going to be, emerge yourself into the character's psyche to grasp if they're going to come out of this situation well. Most importantly, research. Be taken seriously. Show that you are a serious writer, prepared to research what you're writing about.

It would sound confusing to simplify this argument of mine as what I am necessarily saying is: write responsibly but don't. I'll be the first to admit that I don't make sense a good lot of the time. I confuse the Hell out of even myself at times and no doubt, if I hadn't confused you before, with those four words I did. But, if you read those two posts, then my own arguments, it's quite likely that you have grasped what I am trying to say. Like the second posts states you are responsible for your fic, you're being held in account it, so if there are scenes that could disturb some readers put that in a warning but write it anyway. Like the first post says research, make sure you've got your facts straight. If necessary, or if you want to double-check a point or ensure you've got the right end of the metaphorical stick consult a professional. Be prepared to stick up for what you've written, because it's what you wrote because you wanted to. Be reasonable. Use your brain and think. I know you all can, if you managed to make it this far down this mammoth post. Take into account what the two posters said, take into account what your gut is saying (and no I don't mean that literally) and take into account this question: if you were writing a novel to be published featuring incest, you'd mention it wouldn't you? On the blurb on the back, surely. And your editor would insist it be accurate and not some stylized version of what you think would happen. So, view your fanfic as if it was a work to be published and distributed about the world in bookshops. Write it, love writing it, research it, be thorough, and do what you love. Write.

And now, my God, I can go and immerse myself in smut because my brain has thought to much and rain out of steam somewhere in that last bloody massive paragraph. And, as always, yell at me, give me your opinions, ask me why I think that and the like and I will try my best to respond. Y'know, and make some sense when doing it.

Ficlet: Catch

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 15:59:11 GMT

Title: Catch
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: PG-13?
Genre: Fluff! I managed fluff, people! *dances happily*
Challenge: enchanted_jae monthly drabble challenge: #16, lame pick up lines.
Summary: "God damn it, Potter!" Malfoy cried. "I am trying to come on to you!"
Author's Notes: So I’m completely insane and decided one bad pick up line wasn’t enough. Just so you know. Also, I joined enchanted_jae’s monthly drabble challenge a bit late, so this is rather rushed and the deadline was extended for me and I’m sorry for all those people who tried to get theirs in on time for the deadline! … I think that’s it.

Catch
by Ebonie Rose

Harry Potter had no idea what had possessed him to agree to go with Ron on the pull but he was pretty sure the instant he landed home, he would be forced to perform an exorcism to get rid of the nasty bugger. The last time Ron had managed to drag him out for a night ‘painting the town red’, as he called it, Harry had woken up beside a blonde woman. A woman, for God’s sake! His standards were slipping.

He stared down at the half drunk pint sitting in front of him and sighed loudly. He should just get out of here – according to his watch it was already past midnight and Ron was currently sitting across from him sucking some random woman’s face off. Hermione would not be best pleased.

He stood and tapped Ron on the shoulder. There was a loud sucking noise as his friend drew back from the brunette and Harry was reminded scarily off sixth year and Ron’s brief relationship with Lavender. He shuddered just to think off it.

“Hey, mate, I’m off,” he yelled, over the music.

“Why?” Ron asked. “Not pulled?”

“No.”

“Aw.” Ron didn’t even look sympathetic, simply pleased that he had managed to pull while Harry sat off to one side as usual, drinking and refusing to dance with anyone who asked. “That’s a bummer. I’ll see you tomorrow, though, right mate?”

Harry had to think for a moment to remember what tomorrow brought. Oh, yeah, his drunken brain was only distantly remembering the fact that tomorrow was Charlie’s thirtieth. Excellent. “Sure,” he said and turned away, beginning to try and navigate the packed dance floor. He had just squeezed past a couple were literally trying to shag each other out on the dance floor when he felt someone grab his wrist. He made to pull his wrist out the stranger’s grip – no doubt it was simply another one of those fans who seemed to accost him whenever they got the chance – but the stranger was too strong and spun him around.

Harry’s eyes widened in shock when he realised that the person who had grabbed his wrist was none other than Draco Malfoy. He hadn’t seen Malfoy for two months, ever since he had testified at his trial and kept the other man out of Azkaban because of his role in the war, and he was surprised to see him here. Especially when he looked so good. His hair, a shade lighter than it had been two months ago, had been cut and was now chin-length and his skin, although still pale, had lost its pallor attained through months living in Voldemort’s underground headquarters. He had never considered Malfoy attractive before. Harry quickly concluded he was an idiot.

“Malfoy,” he said and was glad when his voice didn’t turn out half as shaky as he thought it would.

Malfoy’s pale eyes were gleaming unnaturally. “Hey, Potter,” he purred, yanking on Harry’s wrist and pulling him closer to him to him. “I have a question I want to ask you.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh?” he said. “And what might that question be?”

Malfoy blushed pink and seemed to hesitate slightly before, taking a deep breath, he asked in a rush: “Are you from Tennessee?”

Harry blinked at him. “No,” he said slowly. “I’m from Surrey. Why would I be from Tennessee?”

Malfoy scowled at him and for a minute Harry’s mind flashed back to Hogwarts when it was very likely Malfoy would be hexing him for daring to speak in a less than respectful tone to him.

“Never mind,” Malfoy growled. “Let’s try another one: do you want to see something swell Potter?”

Harry had a feeling that Malfoy was just trying to confuse him and he tried to wrench his wrist out of Malfoy’s tight grip. “Listen, Malfoy, I’m not that interested in playing your incredibly confusing games so could you please let go of me.”

“God damn it, Potter!” Malfoy cried. “I am trying to come on to you!”

Harry stopped trying to remove his wrist from Malfoy’s grip and instead let his arm fall lax at his side, blinking up at the slightly taller man. “Huh?”

“I said,” Malfoy growled, “I am trying to come on to you. Are you deaf as well as blind?”

Harry brushed off the second part of Malfoy’s small rant – after spending months working beside him he was used to the insults – choosing instead to focus on the first part. He opened and closed his mouth several times, in an unintentional impression of a goldfish before he finally managed to squawk, “WHAT?”

“Bloody Hell, Potter, you just can’t listen can you?” Malfoy murmured under his breath. Then a wicked a smile began to slowly spread across his face. “Never mind. I’ll have to show you what I mean.”

Harry, never one for public displays of affection even with someone as attractive as Malfoy, stepped back when Malfoy attempted to kiss him.

“Fine then,” Malfoy snapped. “I go out of my way to ensure that I at least tell you I think you’re somewhat nice on the eyes and you through it back in my face. Fine.” Harry almost laughed; Malfoy looked so much like a petulant child. He half expected the other to stamp his foot in frustration.

Malfoy turned to leave and it was Harry this time who grabbed him, stopping him from leaving. When he spun Malfoy around he noticed that the other man’s cheeks were pink and he looked furious.

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy snapped. “Is my embarrassment not enough for you? Do you want me to run through London in frilly underwear just to underscore the fact that I am completely mortified!”

Harry blushed. “Er, no,” he mumbled. “I don’t. But I do want to ask you something.” He raised his chin a bit and stared up into Malfoy’s eyes, noticing the small flecks of blue near the center of his iris’ for the first time.

Malfoy’s eyes brightened slightly but he raised an eyebrow, smirking down at Harry, all the same. “And what would that be?” he drawled.

Harry smiled bashfully, trying desperately to push down the blush that was rising in his cheeks. “Er,” he said and cast his eyes around until he settled on a place in the distance, so he wouldn’t have to look at Malfoy’s face when he finally managed to say the most embarrassing thing he had said in his life. Taking a deep breath he finally gushed: “I seem to be a little short on money and I was wondering … can I share a taxi home with you tonight?”

Malfoy blinked. And blinked again. And once more before a smile spread slowly across his face. He moved closer to Harry and stooped slightly, pressing his lips firmly against Harry’s. Harry opened his mouth slightly, granting Malfoy entrance, but instead the other man pulled back and shaking his head slightly said, “Well, Potter? Come on – no more faffing around*. We have a taxi to catch!”

*faffing around: I think it’s purely British slang for mucking around. I think because I'm not very up-to-date on American slang.

A Few Recs

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 23:58:40 GMT

Ha! So, apparently, even in the current state of mortification I am in I can still post a few recs, although most of these are recent or things I am ashamed - absolutely ashamed - for not reccing before!

Ride My Broom by sesheta_66. Come on, people. Look at that title. Why are you not running to read it? That's why I did! Anyway, it's a cute, funny little short piece that'll make you giggle. Or else you're not human :). jk.
Author's Summary: Harry uses a rather 'interesting' line on Draco.
Rating and Spoilers: PG-13, NONE. 8/10

Who's Your Daddy? by softly_sweetly. Please believe me when I say that it's not what you're thinking from the title. It's short, funny and in response to enchanted_jae's monthy challenge as is the story above. Made me snort with laughter.
Author's Summary: The best pick-up lines come from the worst places
Rating and Spoilers: Very soft R, none. 8/10

Unintended by furiosity. Please. If you have read ANY of F's work you will know why this is brilliant. Because she is marvellous: her writing style is astounding and has only progressed during her time in fandom. If I was slightly more aware I would be able to ramble more but what you really need to know is that this piece, this gorgeous story, is so different and brilliant and bittersweet that it should be a SIN to be a H/D shipper and not have read it. And now I will shut up before I suggest starting a cult for this fic because it is one of my absolute favourites.
Author's Summary: Every little thing between them had been unintended, accidental, fortuitous.
Rating and Spoilers: NC-17 (I think) and HBP spoilers. 10/10

Now I must go because Mel, my delightful cousin, has convinced me to go over to hers and watch DVDs. At least I won't be home when my parents get in.

Parents Are Evil

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 23:24:36 GMT

Now everyone is someone's kid, right? So nearly everyone out there has been mortally embarrassed by their parents. It's like a ritual that one has to go through. Now, my parents being the people that birthed me, are slightly more prone to embarrassing their children than others and I feel the need to share this story because I'm slightly inebriated at the moment:

A cousin of mine, Mel, recently announced her engagement and then today she arrived at our house for dinner, and told us she was pregnant. So what do my parents do? Tell her it's lovely, gush over it, and then take her out to a pub. A PUB. They took a PREGNANT woman out to a PUB to celebrate. I can not stress the fact that whatever brains I may have I certainly didn't get them from my parents.

Mel, being a lovely, lovely woman, insisted I go along (plus, I thought she was pretty sure that my parents wouldn't allow me to drink either so she wouldn't be alone). Unfortunately that wasn't the case and my Dad slammed a pint in front of me. A pint. Now, I'm not a teetotaler but I'm not that fond of beer. Or alcohol, normally. But on this one occasion I accepted and, well, drank more than one pint.

What was the embarrassing thing about the night you ask? Well, you see, it was an Abba night. Well, technically a '70s night but anyone who's ever been in one knows that it makes it's way 'round to an Abba night. My Dad hates Abba and my Mum isn't a fan but, with a bit of alcohol in them neither seemed to care and started singing karaoke. And gyrating. Not simply dancing, gyrating! It was disturbing enough and embarrassing as it was because my Dad used to work in the bloody pub and I used to come in every day and badger him for a bit so everyone knows I'm his daughter. So random blokes were walking up to me and going "Isn't your da somethink?"

I was *this* close to screaming, "He's not SOMETHINK he's something! Something terrible!" *This close*

I was pretty sure they couldn't make it worse. They did. They dragged me up there. And started telling everyone (through KARAOKE MICS) ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD AND THE "CUTE" THINGS I USED TO DO!

I ran out of there. I am not ashamed to say this because it's true. I ran like a coward. And now I have no idea why I felt the need to type this but I do. Because this way I'll remember tomorrow to hate them.

Ha! Even my alcohol addled brain has some sense!

Come Hell or High Water: Chapter One

Fri, 08 Jun 2007 17:01:10 GMT

So, didn't expect to post this today but today seems to be my day for posting. So may as well.

Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every three weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author’s Notes: Due to my paranoia I have a small army behind me on this one and I want to thank each and every one of them: miniluv68, lunadragon, darth_elleth, faeriechii and Andria for reading over this and picking up things which my brain completely forgot to process and whipping it into some semblance of a story. I also want to think ravenqueen55 for reading over the first draft of this and telling me what she liked about it, and encouraging me to write more. I can almost guarantee I wouldn’t be as far on if they hadn’t. I hope you enjoy, comment and tell me what you think and there’s a brief note at the end as per lunadragon’s suggestion.

Come Hell or High Water
by Ebonie Rose

Chapter One
The Barracks and La Fontaine

They tried to tell them that they weren’t barracks, saying that they were simply temporary accommodation until they could arrange something better to inhabit, but Harry knew better. He had seen too many war movies not to. And the place ― the barracks ― were exactly like the ones in the movies. This particular bunkhouse, lost in the many small buildings that the barracks consist of, houses only ugly, inexpensive furnishings, has too many bunks squashed into the small room to be of much use and is dimly lit with only two small windows, one at the back and one at the front, which let in so little light they may as well have not been there. There was little free space and Harry, while standing in the doorway surveying the space, felt the familiar tightening in his chest that appeared whenever he was forced into a small space with innumerable other people. Behind him people were jostling each other relentlessly and he received more than one elbow to the ribs as they pushed past him to swarm into the barracks and claim a bunk, some of them throwing him concerned or dirty looks. Harry did not respond to any of them, instead choosing to let his gaze sweep over the room once more, this time searching for exits and weak spots. Obviously there was the door and the two windows, which were at once exits and weak spots. They would have to create another way of entering and leaving this godforsaken place. He didn’t trust regular means of entry ― especially during an attack.

“Harry,” a soft voice breathed in his ear, “are you alright?”

He didn’t respond, just nodded and the owner of the voice sighed disbelievingly before making her way to one of the bunks. She grinned at him and motioned for him to follow but he just shook his head. Instead, he slung his backpack down from his shoulders and, setting it on the floor, turned his back on the group and made to stride out of the barracks. A hand curled on his left bicep, and stopped him before he managed it, however. He glanced over his shoulder to find he was staring into his best friend, Ron Weasley’s, crystalline blue eyes.

“Hey, mate, you going somewhere?” he asked, concern evident in his tone. Harry still refused to speak, just shrugging. Ron clucked his tongue, and made an exasperate gesture that reeked of Hermione. Harry chuckled and Ron grinned at him. “If you are, you want some company?”

A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face. “Sure, Ron.”

The two boys ― for they were still boys; Harry was barely seventeen and Ron not much older ― turned and walked quickly out of the bunkhouse, leaving behind the buzzing noise of the subdued group, their legs eating up the ground between the Unplottable building and a small vineyard nearby Harry had noticed when they had first Apparated to this place in the middle of nowhere. Or at least it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere to him.

They walked in silence, neither speaking until they had found a place to sit in the vineyard ― perched on top of a rickety fence with chipped white paint. Harry hoisted himself up onto the rather unstable fence and, hooking his feet around a slate of wood, looked out at the grape vines growing around them. The harsh summer sun was beating down relentlessly on the green plants, causing the vivid green to look jealously on at the sun’s shining beauty. Harry knew just how they felt.

“Harry?”

He looked up at his friend, who was watching him intently, blue eyes worried and unsure. He forced a small smile onto his face and titled his head to the left, a gesture he had not been aware he used often until it had started irritating him immensely over the summer. “Yes?”

“Are… are you… I mean… you know…” Ron, who had never been particularly eloquent and was even worse when nervous or under stress, stumbled repeatedly over his words and Harry watched as a bright red blush, which clashed horrifically with his hair, climbed up his face and coloured his cheeks.

“No,” Harry said calmly. “No, Ron, I don’t know.”

Ron chuckled nervously. “I mean… I mean… Oh Merlin, I knew I should’ve got Hermione to do this!” Ron suddenly cried, throwing his head into his hands and wobbling the fence dangerously with him. “She’s so much better than me! I mean, I can’t even say it!”

“Say what Ron?” he asked, even though he had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what Ron wanted to ask him.

Ron took a deep, steadying breath and finally managed to mumble; “Are you alright, mate?”

“’M’fine,” Harry said, looking at his best friend like he was the one who should be asking the question and Ron the one to answer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ron looked at him incredulously. “What do you mean, why wouldn’t you be?! Harry, mate, have you lost your bloody mind! You watched… you watched Dumbledore die! And then (you) had to go back to those bloody Muggles! How can you possibly be fine?”

A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face and he reached out, clasping one of Ron’s hands to his in a reassuring gesture ― or at least he hoped it was. “Ron,” he began, “I’ve survived the Dursleys before and they were much better this summer because they knew I had to move out when I was seventeen. You should have seen them! They were incredibly eager to please me; they treated me like some kind of deity. I think they were scared that if they acted appallingly to me this summer I would come after them when I could legally do magic outside of school and hex their bollocks off or some such. Though why one summer would make the difference after sixteen years of neglect I don’t know,” he added softly, bitterly.

When he looked up Ron was staring at him like he had suddenly grown Fluffy’s second and third heads.

“But, Harry,” he gaped, “what… what… what about Dumbledore?”

Harry shrugged. “What about Dumbledore? No, Ron, don’t look at me like that. Dumbledore once told me something: he said that death is not the end of an adventure, but the beginning of one. He wasn’t frightened of death; in fact, I think he rather welcomed the challenge of starting a new adventure. And, anyway,” he added, “everyone dies and Dumbledore was a very old man. He wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway.”

“WHAT?! Are you saying… are you saying that you don’t care that Dumbledore’s dead?! That Snape killed him?!” Ron screeched. The fence began to wobble drastically to and fro.

Harry shook his head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Of course I’m upset Dumbledore’s dead(,) but I’ve accepted it. He was old; it was inevitable. We’re all going to die, Ron, especially now that we’re in the middle of war. Why else would we be here in fucking barracks, preparing to train? We’re here to train for war, Ron. To learn how to kill, how to avoid being killed and how to hurt others; how to launch bloodthirsty attacks on people we went to school with. It’s going to be ugly, Ron, and I can’t promise that everyone is going to live, because they aren’t. It’s rather simple and we should just accept it. As for Snape,” he shrugged, “Snape will pay. Believe me.”

“I do, Harry,” Ron sighed. “And that’s part of the problem.”

For several long moments that seemed to stretch on forever Harry stared at his best friend, a mystified expression on his face before he said gently, “Getting cryptic on me, mate?”

“Possibly.”

“Oh.”

Neither said anything more for a long time.
~|~|~|~

Ron had left the vineyard long before Harry had and when he finally made his way back to the camp ― for it was a camp, according to those who had concocted the idea to start a training ground for the younger and newer members of the Order, with its multiple bunkhouses and large, empty fields for training ― it was approaching dusk. The sounds of cheerful talk and high-pitched laughter wafted through the air from the largest building, which Harry presumed was the canteen. Harry immediately decided to avoid it. He did not know half of the people there and those he did know he had no wish to confront. He already knew how they would behave: Ron, Hermione, Ginny and a few others would repeatedly ask him how he was feeling whilst everyone else would avoid him or determinedly pull him into a light-hearted conversation. He did not want to have to sit, surrounded by people, and feel the weight of their pitying stares.

Sighing angrily, he kicked a stone on the dirt path in front of him and began walking, unsure of where he was headed but remembering vaguely that when they had travelled to this place they had passed a small town somewhere east of their current situation. He let his legs carry him along the path, kicking up dust and letting it settle on the frayed bottom of his jeans. He had been walking for an hour or so, engrossed in thoughts that made little sense and swayed randomly from one to another, before the small town came into view. In truth, Harry was not even aware it was there until it was looming above him.

Momentarily unbalanced he blinked, surprised at the town’s sudden appearance, his eyes growing wider than normal behind his glasses. Vivid green eyes glanced quickly around the town and he instantly noted a large billboard set in the middle of a cobblestone courtyard, which he assumed contained information about the town. Sauntering over to the board, he peered at it and let out a frustrated groan. He should’ve known they were no longer in the U.K.; the weather was ridiculously hot for Britain. Still, he could not understand what had possessed the Order to locate their training grounds in France. For, according to the board, that’s where they were.

His eyes scanned down a list of documents, picking out a few phrases here and there he recognised: the little French he had been taught in primary school coming to mind and the phrases he often heard Dudley spout at random intervals swanning into his memory. Occasionally during the summer months whenever he was bored, he would glance over Dudley’s Muggle school work and he could remember, quite clearly, the French vocabulary books that were piled under Dudley’s bed, beside his multiple porn magazines, the vocabulary books graffitied over so badly he had had trouble reading even the English. He knew little French and knew instinctively that what little he did know would more than likely be said with an atrocious accent ― but he would try at least.

He turned from the board and scanned the surrounding buildings, hoping desperately to see a tourist information office. Surely someone there would speak English at least.

Ten minutes later Harry had decided that not only did no one in the immediate vicinity know where the tourist information office was; no one around seemed to speak English. Growling in frustration he stalked over to the water fountain in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard and perched on the stone wall surrounding the large water feature, and pulled his legs up to his chest. He dipped his left hand into the water, tracing his fingertips delicately along the surface of the water, and watched as the ripples spread far out from the point of contact and then disappeared. He paid no attention to his surroundings ― this was not overly stressful and did not require much concentration as Harry understood little of what was being said around him and cared even less. Occasionally he would hear brief snatches of English conversation but he pointedly ignored that too; he simply wanted to sit here, entranced by the ripples his fingers were making in the water, until he was forced to return to the training ground for the night. A time, he knew, that was drawing closer at an alarmingly rapid rate.

When he felt the first fingers of cold and weariness set in Harry pondered briefly whether or not to return to the training ground. He wondered whether anyone had noticed his absence and decided that more than likely Hermione would have noticed but not brought it up. He had arrived at the Burrow, exhausted and malnourished, two weeks into August, although he told everyone he had left the Dursley’s the moment he turned seventeen. No one had questioned where he had been, no one questioned where he went when he disappeared for long periods of time. In fact as the days wore on Harry became convinced that Hermione was the only one who still noticed ― aside from Ginny. Neither girl asked him where he disappeared to, nor did he doubt they would not ask now, although he knew from experience that he would spend the next few days receiving furtive, anxious glances from the two girls.

Sighing, he drew his thin denim jacket closer to himself in an effort to keep warm and sat that way, alone and almost completely still, for a long time.
~|~|~|~

It wasn’t often that Draco Malfoy found himself questioning his godfather’s ability to be rational, but now was definitely one of those times. Since his godfather, Severus Snape, had murdered Albus Dumbledore before summer ― on his behalf ― the two had been on the run, wanted by the Light side and not welcome within the ranks of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters. They had not stayed in one place long, which, Draco supposed, he may once have welcomed. It was not a commonly known fact that Draco was afflicted by a disease known as wanderlust and often felt incredibly uncomfortable staying in one place for too long. He had once dreamed of travelling the world, seeing sights he could barely imagine and drinking in culture like it was a fine wine. These dreams were dashed with Dumbledore’s death and, although he had now been in many different countries and cities, he had seen little outside his hotel room and the few pubs and cafés they came across. It had not been an ideal arrangement, but it had been a relatively good plan; the longer they kept on the move the longer they would be out of danger. Now though, Severus seemed intent on ruining what had so far been an extremely effective plan.

“Severus,” he asked the older man, watching as his godfather took a sip from the coffee mug in front of him, “are you stark raving mad?”

Severus barely managed to stop himself from spluttering his coffee out all over the café’s table, Draco noted with amusement. The older man was not as amused. Glaring fiercely at Draco he lifted a handkerchief to his mouth, dabbed elegantly at the corners of his mouth and took a bite of his omelette before deigning to answer Draco.

“Draco, are you of the habit of mistrusting my judgement?”

Draco snorted. “Yes, absolutely, that is why I have been on the run with you for the past few months and that is also why you have become the only contact I have to humans, besides waitresses and barmen.”

“I see your sarcasm has not been dampened by this experience.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Draco said cheerfully as he sank his knife into his own dinner ― a French speciality he had not eaten before but had heard his mother order on many occasion. Personally, he had always thought the dish looked rather like the contents of one’s stomach, but it at least sounded sophisticated and Draco could never pass up the opportunity to express how truly sophisticated he was. “Otherwise,” he said absentmindedly as he attacked the mysterious meat, “where would you be?”

“Possibly in the company of a sane person?” Severus murmured and Draco glared briefly at him.

“Where would the fun be in that now?” Draco drawled. “Merlin knows many considered Jenny Weasley to be sane ― you could be stuck with her.”

Severus snorted. “I would have severely wounded the girl by now ― and its Ginny, or rather Ginevra, Draco, not Jenny.”

Draco chewed on a piece of meat and promptly decided that, if his upbringing had been that of someone else such as Potter or one of the Weasley brood, he would have spat the foul tasting substance out. “Do I honestly look like I care?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t even attempt to joke, Severus, you have absolutely no sense of humour and it just means that I, in comparison, look pathetic.”

“How exactly do you explain that, Draco?” Severus asked, clearly amused. “Do share with me the twisted logic your mind is able to produce.”

Draco gave a long suffering sigh. “Well,” he began, “you see when people hear your feeble attempts at humour, those people who are in the surrounding vicinity, they cringe, Severus, and look around to try and locate the person who has befouled the name of humour. When they realise it is you, and I am your travelling companion, I receive pitying looks and you receive scornful glares. It is really quite simply ridiculously apparent; I’m intrigued you didn’t notice before.”

Severus chuckled softly as he discreetly refilled his coffee mug with an almost imperceptible flick of his wand. “I am intrigued that you honestly believe you can carry that voice off.”

“I’ll have you know this voice makes me sound sophisticated, mature and dignified,” Draco said, pouting. “As any plebeian could tell you.”

“I rather think you sound like Lucius,” Severus said, casually, in a rather off-hand manner.

Draco stiffened immediately, his back ramrod straight, fury emanating from every pore of the boy’s being. Severus’ eyes narrowed as he realised what he had said and what the consequence of his words would be. He sighed and set his mug down on the table, his palms still pressed tightly against the (magically) cool china.

“Draco,” he started but did not get any further. Draco stood swiftly, almost knocking the table over in his haste to remove himself from Severus’ presence. He looked at Severus from behind shuttered eyes which were distinctly icier than they had been all summer. Severus fought the rather unfamiliar urge to simultaneously swallow in fear and apologise earnestly.

“Don’t you ever compare me to Lucius fucking Malfoy,” Draco snarled and, turning his back on his godfather, he quickly weaved his way through the tables in the rather small, high end but homey café. He nodded at the maitre d’, courteously, and, collecting his cloak, exited the café to find himself standing in the town square.

It was a quaint town, like many small towns in France’s vineyard country were. The high street ― and indeed many of the streets ― were paved with cobblestone, the houses were built in a haphazard pattern with no particular pattern in mind and many of them seemed to speak of working class lifestyles rather than those he was used to. Gingham, check and coloured curtains were parted to reveal glimpses of a comforting family life he had never seen, or glimpses of businesses, both prosperous and failing. There were many small signs and wooden information boards dotted throughout the town but the main attraction, to Draco anyway, was the feature from which the town got its name ― the Vierge Fontaine, or the Virgin Fountain. The name seemed rather ridiculous to Draco as he knew that, had there been a fountain anywhere in Britain named the Virgin Fountain, he would have went out of his way to ensure it remained virginal no longer. Not that he would perform sex acts on a fountain; that thought was entirely too disturbing and best left up to the Weasley clan to ponder.

He walked towards the fountain, his steps slow and measured. The wind was blowing strands of silver-blonde hair into his eyes and a few times he blew impatiently at the rogue strands. He had not had the luxury of a haircut in five months and his normally carefully cut and beautifully maintained hair was longer now, falling loose to surround his face so the ends brushed delicately against the skin just below his ears. He had never before realised how soft his hair was, having normally insisted on cutting it twice a month and gelling it back most days unless Pansy had insisted on otherwise. Now, he remembered why. The softness, the silky texture, of his hair was something that annoyed him immensely; it almost guaranteed that the weather would see fit to be windy and insist on blowing his hair into his face. He was still blowing stray strands of hair out of his face when he reached the fountain. Glancing up at the marble statue in the middle of the water, his grey eyes began to take in everything about the statue placed on the island there. It was … different.

He remembered his mother telling him once how the Vierge Fontaine had received its name but he could barely remember it now. All he could recall was that it involved a local girl named Claudette and a would be lover who had been stolen from her. He could remember thinking, when his mother had told him that Claudette drowned herself in the fountain in front of him because she could not be with the one she desired, that she was little more than an idiotic bitch. He wasn’t surprised to discover he still felt this way.

The figure in the middle was obviously supposed to be Claudette. Glancing at her rendering, Draco decided that either the sculptor had taken liberties with the rendering of the statue or she had been unnaturally beautiful. Her statue’s cheekbones were high, her nose remarkably straight with a slight aristocratic upturning to it at the end. Her eyes were large and spaced evenly apart in her face, her lips large and full, her hair a wild mane of thick, untameable tresses that contributed to her beauty by giving her an air of rawness, an untameable quality. A fire in her soul, a certain passion about her being, Draco supposed. Her figure was what many girls aspired towards: a curvaceous figure with rounded hips and an ample bosom. Draco quickly decided that the artist must have taken liberties ― Draco had seen many women and not one of them looked like this woman had. Or, none but his mother and the Veelas although, in the back of his mind, he remembered thinking his Aunt Bellatrix had once been extraordinarily beautiful. The thought, which now scampered across his brain, made him snort aloud in amusement.

The admittedly inelegant snort drew the attention of a boy sitting on the other side. Draco had not noticed him sitting there, but when he saw someone shift in his peripheral vision he raised his head to see who it was. The boy wasn’t looking straight at him but rather around him, and from his body language appeared to be confused. Draco’s eyes swept over his form, taking in everything about him, including body language, as Severus had taught him too over the past few months. He was dressed in loose, light blue denim jeans with large patches of yellow and white dust from what Draco presumed where dirt roads clinging to the material. He appeared to be shivering, which didn’t surprise Draco: it was a warm night, yes, but it wasn’t of inhumane heat and the boy seemed to be wearing little more than a thin denim jacket ― although Draco assumed he was also wearing a shirt of some sort underneath. He was of average height, neither overly tall nor overly short, but seemed to be underweight, the baggy clothing doing nothing to hide this fact. Draco hazarded a guess that the boy was roughly his age for he had concluded it was a boy. No adult would sit in such a position, skinny legs pulled tightly to their chest. Still, no boy should look as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders and the world had just chosen that moment to gain two hundred stone.

Draco snorted at his own humour. The second snort drew the boy’s attention to where he stood and Draco instantly wished he had stayed in the café with Severus, comparisons to his father be damned. His grey eyes widened in shock and he instantly clamped sharp, white teeth down on his bottom lip. The only words racing through his head were all to one effect: oh, shit. The boy’s eyes collided with his and any illusion Draco may have had about this just being one of those annoying, but not uncommon, look-alikes he had been seeing since fleeing Hogwarts were instantly dashed. In his life he had only seen one person with eyes so green that they seemed to be willing you to anger them just so they could shoot Avada Kedavra at you through them, as the colour of the eyes changed to the shade of the Killing Curse. Draco, watching as the eyes widened in recognition, swallowed and began walking backwards quickly. The eyes narrowed and the body they were attached to unfolded itself from where it sat. The instant feet touched cobblestone, Draco began to run.

However, one thing Draco had not accounted for was he did not know the town of Vierge Fontaine very well and his shoes, black leather boots with a heel of an inch and a half, were not exactly running material. This, though it hindered him, did not stop him from fleeing as fast as he could.

Damn, he swore into himself. Damn, damn, damn, damn. Wouldn’t you know it? Arrive in France in a little known town, free from connections to either the Black or Malfoy families when suddenly out of the blue pops Harry sodding Potter who so far he and Severus had managed to avoid. And Severus had been suggesting staying in this damn town for a few weeks!

Dodging the locals in the streets, Draco ran as fast as was possible, his breath coming quick and fast in his chest. He weaved through the thinning night time crowd and ducked into alleyways, following them to locations he knew naught of, fervently wishing that Severus would appear at any moment and Apparate him to safety. He had not mastered Apparation; he had not thought it necessary with Severus nearby. He could only curse his stupidity and so he did so as he ran, although it caused his breathing to constrict his chest more and caused his speech to sound incredibly laboured.

“Fucking Apparation… studies… useless… instructor… oh Merlin… I’m going… to… fucking die… from… lack of… oxygen… Oh, stupid, stupid… Draco… should’ve… learned… to… fucking Apparate… you… useless… sodding… bastard.”

Glancing back over his shoulder he was sure he had lost Potter and, in jubilation, decided that now would be an opportune moment to finally faint from lack of oxygen. He didn’t even manage this, however, instead settling on throwing himself at the nearest wall and sliding down it, the rough feel of the stones scraping through the flimsy material of his shirt and tearing at his skin underneath. He did not complain, however; he instead just slid down until he was sitting on the ground, clutching his chest, willing his breathing to cease its erratic pace.

It didn’t seem to want to comply.

He was positive he had been sitting there for quite some time, coughing desperately in an, admittedly dimwitted, move to restore air to his lungs. His breathing had slowed and the pain in his chest didn’t burn as much as he reached down to yank furiously at the shoelaces on his boots. He pulled the shoes off and, looping the laces together, settled them securely around his neck, a shoe resting over each shoulder. Sure it looked ridiculous, but the shoes had been ridiculously expensive and there was no way he would leave them sitting in a dark alley; the same way there was little chance of him wearing the shoes for much longer. His feet were sore and he was almost positive they were bleeding.

Getting shakily to his feet, Draco took a few tentative steps and saw blood seep into the material of his white cotton socks. He growled in frustration. One short, albeit painful, run and already he felt like he had run a marathon. He was woefully out of shape.

Wincing with every step he took, Draco made his way back through the maze of alleyways, back out into the town square and, in his socks and bleeding feet, ran across the square to duck into the seediest motel they had been able to locate in Vierge Fontaine.

Author’s Notes: When lunadragon was betaing this chapter for me she mentioned that she had never heard of the word ‘swanning’ and had to look it up on Urban Dictionary which apparently gave this definition: “The act of eating ones grenade, resulting in serious injury, or death.” This, however, is not the correct definition in reference to the context I use the word in. It’s common British slang for a simple word, ‘walking’, however it’s normally used in reference to a more snobbish, arrogant and self-assured walk, if you get my meaning. Hopefully, if you didn’t understand the meaning of the word before, you do now. Or, like me, you got to snort at Urban Dictionary’s definition and be overcome with glee that the people who comply dictionaries don’t know every definition.

Next Chapter

Fanfic Debate: The Good Guys

Fri, 08 Jun 2007 16:55:53 GMT

So, look at this people! I managed to post the fanfic debate the day I said I would! It's amazing and I honestly have never been more shocked in my life.

I'm posting this under an lj cut because it's far too long and I don't want to bombard peoples flists if they're not interested in reading the debate.

FYI: There are SPOILERS under the cut. If you have plans to read The Good Guys - linked in an earlier post - do not read this.

Recently, Frayach posted an entry in her LJ stating that she was too much of a Hufflepuff. If you have read this story you, like me, no doubt don't really believe this. The careful, intricate mind games that are played here are simply too devious for someone with a 'Hufflepuff' personality to come up with - no offence meant to those do consider themselves Hufflepuffs. I'm simply stating the truth: the mind games played here are fantastic and left me reeling, especially the revelation that comes at the end of the story. I admit that mind games are one of my kinks, so this stole my breath. It's been a long time since I read a story which made such good use of how cunning Slytherins can be and I was delighted that it did.

The writing, as one would expect from Frayach, is superb and personally left me wishing I could write half as well. There are subtle hints littered throughout the story concerning what has already occurred in the War Against Horror, but the writer never comes out and outright tells you everything that's happened which I think was a very clever thing to do. At times, though, I do admit to wanting to know more; particularly concerning Jennings. I don't know about anyone else but the instant Jennings appeared in this story I liked him. He was a likeable character, at first, immensely charismatic and one of those people who likely the whole country would vote for if they were running for Prime Minister, President, whatever. However, Jennings is revealed to have a darker side and this ... this is done excellently, in my opinion. Maybe others disagree with me but, for me, having Rawlinson hint to Harry about Jennings past just made me more aware of the fact that he isn't all good news. After all, would you really hint at something if it wasn't that shocking?

I have no doubt that I am going to end up sounding like a salivating fangirl during this and am quite aware it's already happened, thank you, but I can not thank alderbaran1977 enough for recommending this for the fanfic debate. This story sucks you in from the beginning because it starts straight into it. There are no lengthy diatribes, the writer simply tells you what's happening and it is up to you whether or not you're able to process this or not. There is humour here - I particularly liked ARSE (Assassination, Reconnaissance and Seizure Experts) - but it is the angst here that stands out.

I can't stress how well this is written. There are small intricacies woven throughout and, even though you become aware that Draco is playing with Harry, the sheer extent to his mind games do not become clear until the end of this piece, in the letter, and I don't know about you but I wasn't expecting that as an ending. Draco's letter to Harry was a shock tactic and made me groan and, I'll admit, curse the author because I was sitting there, staring at the computer screen for a minute and caught myself thinking, 'I wonder if I could bribe them into writing more'. Well, seeing as I have little to no money left (woe the life of a student) this is impossible for me to do but I find that, when I think about it, you don't need a sequel to this piece.

If I had to describe the fic in one word I am absolutely sure it would be haunting. It played on my mind for quite some time, still does whenever I read the papers, and it makes you think. The fact that Frayach was willing to point out that there are shades of grey is very important, because I think what she does is take the situation in nearly every country and shows us it clearly. I am not trying to look down on any career path but I am going to say that the situation portrayed in this fic, in which it becomes clear that the forces thought of as 'good' aren't quite as good as they would like us to believe, is very true of the police, the soldiers, the politicians, the feds even, in modern day Britain and America and no doubt this situation is true throughout the world. I am honestly in awe of Frayach by the subtle, but unmistakeable, way she managed to put this across. It becomes apparent in the second paragraph where we have people who the wizarding world would hold in esteem baiting Muggle cops that things are very, very wrong. She then goes on to elaborate on this theme and uses the perfect character for it - Jennings, who Harry idolises and models himself on. She tars his character, telling the reader that he is more than ready to go above and beyond the legal (although, technically, it is made legal but you get my gist) to ensure that he gets what he wants.

Yes, the idea is rather sad when you think of it but, yes, the idea is true also.

Concerning the rest of the fic, well, I read it didn't I? Now this maybe doesn't sound like much of a compliment, I reckon, when you look at the words but the truth of the matter is, it is. If I don't like a story I'll flip off it, refuse to read it or read it only to pour immense amounts of scorn upon it the next day to anyone who will listen. Obviously, from the above, I am not pouring immense amounts of scorn upon this.

The characterisations are so astounding it's hard to wrap your mind around it and the depth Frayach gave Draco astounds me. For the lack of a better word I'm going to say he seems extremely passionate to me. He's determined, although at first he seems all to ready to break. He's cunning and a good actor and we don't see that enough in fanfiction. We don't see enough stories that use the fact that Draco was a Slytherin and, yes in canon he's a bit of a git, but he has to be in Slytherin for a reason right? Which means he's ambitious or cunning or sly and this story recognises the fact that Draco is a Slytherin and plays on it. Plays on it the same way it plays on Harry's Gryffindor and Slytherin tendencies. It's astounding what a good writer can do, in my opinion, because if Harry would have left Draco in the cell with Jennings at the end I could almost have believed it from his actions (mostly in part 2 was it? I’ve got them all saved as one so I can’t check at the mo) of this fic.

(And the lovely descriptions of the sex and rimming didn't hurt either.)

All in all, yes I admit, I am a complete fangirl for this story. I love it. It's that simple. I thought about faults but I really have one thing that niggled a bit at me but still I appreciated it, which is of course baffling. Whereas I liked it that Frayach gave us very little back story, I still craved back story and would have loved to read more. Weird, huh?

Well, now that I've rambled on enough for what seems like years, I want to hear your opinions. What did you think of it? Have I praised the wrong things in the story, in your opinion? Did you like it? Did you not? Am I annoying you with all my questions? And so on.

Oh, on a last note: it seems to me, from reading this story, that whereas Frayach may consider herself a Hufflepuff in person, there is no doubt in my mind she's a Slytherin at heart. Just an extremely crafty one who hides her cunningness behind a Hufflepuff exterior. Clever, eh?</lj>

Quite Excited

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 16:48:22 GMT

So, I'm quite excited about this whole community thing. I think it's a good idea and can't wait to hash it out because, well, because. My brain's tired today: French oral is over and done with and I can leave the nasty thing behind for a whole summer and all my exams are finished. I can now relax and put my feet up. Though not on the desk because I'm sitting in my granda's and it's very likely that he may kill me.

I don't know why I feel the need to share this but I do nonetheless. Because of my paranoia I have around four betas, currently, for a story I'm working on (that's not a one shot! Horrors!) and I sent off chapter one two days ago and got it back today. Now I used the word 'swanning', which us British use to mean well 'walking' basically. For example: 'swanning into the room like he owned it' means walking into the room like a pompous twat. In Northern Ireland speak. But my beta, who is an American, didn't understand so looked it up on Urban dictionary. The meaning she found there was quite bloody different from what I know. It said: swanning: "The act of eating ones grenade, resulting in serious injury, or death". Now, I don't know about you but that sounds extremely painful and I would definitely not indulge in any swanning around if that was it.

So, yeah, notice going in author's notes of that chapter lol.

Last night I typed up the fanfic debate and I think it's ready to go so I'll hopefully be posting it tomorrow - although every time I say that something comes up so maybe I shouldn't insist on jinxing myself. I think it sounds pretty readable but then again I completely follow Jack Sparrow in PotC so maybe not everyone will get it. That is the burden of being y'know, insane to a certain extent.

You know I'm beginning to think this rec thing is a bit of a laugh. My had is throbbing and I couldn't be bothered but, because I've been following it and adore it and it's finished now, I'll rec one :

Muggle Integration Studies by megyal. I adore stories were Harry is a teacher of any kind and this one is no exception. The banter between Harry and Draco is adorable and light and teasing and put a large grin on my face. It's a fluffy piece of work and it's great: the smuttier scenes towards the end are pretty bloody good too! All parts are linked from the link provided.
Author's Summary:Harry lectures evening classes for adult wizards. Also, the classes are less important than H/D. Oh yes.
Rating: NC-17. 8/10

... I do love fluff sometimes. Strangely enough now that I'm looking for fluff all I can seem to find is angst. Odd, that.

Fic: Where The Sun Doesn't Shine

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 16:40:21 GMT

Title: Where The Sun Doesn’t Shine
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: R
Genre: Angst ― or rather an attempt at it.
Summary: Draco Malfoy hates and it really should be as simple as that but it’s not. Things have never been simple with Draco and when you add Harry Potter to the mix everything only appears to get worse.
Disclaimer: I am not JKR, I do not own anything, you do not sue. Okay?
Preliminary Author’s Notes: This story is for miniluv68 in honour of her birthday! I asked her to give me a prompt and she ~~demanded~~ asked nicely for an angst fic with a happy or semi-happy ending. Everyone should know, right off, that it is a bad idea to ask me to write an angst fic. I suck. And pull out masses of hair. Seriously, I start shedding more than my dog. Also, once more I apologise for the summary that reeks worse than the dump. I am literally unable to write any summary unless I spend an hour on it and, as tired as I was when I wrote this, that isn’t going to happen.

1.

Draco Malfoy hates poverty.

This is understandable as Draco Malfoy was born into wealth and, when one is born into wealth, one expects nothing else but wealth. One expects nothing less than the lavish furnishings he is accustomed to, the antique possessions, the meticulously cleaned homestead. One certainly does not expect to be presented with a dilapidated house that looks as if house elves have not been near it for months and told that this awful house is one he is expected to frequent for the remainder of the war.

When Snape tells him as much he sneers at him and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that Snape can take his orders to stay at this awful hell hole and shove it somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine. Snape returns the sneer and pushes him towards the house, fingers curling in his collar and frogmarching him to the door. He raps loudly and they wait impatiently on the doorstep for what feels like eternity before Draco notices that the door has opened and Snape is currently conversing in hushed tones with an old, scarred man who Draco remembers from fourth year: Alastor Moody, the Auror.

Draco tilts his head back and surveys the house. He knows where he is now. He knows now that the Order of the Phoenix exists in squalid conditions. Draco would have been proud of the Dark Mark on his left forearm if it weren’t for the fact that he can’t be. Who can be proud of something they’ve been coerced and tortured into doing?

2.

Draco Malfoy hates his mother.

It’s not a commonly known fact and he only realised it a while ago himself, so he does not expect anyone else to be able to see it as he can. He is fairly certain that there is no one in the Order who can use Legilimency properly and the only one he knows who can do it ― Snape ― he knows would never dream of using it on him. He’s glad.

He doesn’t know if he could put up with some amateur ploughing through his mind, bringing forward memories he doesn’t wish to relive. It was bad enough the first time.

The first time he realised that his mother didn’t really care for him Draco was only a few months old. He can’t remember it clearly ― no one remembers anything when they were that young clearly ― but he knows, just knows somehow, that what he remember is real. And what he can remember is trying to hug his mother, as he had seen other children do, as his father had hugged him, and his mother had sneered at him and said something he could not remember clearly but which had caused him to toddle away from his mother and bawl to Nona, the house elf his father had assigned to look after him when he wasn’t there.

There were other incidents of course: the many times that Narcissa Malfoy ignored her son in public due to visiting friends, the fact that she insisted he stay in his room at all times, the times during his father’s long absences when she decided to bugger off as well and leave a seven-year old Draco alone with only a home full of house elves for company. Snape has told him about his mother forcing him into an Unbreakable Vow to protect him but Draco knows even that was a part of his mother’s pretence: he knows she only did it because otherwise … otherwise Lucius Malfoy would have her head on a silver platter.

Draco thinks that Narcissa’s head would look quite attractive on a silver platter.

3.

Draco Malfoy hates that his father ordered him to go to the Light side.

Draco has been asked many times in the past why he pays such attention to gossip and the truth of the matter is that he doesn’t; he detest gossip. Abhors it with a passion. But, as any good Slytherin would know, it is necessary to keep abreast of the gossip to know if anyone you’re aquatinted with has recently been involved in a scandal or if there is any gossip you can use in your own personal agendas. Any good Slytherin knows this and Draco has always been a good Slytherin. So he has listened religiously to the gossip in Hogwarts and in the Wizarding world in general for years and is well aware of how his family is portrayed. He knows how detestable everyone thinks his father and how people are more inclined to pity his mother, to say that if anyone would switch to the Light side in their family it would be her.

Draco, being a good Slytherin, did nothing to combat these rumours but inside … inside he seethed. The fury bubbled and frothed in his veins and once he had shared this statement with Potter, shortly after they arrived at Grimmauld Place. Potter had looked at him strangely and asked, “Malfoy are you a rabid dog?” Draco of course had huffed and decided never to share anything with Potter again.

So he doesn’t know how he found himself telling Potter all about his father. About how when he was younger, his father had been the one to raise him, the one who smiled at him and tickled him and played with him and kissed away his tears when he fell and scraped his knee. His father, the feared Death Eater, was the man who had tucked Draco in at night and held him when he cried and woke him from nightmares and who Draco had found crying one night. He had never asked his father why he was crying and had simply decided, as a five years old, that the way to offer comfort would be to do what his father did to him often; sit beside him and drape his arms around his waist, ruffling his hair and kissing the top of his head. His father had laughed and shooed him away but, seven years later, a curious Draco had asked his father why he had been crying and had received a curt, “Ask your mother,” as a response.

He tells Potter how his father had been so cold and unfeeling outwardly but how he had written to Draco every night; how he had praised Draco’s achievements and had encouraged Draco in Quidditch, although he had been a little disappointed that Draco had failed to beat Potter even once. He is nearly crying as he tells Potter how his father had heatedly denied Draco’s request to join the Death Eater’s and how he had made Draco promise never to do so, even though he himself was one. He tells Potter about how awful he felt breaking his promise to his father, but what he could he do after all? His father had been locked away in a cell a long way from where Draco had been and Draco had honestly thought that the Dark Lord would release his father and then leave them alone.

He tells Potter how he knows it was stupid to believe anything the Dark Lord said but he couldn’t not have joined the Death Eaters. He asks Potter if he’s ever lost someone he loves, Potter nods. Draco asks if he would give everything to have that person back, do anything and Potter nods again. Draco, satisfied now, tells Potter that’s the reason he did what he did. Because, despite what everyone else thinks, Draco thinks something else. Draco thinks he knows that Lucius loved him and he would have moved Heaven, Earth and the stars to get his beloved father back. He tells Potter that when he had … when he had his father had grasped him by the shoulders, tears streaming down his face, and ordered him to run away. To run away from the Death Eaters and run straight into the arms of the Order. His father had ordered him to run away, to save himself, to live a long and happy life and simply to live. He had kissed his cheek as he left and now, now Draco is crying; tears that make his body shake and make his eyes red and he is falling onto the floor until Potter’s arms grab him under the armpits and for one fleeting moment he is terrified he’s going to be hit by the Sectumsempra curse once more.

This, however, only lasts a moment before Potter’s arms are encircling him and he is telling him everything will be okay and Draco knows it’s a lie but he wishes so hard he doesn’t know this. He wishes he believes Potter because he finds that he’s ready to believe whatever Potter tells him.

4.

Draco Malfoy hates the Weasleys.

This revelation is not exactly a revelation, he knows. Draco has hated the Weasleys for many years though not always as personally as he hated one in particular upon his arrival to Hogwarts at the age of twelve. The hatred before was a kind of silent, niggling notion in his head that all Malfoys and all Weasleys detested each other and that was simply that. No questions asked, no answers given, just an accepted notion. A notion which his father and Arthur Weasley had accepted so readily that they attacked one another at any opportunity.

Draco had not fully subscribed to the ‘We Hate the Weasleys’ band camp, however. Yes, he had said the right things and behaved in a manner that was adequate to pass inspections towards them but, to him, none of them had really got his goat before moving into Grimmauld Place. Now, though, it seems that the Weasleys are in constant possession of his goat.

He hates the way they look at him; pitying eyes which follow him around from those who know the full story, the one he hasn’t told Potter but knows he knows, the one he refuses to even think about, and the hate filled eyes of those who don’t know namely the twit’s and the Weasel. Even Girl Weasley has been able to worm the reason why Draco is here out of her parents but it seems these particular Weasleys are determined to remain oblivious. Draco does not mind as it means there is no pity to be found in their eyes and he knows, without a doubt, that if Weasel ever looks pityingly at him he may just be forced to perform that Killing Curse he couldn’t do on Dumbledore. Merlin knows he has enough hatred towards Weasel to be able to power a Killing Curse for several people.

He doesn’t tell anyone this ― no one but Granger when she asks why he avoids the Weasleys so. He doesn’t mean to but he has found lately that his words seem to be coming up like vomit. He can’t possibly keep them down and he has stopped trying. Granger looks both insulted on the Weasleys’ part and intrigued, and Draco just knows that she’s about to ask for the full story he alluded to.

He panics and blurts out: “Oh Merlin, Granger, don’t you dare ask me to tell you because I swear if you do I shall use the ‘Mudblood’ remark and Merlin knows I hate saying it!”

Instead of chasing her off, Granger looks even more intrigued and actually smiles at him. Draco scowls, certain he’s done something wrong but unable to discover what.

5.

Draco Malfoy hates the cold space on his sheets were Pansy used to lay.

He doesn’t miss Pansy, per se. He never really liked her to begin with: she was a means to an end. An end which was convincing everyone else to leave him alone as he struggled with everyday life, with pretending, with building the Vanishing Cabinet, with the ‘Incidents’ as he called them. Incidents involving Theodore Nott, Draco and activities which Draco resolutely refuses to think about because he is simply not inclined that way. Nott was an exception.

He tells himself that Pansy wasn’t an exception, that Pansy was the girl he was meant to be with. He knows somewhere in him that that’s a lie but he can’t do anything about that.

What he can do something about is the cold space on his sheets where someone used to lay. He’s been having trouble sleeping and knows this is why so one night he decides to put a stop to this ridiculousness. He tells himself that he’s contemplating who to bother but before he’s even composed a list in his own mind of who is in the house he finds he’s knocking sharply on Potter’s bedroom door. He curses loudly, aloud of course just to confirm to himself that he has finally lost his mind. When Potter opens the door, shirtless, mussed and bleary eyed, Draco tells him to put on a shirt for Merlin’s sake (and does not salivate), tells him that there’s a rather large, frightening thing in his bed which he is pretty certain is house elves copulating and he is now forced to sleep in Potter’s room (and does not ask for permission) and shoves him out of the way before flinging himself down on Potter’s bed. He turns away from Potter as he gets into the bed and is proud of himself for not snuggling into the warmth Potter emanates like a furnace. He doesn’t fall asleep with his head on Potter’s shoulder or his arm thrown around his waist but somehow he wakes up that way. He’s not sure what he feels now but he doesn’t think its pride.

6.

Draco Malfoy hates Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

He doesn’t let himself think that he hates Number 12 Grimmauld Place when Potter isn’t there because that’s not true; he hates it when Potter’s there too. He just happens to hate it less because then he has someone to bother. Without Potter there the house reminds him of things he would rather forget. Things like his mother’s family, things like the uncle he only met a few times who died the night his father was arrested and things like how he can remember being told to hate his uncle but how he had received a few letters since the end of third year from said uncle saying that he hoped Draco was well.

He finds it hard to hate his uncle but he doesn’t find it hard to hate the house. It’s an awful house: tall and rambling, with cobwebs everywhere and everything of value disposed of long ago. There are few family heirlooms and when Draco asks Potter, Potter tells him that it’s because Sirius Black detested the reminders of his family. Draco surveys the house then and decides he can understand that.

What he can’t understand is the portrait of his Great Aunt Black. She screeches loudly for most of the time but when he is near she immediately begins crooning lullabies to him and regaling him with stories of her family. Or so she assumes. Really, Draco is horrified by what he hears. He is told of his uncle Regulus who had proudly slain Muggles and wizards alike under the Dark Lord’s bidding and who had once brought his Great Aunt the head of a Muggle child because she asked for it. When Great Aunt begins to go into detail Draco rushes off to throw up. He sits on the floor of the bathroom afterwards, arms looped around his legs and shivers and shakes and wishes the house would fall down around him.

He is a prisoner here, in the confines of these four walls and he has found himself these past few weeks doing nothing. Nothing but even more research than Granger, nothing but research into things he does not understand and which the Weasel takes great delight in gloating over because he knows what they’re researching and Draco doesn’t. He hates the musty smell of the place and the furnishing which attacks people at random intervals, and the smell of fear and death in the air and the ghosts which seem to stalk the halls that only he can see. Ghosts which peer at him and ask him how long it will be until he joins them because surely, surely someone as pale as himself hasn’t long to live. Draco sneers at them and then runs off, almost tempted to slather himself with the tanning lotion Granger buys. Almost.

One day, whilst alone in the house, he sees the ghost of his uncle. He enters the room across the hall from his, looking for something, anything that can entertain him and sees a transparent figure sprawled on the bed. He can’t make out a lot of characteristics but he knows the lazy smile when he sees it because he’s seen it in the mirror far too many times. It’s a smile which only the bored and lonely cultivate.

“So you’re here then,” the ghost drawls.

Draco stares at it for a moment. “C … c … cousin Sirius?” he asks, voice shaking.

Cousin Sirius nods. “Yep.” He looks down at himself and smiles ruefully. “Well, not really. The ghost of cousin Sirius.” He cackles and Draco is aware that he sounds mad. He wonders if, close to his death, uncle Sirius became as insane as aunt Bellatrix is. “Why are you here?” asks Sirius suddenly.

Draco doesn’t even think about not answering. “My father told me it was the only way to survive. He … he wanted me to live.”

“Narcissa?” inquires Sirius but Draco can tell from the tone of his voice that he doesn’t expect to hear anything good. He is almost glad to meet someone else who understands what his mother is like until he realises he is going to be sharing his opinions on his mother with her dead cousin. Maybe he has finally succumbed to the Black madness.

“What do you think?” Draco snaps, before he can stop himself. “She did what she had to do to save her hide and then buggered off to the French Riviera to shag some gardener no doubt.” He sticks out his bottom lip and is aware that he sounds bitter and looks childish but he can’t refrain from doing either. It’s not as if his dead uncle cares anyway.

“No doubt,” Sirius says, laughing. “I like you, you know that. Harry would have my head if he knew it ― that is if he could have my head he would. Which is a shame because I’m quite fond of my head, myself.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him to avoid your head should he ever come across you in the afterlife.”

“You do that, Draco.” Sirius sits up suddenly and lunges forward and grabs Draco’s wrist in his hands. Draco is shocked he can do so; ghosts aren’t supposed to be able to touch people. It is only then he realises that Sirius’ hands are not the full way on his wrists and that is why he has not been semi-paralysed with cold. Sirius smirks for a moment as if he knows what Draco is thinking.

“I am going to ask you something and I need you to promise me that you will do it. Promise me?” Draco nods. “Good. Draco, Harry thinks he’s stronger emotionally than he really is. He thinks he can ignore everyone’s help. He thinks he can survive this war keeping all his emotions locked up inside. He can’t. I tried that and it’s not healthy and it ended up getting me killed, okay? I need you to beat him around the head until he pours out his heart … to you or anyone else. Do you promise to do this for me?” Sirius’ ghost eyes look so earnest and sincere and pleading that Draco can not possibly refuse. He nods and Sirius smiles.

“This is only because I get to beat him around the head, you understand,” Draco says quickly, almost tripping over his words in his haste to get them out.

Sirius’ eyes twinkle ― if that’s at all possible for a ghost ― as he thanks him. He tells Draco he must be going now and Draco stops him for a moment.

“Will I see you again?” Draco asks.

“Sure.” Sirius grins. “I’ll make sure to stop by from time to time.”

Draco grins tentatively back. “Good. And, Sirius? Thank you for the letters and the presents.”

Sirius shrugs, smiles and disappears.

Draco never sees him again and hates Number 12 Grimmauld Place even more.

7.

Draco Malfoy hates that Potter has to go away.

He and Potter’s rows have always been spectacular, and have always left Draco feeling drained emotionally, mentally and sometimes even physically. Over the years they have yelled at each other, sniped at each other, threatened each other and hit each other. Just a few months ago Potter cut him open. But somehow, when Potter is gone Draco misses the arguments.

They aren’t as violent these days and, really, are more out of habit. Only yesterday Draco padded downstairs to find that Potter had used the last spoonful of coffee just before he arrived in the kitchen and had used the opportunity to insult Potter and throw the empty coffee jar at his head. Potter had caught it deftly, sniggered at him, and told him to stop being such a priss.

He supposes it’s this that he misses. Potter’s ability to understand Draco’s moods, his ability to tell when Draco just wants to yell and scream and snipe because otherwise he’ll go crazy and won’t stop at throwing things at people; Potter who isn’t afraid to yell back at Draco or to upset him. Potter who doesn’t hate him anymore but doesn’t pity him either because Merlin knows Potter’s been through more than enough as well. Draco misses all these things but mostly he refuses to admit he misses Potter.

Because who could miss Potter? The Weasley and Granger, who has slowly started to mostly become Hermione in his head, and Ginevra he knows will miss him and Lupin and several other members of the Order but he doesn’t. He’s not supposed to.

So when Ginevra walks into Potter’s bedroom and finds him sitting there he tells her he’s going through Potter’s things and she yells at him and stalks out. When Weasley (the youngest bloke) walks in and finds him staring at a Daily Prophet with Potter’s picture on the front he tells him he’s plotting how best to poison him and he yells at Draco and stalks out. When Hermione walks in and finds him curled up on Potter’s bed, head buried in Potter’s pillow, breathing in his woodsy scent he tells her he has commandeered Potter’s room and he will never get it back and of course that means he must take over the bed. She smirks at him and tells him she’s not stupid before lying down next to him. She asks, “Do you miss him?”

“No,” Draco states, burying his face once more in the pillow.

“Then why are you doing this?” she asks.

“Because I hate him,” Draco tells her as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. At her raised eyebrow only does he elaborate: “He left me here with you lot. Of course I hate him. I don’t miss him. That’s such a girl thing.” He sneers at her but can tell she doesn’t believe him and panics when he realises it’s very likely Hermione knows how he feels.

He hates that Potter’s gone now even more because he has gone and left him with a know-it-all git who figures things out far too quickly for Draco’s liking.

8.

Draco Malfoy hates that he has to sneak around.

He tells Potter nearly every night that he’s pretty sure everyone has figured it out by now. He remarks how stupid he’s being, and how insane his behaviour is and how much he’s acting like a woman. Potter always glares at him and then proceeds to show Draco how far removed he is from a woman. Draco, never one to back down from his opinions, smirks nearly all the way through and continues his diatribe about Potter’s femininity. Potter growls in the back of his throat and bites down ― hard enough to draw blood ― on Draco’s neck but, apart from a slight whimper, Draco refuses to let this stop his chain of chatter.

Annoyed now, Potter stops his violent thrusting upwards into Draco and Draco does stop then, making a loud keening noise, begging Potter to continue. Honestly, does he not realise that it’s dangerous to stop an orgasm? Draco asks him this and Potter chuckles and clamps his hand around the base of Draco’s cock. He leans forward and whispers in Draco’s ear, “You’re only going to come when I tell you to.”

Draco snorts in disbelief and Potter’s eyes narrow dangerously. “What?” he asks.

“Oh, please, Potter,” drawls Draco, rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t stop me; not if I really wanted to come. You’re just being ridiculous. You do this all the bloody time you know.”

“Are you calling me ridiculous?” Potter asks, his voice low. “Are you saying that this is ridiculous? What we’re doing?”

Draco rolls his eyes once more. “Of course it’s ridiculous, Potter. I’ve been trying to tell you.” He doesn’t understand how Potter hasn’t grasped the fact that it’s ridiculous that they have to sneak around yet. He’s sure even Ginevra, or Lupin, or Molly Weasley is aware of their … whatever it is now.

Except it doesn’t seem Potter takes it that way. His eyes, which had returned to their normal state, narrow once more, he grits his teeth and a muscle in his jaw twitches dangerously. Draco notices his hands are shaking and for a moment he can’t comprehend why. Then Potter speaks and it seems they are back to their old ways: his voice is cool, detached and filled with hatred and venom. Draco almost shivers.

“You’re right of course, Malfoy,” he says coldly, slowly beginning to pump his hand up and down Draco’s length, flicking his wrist ever so slightly and rubbing his thumb across the slit at the head of his cock, smearing it with pre-come. “This whole thing is ridiculous. I can see it now. God, I can’t imagine how I missed it before.”

Potter’s hand is quickening its pace and Draco’s eyes are rolling back in his head. He had not been far from orgasm in the first place and he knows it will only take a few short moments until he comes. “Neither can I,” Draco pants, unaware for the moment they’re talking about unrelated topics.

Potter’s breath expels against his ear. “Good. Then we’re in agreement.” Just as the first waves of pleasure have begun to roll over Draco Potter stops and stands, stepping abruptly back from Draco. His eyes are narrowed, he is bullock naked and there are goosebumps along his arms but to Draco he’s never seen Potter look more frightening. He supposes this is because he’s never really hoped against hope that Potter lives before.

“Get out,” Potter snarls and Draco blinks at him, confused.

“Huh?” he asks.

“Get out,” Potter repeats. “Get the fuck out. This is ridiculous after all. I … I can’t imagine why you would want to be with me. GET OUT!” He shouts the last so loudly Draco is immensely surprised when people in Tibet don’t send Howlers yelling at him to keep the noise down. Draco slowly rises to his feet, gathers his clothes and walks to Potter’s bedroom door. “Get the fuck out, Malfoy and don’t bloody come back. Don’t come near me. God, I wish … I wish I’d listened to Ron and never let you in here!”

Draco swallows because that hurts, it hurts him and because it does he sneers at Potter and says: “Thank fuck for that because here I was thinking I would have to actually sleep with you.”

It’s a stupid comeback, a childish comeback, but Draco says it anyway and follows it up by walking out and slamming the door. He strides to his own room, head held high and although he knows he is naked he doesn’t let on that this bothers him. When he gets to his own room he sinks down onto the floor, leaning his back against the door, and doesn’t even bother to stop them when the tears start to flow because, like his words, he stopped trying to monitor tears concerning Potter’s actions for a long while now.

When’s he has finally cried himself out he crawls up onto his bed. Just before he closes his eyes he realises that he hasn’t slept in his own bed in months.

9.

Draco Malfoy hates not sneaking around even more than he hated sneaking around.

He misses Potter. He misses Potter more now than he did when he was away doing whatever it was he was away doing. At least then he knew Potter would come back and they would talk and argue and eventually they would kiss. And other things. At least then he had that. Now all he has is Hermione’s company and Weasley’s confused glances and the image of Potter sticking his tongue down Ginevra’s throat burned onto his retinas.

He thinks he’s going to start calling her Weaselette again.

10.

Draco Malfoy hates that he has no will power.

He knew, two weeks before it happened, when and where the Final Battle was going to take place. He knew that The Boy Whose Name He Must Never Think Let Alone Say and the Order believed that they had everything sorted out and he knew that the plan was adequate enough to have Hermione in a good mood. Subsequently, Weasley is also in a good mood and he and Draco spend days engaging in a chess match. When Draco wins he does a dance and, without thinking, he grabs the only person who can dance ― Weaselette ― and begins dancing a mad sort of tango with her. She laughs and tosses her hair and smiles at Draco and he laughs and smiles back at her but when he looks up Potter is watching them and Draco nearly drops her. He can’t believe he forgot. He tosses of an apology which is designed to hurt both of them but no one hears it as Hermione slams her hand down on his mouth. He glares at her but when she drags him aside and makes him promise not to say anything and to act civilly around Potter and Weaselette he agrees.

His idea of being civil is to ignore them completely or to answer all their questions with, “Dunno. Ask Hermione.” It works for him and he’s fully prepared to keep using this method. In fact he swears to himself that he will and swears to use every ounce of his will power to maintain this policy.

This policy is shot to Hell when Potter corners him minutes before he has to leave according to the Order plans. He was making his way to the sitting room to read ― as everyone bar him it appears is going out for a good old shot at old baldie Voldie ― and has just passed the corner in between the sitting room and the kitchen when he feels a hand around his wrist and someone tugs it harshly, flipping him around and pinning him into the corner, blocking him in with their body so he can not get out.

For a moment he remembers that ‘Terrible Tragedy’ that caused the Weasleys to pity him so much but then he looks up into green eyes and realises it’s just Potter. He almost relaxes when he remembers he hates Potter and tenses all his muscles. “What?” he snarls.

Potter blushes. Draco hates him because he doesn’t look ridiculous when he blushes. “I … I wanted to say something.”

“Bravo,” Draco drawls. “You managed it. Very good; your mummy would be so proud. Now move.”

Potter’s grip on his wrist tightened and Draco winced. “Stop it,” Potter says, voice low, and it sounds more like a plea than an order. “Please just stop it. I … I’ve been trying you know and you just make everything so difficult! There just doesn’t seem like anything I can do to make it up to you! You seem to hate everything!”

Draco tries to wrench his wrist out of Potter’s grip to no avail. Finally he gives up and says snidely: “That’s because I do hate everything. I have a list upstairs in my room about the length of this house. It’s called ‘Draco Malfoy Hates’. Very interesting reading, I assure you. And before you plead with me to put you on it Potter I assure you you’re on it many, many times.”

“Was one of them for after that time I yelled at you to get out?” It’s said so softly Draco thinks that Potter didn’t speak in the first place for a moment.

Draco shrugs, embarrassed. “Possibly.”

“I thought so.” Potter sighs and lifts a hand to pull it through his hair. Draco watches as the soft, perpetually messy strands seem to fight with one another to get to his hand ― and Draco can’t blame them as Potter has extremely talented hands ― and hates them and the way they fall around Potter’s face. “Look, Malfoy … Draco. I’m sorry. I … I was angry. I thought you were talking about y’know, us, and well Hermione said you weren’t. You were talking about sneaking around and I can’t believe I didn’t see it and, Jesus, Malfoy I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Draco blinks at him in confusion and not because he’s blinking back a few tears. “I don’t know if Jesus Malfoy will forgive you,” he finally says slowly. “I’ll have to go and find him and inquire as to whether or not he forgives you.”

Potter snorts. “It seems Draco Malfoy’s opinion is more important to me at this moment in time. Do you think you could tell me it?” Potter, Draco decides, look likes a kicked puppy and he tells him so. Potter laughs and looks deliriously happy and Draco knows that Potter knows what he meant to say without him having to explain it to him.

He decides that he likes Potter far more than he ever liked Pansy. He doesn’t say this though. What he does say is: “Now go chop off big bad Voldie’s head or something and bring me it back on silver platter. I’ve had a niggling for human flesh all week.”

Potter shakes his head and makes to leave. He’s only taken two steps when he spins once more grabs Draco and pulls him to him, kissing him firmly and passionately, tangling their tongues together desperately. Draco knows why he’s doing this, what’s he’s asking for, and even though he doesn’t want to he finds himself giving it to Potter because he wants to do it, somewhere inside himself, and because Potter was the one to ask him to.

When Potter draws away, smiles at him and leaves Draco to curse his lack of will power because has no illusions and knows that when this is all over Potter will be dead and Draco will be alone.

11.

Draco Malfoy hates that the first one Potter requests to see after the Final Battle is him.

He won’t let anyone else into the medical room and when Hermione tries to get in he threatens her. Weasley can’t try because Weasley can’t do anything anymore. Except, Draco supposes, rot in the ground six feet under. He was surprised to hear the news from Ginevra ― who is back to being Ginevra once more ― and was even more surprised to discover he cared. He actually feels a twinge whenever he thinks of Weasley and thinks how unexpected it was. He is horrified that the last thing he said to Weasley was, “Break a leg,” especially when it turns out he had a broken leg listed among the injuries he sustained during the Battle.

He is repeating the list of the dead in his head when he wanders into Potter’s medical room. It’s stark and white and hurts Draco’s eyes: nearly everywhere does after Grimmauld Place. He looks around the room and sees Potter sitting up in his bed, a sling around his arm, a tentative smile on his face and a large gash adorning his cheek. Draco announces that the sun hurts his eyes and Potter looks worse than he ever has before. Potter chuckles and tells him he loves him.

Draco stares at him dumbfounded and then says the most ridiculous thing he has ever said in his life. He tells Potter he loves him too.

A/N: I think I could have left off number 11 personally but then the ending isn’t happy. Only semi-happy. Gah!

Anyway, I have now decided that I suck at writing angst and I should be punished for attempting it. I did at first start with the intention of writing angst but it sort of turned into the … odd thing you see above. I, er, honestly don’t know what to make of it so tell me what you think. Hopefully though miniluv68 likes it and I apologise for it being later than your birthday but I suppose that’s what I get for asking you for a prompt on your actual birthday, eh? And I cannot apologise enough times for not injecting enough angst into this and instead making the story a rather rambling account of, well, fuck all really. Still I hope you like it!

The Story For The Fanfic Debate, Help Being Craved and Moi Being Insane

Tue, 05 Jun 2007 16:57:49 GMT

I haven't had the time to rec in ages, although I have been reading. Although not currently anything that is actually on the Internet as I, in a fit of stupidity, neglected to read Mystwriter's Aftermath series. I saved all of the series - including the fluffy segments in between - to my computer a while ago and was half way through the series when I decided I wanted to rec it. And it turns out she's taken them all down now. Aw well, can't degrudge her because heck at least she's getting published, lucky bint. The rest of us get RSI on the computer and keep coming back for more anyway even when we're turned down again ... and again ... and again.

Although to be fair I've only ever tried magazines so it's hardly the same thing.

Fanfic Debate

aldebaran1977 suggested this story to me a while ago and I did read it but I forgot all about it. Forgive me.

It isn't a classic like the last one I picked at random so I decided to post a notice on my journal so anyone who wanted to take part could. Also, I was thinking. lackofmendacity suggested starting a community for fanfic debates and I think it's a good idea but there's a problem: I rarely read anything but H/D and I simply don't have the time to moderate the community by myself. There's also this problem with me being rather new to LJ as well. So I was wondering if there was anyone on my LJ who would be interested in helping me out? As in helping me moderate a community. I would also appreciate any help from people involved in other ships as I am being honest when I say a read little outside of H/D. Now back to this particular debate.

The story is: The Good Guys by frayach
Summary: The Second Voldemort War is limping into its fourth year, and the Forces of Shining Light are slowly turning into the Forces of Expedient Grey. When Draco Malfoy is captured red-handed trying to sell an illegal potion to a clerk at Borgin & Burkes, he is handed over to the Department of Essential and Necessary Truth’s newest interrogator. And as soon as he sees Malfoy, bound and waiting in his cell, Harry Potter knows he’s in trouble. Deep trouble.

It's a story with a very interesting premise. Read it and hopefully I will have posted the trigger of the debate within a week. God knows with my current schedule.

Help Craved

There's something I want to ask of you guys. There's this story I read a while ago - I can't remember where I found it - but I read it and it always stayed with me, not for any real particular reason apart from this: I couldn't decide if I liked it or not. So I want you guys to read it and tell me your opinion because I think it's one of those stories you either love or hate ... and I can't make up my mind which I do. It's an interesting story no doubt about that but other than that *shrugs*.

Dance For Me, Baby! by goldensnitch12. There is also a sequel, which explains further here.

Tell me what you think of it and tell the author!

A Short Bunch of Recs

... Nah, just kidding. But there will be tomorrow. God, you know those people that have massive lists of recs with hundreds of stories on them? Yeah, they deserve to be paid. Can't even imagine beginning to attempt one of those. It would do my nut in.

And miniluv68, darling, I am working on your fic tomorrow. And I'm apparently writing both until I can figure out which one I can do better and like myself. Also shame on you! Angst?! Do you realise how terrible I am at angst?! I don't even know when I'm writing angst! I have to have others TELL ME!

... So it's completely your own fault if Draco dies. That's a joke by the by.

Happy Birthday Maren!

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 16:45:00 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY miniluv68

I have to return chpt. 6 to you yet but hotmail has bollocksed up so it's not working at the moment so I'll try later, 'kay? Apart from that little titbit, I decided I wanted to write you a birthday fic because ... I'm nice that way :). So give a prompt - anything, anything at all - give me a while and voila birthday fic for you! Belated at that point but, aw well.

In other news: my Internet access is going to be more steady for a while now, I'm cross referencing a million different broadband providers and hopefully should be getting the Internet installed in my own house once more so I'm not forced to brave the tempermental Irish weather to dander around to my granda's and see if he's in.

Oh, my brother has purchased a trampoline. Well, my mum brought it for my little brother who's only three years old and my youngest sister (there's a lot of us) who's 8. Of course this hasn't stopped even my Dad from jumping about on it and it was quite funny to see my brother jumping on my Dad's feet just to irritate him. I need to snap a few pictures of my bro, PJ. The last pictures I took of him where takena bout two months ago as it seems I am the only one in our family who knows how to operate a digital camera and has a smidgen of talent ... now I sound cocky but it is very true. The only one who is able to use a digital camera in my family is my 13 year old sister and she couldn't photograph a leaf properly. It would be amusing if it didn't mean I'm always being dragged out on family outings because PJ may loook cute on them. Gah!

Oh. I'm sure people care little but I went shopping. I am now the proud owner of a Kurt Cobain hoodie I got for a tenner, a pair of Converse with stars on them and ... a couple of new books. Because I couldn't resist.

Has anyone read those Silhouette books? You know there are technically a branch of Mills & Boons. Well, an author who wrote for Silhouette - Nora Roberts - has other published stuff, which my mother and my grandmother are fans off. So I decided to indulge myself and bought five because I was shopping in Bargain Books and I can't resist bargains. I've only read two - Homesport and er, I forget - but both of them were astonishing. Well written, good plot, good characterisation, likeable characters, well written mystery and still a bit of a shock on who murdered who etc. I am pleasantly surprised: at the books and myself. It's been months since I actually went out and bought a book to read ... in fact it's been ages since I've read anything outside of school that's not H/D. I am proud of myself

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 13:05:14 GMT

I have now decided that I shall never allow myself to fall ill again. I haven't been well lately - and I'm talking about the kind of ill which means you simply can not force yourself to get out of bed and your have had a migraine for several days straight - and in the time that I have been ill, it seems I have missed a lot of drama. Everyone, it seems, was aware of the LJ Strikethrough but myself everyone I know in fandom was lamenting the loss of pornish_pixies whilst I sat at home, lamenting the fact that I was tossing and turning, unable to do more than try desperately to figure out who murdered the girl in Criminal Minds - because I am an addict.

This, however, is beside the point. The point is I have missed out on a lot of stress, a lot of drama and, ultimately, a lot of me pulling my hair out in ridiculous amount. The sad thing is though that I would have loved to be a part of it - to me it's part of the thrill isn't it? Being proud of my fandom, standing up for it, and saying, in no uncertain, that I am refusing to go underground. I know others have done it - and I don't blame them, I'm not saying that - but for me the fact of the matter is that I am far too stubborn to have done so. In aldebaran1977's journal there was a recent entry announcing that she (oh, assuming here, God damn it!) wouldn't go underground and I agree completely with that entry. I will post the link here later but at this moment in time I have a French oral I'm nearly late for. Bloody hell.

On another note, I have a few fics I read a while ago I want to rec, a few e-mails I need to read and a few papers I need to write. Help.

Fic: Just For Now

Fri, 25 May 2007 15:39:41 GMT

Title: Just For Now
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Just before the Final Battle, Harry finally realises what the feelings he has for Draco are and hopes he returns them.
Genre: I tried for hopeful fluff, I really did, but I had to add in a bit of a backstory so it turned out flangst, I think.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or the like which I am currently playing around with. If I did I would have published this, people, and then H/D would not be contained to fandom but would actually be in the books. As it stands its not so obviously JKR owns and I'm only a poor student. Bugger.
Author's Notes: As usual for my one shots this is un-betad. This story was inspired by a lovely piece of art by mayflo found here. Thanks to mayflo for granting permission for me to write this and er, sorry to you all for the awful summary. And for the rather lame humour scattered throughout because, sadly, that is the type of thing that makes me laugh. I also hope mayflo doesn't mind but several lines in this story I took directly from her gorgeous art. By the by, because I forgot, Sevenoaks Weld is the name of a small village in Kent, England. I thought it would be perfect for Harry to have chosen to live in a village out of the way!

Just For Now
By Ebonie Rose

It was raining again. Nowadays it seemed like it was always raining; Harry doubted it had stopped for long since his seventeenth birthday. Torrential rain that crashed against windows, hit against roofs, turned the ground into a deep brown, sludgy mush and flooded rivers, lakes and streams, rain that would keep most people locked safely away in their houses, sitting in front of whatever source of warmth they had. Sadly, Harry had more important things to do than worry about his own comfort.

He checked his watch, squinting to read the hands in the dim light, and lifted his head once more. It was seven o’clock and the meeting had been arranged for half six. Harry had never suspected it to be so but his informant was incredibly punctual and had always arrived at least five minutes beforehand. It worried him that Malfoy hadn’t appeared yet; he knew instinctively it meant something was wrong. The last time Malfoy had been late Malfoy had almost died. He could remember it so perfectly, so vividly, that he could have sworn it only happened yesterday but he knew it hadn’t. It had been over three months since that night in late December;

Harry hated the Pub With No Name. He had always thought it was a ridiculous name for a pub ― especially for a Muggle establishment ― and had always thought the pub was too far steeped in… suspicion to be of any good to anyone. Not suspicion of serving Death Eater’s but more suspicion among the usual patrons, who sat on the same stools every day, at the same time, ordered the same type of alcoholic beverage, talked about the same things with the same people. They were instantly suspicious of anyone who appeared whom had not been inhabiting the pub for the past few years and the first time Harry had entered the pub he had hated it instantly; resented Malfoy for choosing it. Now he sat in a dark corner, his hands curled around a now warm bottle of Coke and a frown on his face.

He glanced down at his watch, squinting to make out the time. The hands showed him clearly that it was half past nine but he was almost sure his eyesight had finally betrayed him and was playing tricks; Malfoy was never late. He hadn’t been late that day Voldemort had killed his father, had not been late the day he had undergone several Cruciatus curses for roughly half an hour at a time and he had not been late when he had been forced to murder one of his childhood friends to keep his cover. Why was he late now?

Harry sighed and lifted the Coke bottle slowly to his mouth, taking a long sip. There was a sudden loud crack and several of the pub’s inhabitants screamed. Before he had had time to think Harry slammed his Coke bottle down and had his wand in his hand, slowly advancing towards the slumped body in the middle of the pub knowing it was a wizard, easily recognising the distinctive sound of Apparation. He was aware that those surrounding him were mostly Muggles but that was nothing he could not take care of: he flicked his wand sharply, setting up wards that refused to let anyone leave the premises for the moment. Walking tentatively towards the body on the floor, which was twitching slightly, he almost gagged. The stench of blood, the stench of death, hung heavily in the air.

The body groaned loudly and shifted and it was only then Harry saw the shock of white-blonde hair. His breath caught in his throat and he dropped onto his knees, crawling closer to where Malfoy lay. He placed a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, uncaring that he was now covered in blood, and turned him gently onto his back.

“Malfoy?” he murmured, leaning close to whisper in the other’s ear. “Malfoy? Can you hear me?”

Malfoy tried to nod but the movement caused blood to ooze out of a painful looking gash on his neck and instead he just said, “Yes,” on a wretched groan.

“Good.” Harry raised his wand and placed the tip of it at the beginning of the deep gash on Malfoy’s neck; it wasn’t the largest wound he could see that but it seemed to be the one that needed the most attention. He knew from listening to Madam Pomfrey and Hermione that neck wounds were serious. “I’m going to try and heal you now. Is there anywhere that really hurts?” He tried to keep his voice and hands from shaking even though it was a struggle.

“Throat,” Malfoy croaked. “Hip. Shoulder. Head.”

“They hurt your head?” Harry mumbled as he began to search his memory for a healing charm which would successfully close Malfoy’s wounds with the least amount of scarring.

“I ― I banged it myself. Against the floor. When,” Malfoy gasped in air and then continued, “when I came here.”

“Right, stay still,” Harry ordered and Malfoy did although, in all fairness, he hadn’t been moving that much anyway. Harry began to carefully trace his wand along the outside of the gash on his neck, carefully pronouncing the incantation for a healing charm he had seen Madam Pomfrey use on Ron when he had been the victim of a Death Eater’s Sectumsempra curse; the same charm he had heard Snape use on Malfoy in the bathroom during sixth year. The moment he began to repeat it Malfoy’s eyes, which had floated closed, snapped open and grey eyes, clouded in pain, stared up at Harry searching his eyes and face for something. After a moment he smiled briefly, the tiny quirk of his lips making his face look less strained before he groaned loudly and Harry glared at him. When the neck wound was healed, Harry ripped his long, black robe off.

He blinked. Malfoy was naked. Well, not completely but he may as well have been: he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers under the robe. Harry groaned and shut his eyes briefly. There was no way this was happening. He was not kneeling on the floor of some godforsaken pub, healing a badly injured Malfoy and Malfoy was not nearly naked. And Harry was not at all admiring his body. Nope. Not one bit.

Opening his eyes he saw Malfoy regarding him strangely and he shook his head asking wryly, “Can’t keep your clothes on at all, can you Malfoy?”

“Don’t have much choice,” Malfoy pointed out, coughing as he did so. Harry frowned and ordered him to shut up, eyes falling to Malfoy’s chest. There were a few wounds there, nothing too deep, but the most prominent thing to Harry was the large scar which ran from Malfoy’s collarbone, stopped just above his heart, where it seemed to abruptly change direction and plunge down to Malfoy’s navel. It was silvery in colour, long, and looked painful and still rather new. Harry gulped and for some reason he reached forward and ran his fingers along it.

He raised his eyes to Malfoy and said, “I’m sorry.”

Malfoy stared at him before chuckling weakly. “So am I.”

Harry grinned grimly and began muttering several more healing spells, concentrating on Malfoy’s shoulder, healing a few barely there marks on Malfoy’s body, and healing the large gash on Malfoy’s hip. He sat back for a moment, brow furrowed. It didn’t make sense; there weren’t that many wounds on Malfoy, not enough to have caused the amount of blood which covered the floor around the two of them along with both boys’ clothing. He leaned forward, running his hands along Malfoy’s body searching out the source of the injury. All the while grey eyes followed his every movement and Harry tried hard not to look up into Malfoy’s face and… he didn’t know exactly but he knew if Malfoy looked so wantonly innocent again he would not be responsible for his actions.

He also would not be thinking such things about someone who hated, who was currently dying.

His fingers slid throw a sticky mess of blood on Malfoy’s sides and he hurriedly turned Malfoy around so he could see the other’s back. The intake of breath he heard came not only from him but from everyone in the room. This wound was by far the worst ―running form the back of Malfoy’s left shoulder, to just below the end of his ribcage on the right and then running back towards Malfoy’s left side, to stop just above his arse. It was horrifically deep and Harry knew it had been caused by the Sectumsempra curse, knew there was a heck of a lot more hatred behind the curse this time than the one he had thrown.

“Oh Christ, Malfoy,” he groaned weakly. “Oh bugger.”

“Shut up, Potter, and heal me,” Malfoy snapped, although his voice sounded much more like a plea than a threat. This was only cemented by the fact that Malfoy added under his breath, “Please.”

Harry nodded his head, forgetting that Malfoy couldn’t see him, and once more placed the tip of his wand at the starting point of Malfoy’s wound and he began murmuring the incantation once more, almost singing it as Snape had done months before. He forced whatever magic reserve he had forward, pushing it all out through his wand, begging for Malfoy to live because inexplicably he found that it mattered to him. He didn’t want Malfoy to die. Oh Merlin, please, don’t let him die, he begged silently. Please.

He had to repeat the incantation four more times before the wound slowly began to knit itself together, the torn flesh binding itself together once more. He let out a slow, deep breath he had not realised he had been holding and murmuring, “Thank you Merlin,” he began to cast multiple cleaning charms ― on the pub floor, on Malfoy’s clothes, on Harry’s own clothes and on both Harry and Malfoy themselves.

After a moment he cautiously turned Malfoy over and saw that the other boy had slipped into unconsciousness. His face was still pale but then it had always been and Harry once more breathed a sigh of relief. He gently brushed several strands of white-blonde hair off of Malfoy’s forehead and, on impulse; he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Malfoy’s forehead.

He replaced Malfoy’s robes, gathered the slight boy to him, lifted the wards around the property and calmly Obliviated everyone in the pub before Disapparating.

Harry shook his head to clear away the memories; there was no reason to dwell on them. They would only worry Harry further and bring feelings he refused to analyse to the forefront. All he would acknowledge was that it was apparent he had… feelings for Malfoy but other than that he let the matter rest ― it was hardly as if anything would come from it.

Harry raised his hand to run it through his shock of jet black hair and suddenly there was a hand curling around his shoulders, fingers pressing so tightly on him that the pressure bordered on pain. Harry allowed himself a brief smile and tipped his head back to find himself staring up into a pair of grey eyes, whose irises were ringed with a light blue colour.

“What kept you?” he asked quietly, gesturing that Malfoy should sit. He did.

“Dinner party,” Malfoy drawled, gesturing to the barman to bring him a pint. “Honestly, Potter, after all this time what do you think kept me?”

Harry shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t begin to guess, Malfoy. Those Death Eaters can be an awfully unpredictable bunch.”

“Atrociously so,” Malfoy concurred. “What other reason would I have for spying on them?”

“My natural charm?” Harry suggested, taking a deep swig out of the pint in front of him.

Malfoy snorted and shot a small smile at Harry that lit up his face and made his eyes dance. Harry had long ago decided that there was no one on Earth he would rather see smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Malfoy teased. “I’ve heard stories of your ‘natural charms’ and I can tell you Chang was less than impressed.”

“Well,” Harry mumbled, blushing, “it’s ridiculously hard to try and kiss a girl when she’s crying her heart out, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t kiss girls,” Malfoy said and Harry noticed he was no longer looking at Harry but was staring intently at the beer mat in front of him, as if trying to memorise every word of the Guinness advertisement. It was rather odd.

Harry shrugged; he had discovered pretty quickly that Malfoy was rather odd. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he agreed and when Malfoy raised surprised eyes to him he said, smiling, “I’ve other things to think about. Kissing girls is hardly something that’s playing on my mind every minute of the day. Anyway, why were you late?”

Malfoy seemed disappointed at the abrupt change in conversation but hid it well. “Er,” he said slowly, measuring his words in his mind before he spoke. “Well, it appears that the Da ―”

“Malfoy,” Harry cut in warningly and Malfoy sighed, like one who had long suffered Harry’s chiding which, in fact, he had.

“Voldemort,” Malfoy corrected himself before adding, “and would it kill you to call me Draco?” At Harry’s pointed look he sighed and continued, “Voldemort is quite anxious to battle you, it appears. He… he captured Hermione.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Malfoy grinned mirthlessly. “Yeah; oh fuck just about sums it up. He… he nearly killed her before she told him where you live. He’s planning on attacking there tonight sometime after midnight which is why I was late. His plans are more rushed than usual, Potter. He just wants to get in and kill you with as much destruction of Sevenoaks Weld occurring along the way as is possible.”

“There was never any hope of me living a quiet life was there?” Harry asked quietly, burying his head in his hands and trying desperately not to let his mind conjure up images of Hermione. He felt a sudden pressure on his back and realised that Malfoy was stroking his back. How ridiculous. “Is Hermione okay?” he mumbled through his hands. “Now, I mean.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said softly, voice close to his ear. “I managed to smuggle her out after he was finished with her; another reason I’m late. She’s with Poppy, Ginevra and… Ronald.” Malfoy said Ron’s name with disgust lacing the word, as if he couldn’t believe he had brought himself to speak it. Harry didn’t doubt he could barely believe it.

Harry raised his head and smiled at Malfoy, not realising that he was nose to nose with Malfoy. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Malfoy said quietly, cheeks filling with colour for some reason which Harry couldn’t even begin to understand. He averted his gaze quickly, took a long drink and began talking quickly. “Right so, Voldemort said that he would call all the Death Eaters at ―”

When Malfoy was finished his explanation Harry, who had stared down into the pint in front of him not lifting it once to his lip, asked softly, just as Malfoy began to stand, “Will you be there?”

Malfoy stopped beside Harry’s chair and looked down at him, eyes filled with sorrow and something else Harry couldn’t place. “Yes.”

“Bugger,” said Harry and he quickly polished off the rest of the pint in front of him. “It looks like I’m going to have to talk to the Order.”

He got up and left the pub then, not looking back, not able to bring himself to.
~|~|~|~

Harry was gripping his wand in his hands tightly, the wood leaving marks on his skin, grateful that for once the sky was clear and no rain was falling. He was standing on the hill outside his small cottage, watching as inside the house Remus paced in front of the lit living room window, passing for him. He hated the plan, had disagreed fiercely but Remus had yelled at him to stop being so stubborn and he could never have refused to go along with it once Remus had yelled at him.

Glancing around at the quiet, small village he had chosen to live in he wondered whether he would be able to do it tonight; whether tonight would be the night Voldemort would finally be defeated. He hoped so.

He looked down at the sight before him and suddenly a figure jumped out at him, filling his vision. His eyes narrowed as he watched the slight figure make its way to the small clump of trees half way up the hill and slide down the trunk. The figures face was aimed at Harry’s cottage and Harry would have bet his left hand that it was a Death Eater. Ensuring to make as little noise as possible Harry carefully crept towards the figure, sticking to the shadows, eyes never once leaving the mysterious intruder.

It was only as he neared that he realised he Voldemort had sent as a spy; Malfoy. He sighed happily and a small smile appeared on his lips. Malfoy, who had made his life Hell for the most part and had boasted about how close he would be to Voldemort but who, when it had mattered, had been a trusted member of the Order. Malfoy who Harry had hated for so many years, who he had fought with and, now, had fought beside. Malfoy who, Harry knew now, he cared deeply for. Malfoy who it was likely he may never see again.

He took a deep breath and inched closer, slowly stretching out his arm and placing his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. He carefully dug his fingernails into Malfoy’s shoulder in much the same way the other had always done to him ― pressure just slightly short of being painful. Malfoy quickly turned his head to stare at him, eyes soft and soft hair fanning out around his head before settling softly around his face. Harry smiled gently at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, aware that they were far closer than he would have ever dreamed of getting to Ron.

“Hey,” Malfoy murmured back, shyly.

“Did Voldemort send you to be look out?” Harry asked.

Malfoy slowly shook his head and their noses bumped but neither moved backwards. “No,” he said unnecessarily. “We don’t have to attack for another half an hour or so; he’s arranged for us all to meet him in a dark alley at the side of the village,” Malfoy said, disgust at such a cliché evident in his tone.

Harry chuckled. “Why are you here then?”

Malfoy blushed slightly and his eyes, this close, Harry realised were odd; slightly unfocused as if the other was trying hard not to cry. Which was ridiculous: surely Malfoy didn’t care that much if Harry… if Harry died?

“Because I wanted to be here,” Malfoy said finally, tilting his chin upwards, defying Harry to yell at him, to tell him he was being idiotic. “I wanted to see you I guess.”

“Why?” Harry demanded harshly, suddenly realising he needed this. He needed Malfoy; he needed to hear from the other that he cared even a little bit. He needed it if he was going to beat Voldemort.

Malfoy blinked and shook his head. “I don’t know why,” he said. “I just do ― did. Whatever. I think… I think it’s because I care. I care, dammit, and I don’t want you to die and I don’t want this all to end badly. I don’t want this ― whatever kind of friendship it is we have ― to end.”

“Oh.” Harry’s heart fluttered slightly in his chest and he stared down intently at the other boy, searching for a sign of a lie in his grey eyes, in his pale, angular face in which Harry only saw beauty. Beauty and hope. Beauty and hope, but no sign of a lie. Instead in Malfoy’s face Harry could see a painful truth and he swallowed to try and squash the lump which had risen quiet suddenly to his throat.

Suddenly his arms flew up and he placed his hands first on Malfoy’s shoulders, shaking him gently at first and then more roughly growling, “Listen to me, Malfoy. This isn’t the end of whatever it is we have, you hear me? This is the end of a bloody journey that’s gone on far longer than I ever bloody thought it would. And I’m bloody glad you’re here: I’m glad I get to see you one more time before all of it ends. Because… because I bloody care too!” His voice was cracking slightly; he knew it but couldn’t stop himself from rushing onwards anyway. “I don’t want you to go in there thinking this is all going to end and we’re all going to die because we aren’t. We aren’t. We aren’t. Do you hear me?”

Malfoy’s eyes were more unfocused than ever and he was swallowing rapidly and more than was necessary. “It’s hard not to,” he said quietly, but his voice lacked its usual bite and sarcastic edge.

“Do you hear me?” Harry repeated, hands rising from Malfoy’s shoulders to cradle his face, one hand on each cheek. Surprised grey eyes snapped up to stare at him and Harry smiled tenderly down at Malfoy, running the calloused pad of his thumb along Malfoy’s cheekbone. Malfoy’s eyes followed the slow, gentle movement and a small, genuine smile played across his features.

“I hear you,” Malfoy said.

“Do you believe me?” Harry asked, in a near whisper.

Malfoy drew a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said tentatively. “The prophecy ―”

“Says that I can kill Voldemort too, Malfoy, and I assure you I have no intention to die.”

“Good. I don’t want you to die.”

Harry grinned. “I don’t want to die.”

Malfoy tilted his face back slightly so his eyes were locked with Harry’s own and there was an expression there that stunned Harry in its sheer force: an expression of determination, and hope, and grief, and fear and love and everything that Harry felt was painted on Malfoy’s face and Harry felt something twist deep in him and knew in that moment what he felt for Malfoy was.

“I don’t want you to go,” Malfoy stated, his voice high and brittle in the quiet surrounding the two solitary figures.

“I have to,” Harry said quietly. “It’s my destiny.” He ran both thumbs slowly along Malfoy’s cheekbones and began to speak earnestly. “This is what my life has been leading up to, Malfoy. I guess you could say that fate has been conspiring against me since I was born to push me into this position and I need to go because it’s what the fates want and I can’t deny them any longer. I need to face this but, God, Malfoy this time I’m more than ready and this time I can do, I can defeat him, I know I can. And God damn it Malfoy stop looking at me like that because, I swear, I’ll start crying!”

“Be only fair then,” Malfoy said in a choked voice. “You’ve seen me; I’ll see you.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry barked but it still sounded tender, caring, loving even. “Stop it, please. Stop being flippant when I’m trying to be serious. I ― I really don’t want to go but I have to. I’d love to just stay here forever.”

“With me?” Malfoy asked carefully, a guarded expression in his grey eyes. When Harry nodded the guardedness disappeared instantly, leaving only warmly shining grey eyes. “After this, you’ll find me, right? You’ll find me, Harry, won’t you?”

If Harry was shocked by Malfoy’s use of his Christian name he didn’t show it. He smiled tenderly and nodded. “Yes. I will. We’ll meet again, don’t worry Malfoy. Er, will you promise me something?” he asked in a rush. Malfoy nodded and Harry smiled sadly, unaware that his hands were still on Malfoy’s face as he stared directly into two identical grey pools of colour. “Will you promise me… promise me you’ll live, Draco? I ― I need you to. Promise me you’ll live?”

Tears were gathering in Malfoy’s eyes but he shook his head fiercely to dispel them all the while saying, “I promise. I ― I promise I will, Harry. I swear it.”

“Did you mean it when you said you cared?” Harry asked suddenly. Malfoy nodded bemusedly and before Harry was completely aware what he was doing he was leaning forward and one hand was still caressing Malfoy’s face as the other fell and searched out Malfoy’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. Malfoy gasped and his eyes widened and then Harry tilted his head to the left and softly brushed his lips against Malfoy’s own, soft lips pressing gently against Malfoy’s, allowing the other boy to step back if he wanted, to deepen the kiss if he wanted, to do anything he wanted as long as Malfoy lived. He wasn’t aware that he was crying but he realised he must be as he tasted salty liquid on his lips and he choked back a sob, pressing his lips slightly harder against Malfoy’s and the other boy responded, kissing him back softly, sweetly. Harry groaned when Malfoy slowly ran his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip, and then his top, before letting his tongue tangle with Harry’s own, each tasting the other and savouring what they found. There was no struggle for dominance in the kiss; it was only what it was, something sweet and simple, something innocent and loving, something pure and undiscovered and heartfelt. Something that was nothing but Harry and Draco themselves and how they felt and what they wanted and the silent promise they were making to each other.

Eventually the two pulled apart from each other and Harry looked deep into Draco’s eyes repeating, “Promise me?”

“I do,” Draco smiled. “Do you?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. I do. I will. I swear.”

“Good,” Draco said softly and then inclined his head towards an approaching crowd which Harry and Draco both knew where Order members. The abundance of red hair was rather hard to miss, even under the cloak of night. “Go on. Fight. Find me… I… I… I think I need you.”

Harry smiled and reached forward to gather both Draco’s hands in his one, intertwining their fingers and pressing a small kiss on either hand. “I know I need you, Draco. This… this state of limbo it’s just for now, Draco. Just for now. Just until Voldemort is dead.”

“Come back for me?” Draco said, his voice once more sounding choked.

“I promise.” Harry smiled and dropped their hands after a long moment when he heard the Order approaching fast behind them. He grinned brightly at Draco and turned slowly, walking over to where the Order stood, heart light at the thought that Draco needed him, that Draco wanted him, that Draco wanted him to come back for him when this was done. He had to kill Voldemort because he had to have Draco. It was that simple.

Quickly he glanced back over his shoulder, searching out Draco’s slight silhouette and saw that one of Draco’s arms was raised and he was gently tracing his lips with his fingers. Harry grinned widely and Draco chose that moment to look up. When he caught Harry watching him he blushed bright red and dropped his fingers, scowling slightly before a large smile spread across his face, making him look about fourteen, and he waved happily at Harry. Harry waved back and contemplated blowing him a kiss before deciding against it; he would have enough time for the real thing after this battle. The Final Battle. He knew it would be. When Draco wanted him, when his greatest weapon ― love ― was being used, what else could it be?

Suggestions anyone?

Wed, 23 May 2007 16:49:59 GMT

First off I want you all to know that I may not actual be able to do any fanfic debates for another week or more. I have a few things to sort through, a few places to go and a few last minute assignments to hand in which I have managed to hold off working on until now. However I want to have something to look forward to and goodness knows it might motivate me.

So, what I want to know, is there any particular fic you would like me to read and arrange the debate about? Leave a comment telling me and I'll sort out my thoughts on it so that it makes sense and I can post it here without everyone whispering going, "She has no clue what she's on about."

It can be your favourite slash fic, or your least favourite. It can be Harry/ Draco or any other pairing (although I will admit I do shy away from a few so sorry if I ignore your suggestion because of that). I may even read het if someone turns around and says they've read a brilliant het fic and others support them.

Basically, to suggest a fic, leave a comment with the link to the fic, summary and rating info along with the pairings within it (unless that is spoiling it). Also it would be nice if you could give me a few lines on what you thought generally on the fic and what you liked/ hated about it without spoiling it for me or anyone else. I'll read through them and then tell all what I'm planning to do the debate on at a later date. Cheers!

Recs: Harry/ Draco and Harry/ Snape

Wed, 23 May 2007 16:42:27 GMT

So I've had a pretty much hectic past few days and have had little time to do anything, let alone find my way onto the Internet. Although I haven't been on though I have been reading a few fics and am posting the recs for a few now because I feel like it :).

Harry/ Draco

Bloody Hormones by morbid_musings. This story was posted earlier on today on the harrydraco community and the title, along with the summary, caught my eye because, as well as loving my angst, I'm a fan of humour and fluff as well. It's well-written, takes about ten minutes to read and it's sweet. What more do you want?
Author's Summary: Falling in love is never easy business. For Harry it’s a dozen times worse. He’s fallen in love with someone he thought he hated. HPDM.
Rating: er, PG-13? 7/10

The Way We Get By and Drop Dead Gorgeous by sarahtales. I know that a lot of people have probably already read this - because who can resist Maya's work - but, if like me, you tend to avoid WiPs then I just have to poke you and yell for you to get out there and read this bloody story. To say that it's marvellous would be an understatement. I love Maya's writing because she deals with what could be incredibly serious, angsty material but the way she writes them she puts them across with a touch of humour at the same time. There are an awful lot of these little touchs of humour spread througout the story and they're like little gems. I have always maintained that Maya's Draco is one of the best in fandom; he's funny and sarcastic and friendly but is still mean at times and a trouble maker and a bit of a git so she doesn't downplay his canon characterization in an awful way to make her character unbelievable. For anyone who hasn't read these I would recommend reading The Way We Get By first as that's what I did. At first I didn't realise it was a part of the DDG story and by the time I did I was hooked. Can't say I care much :).
My Summary: Harry and Draco are working as partners in the Auror department when Harry discovers he is part-Veela. Draco is highly amused by the whole situation but Harry is not as it seems unable to give him the one thing he wants; Draco. Draco meanwhile is unaware of Harry's affections being madly in love with none other than Katie Bell.
Rating and spoilers: R, with HBP spoilers. At the moment? - 10/10

Three Ways In Which Harry and Draco Almost Never Shagged by tweeney. I love stories which take a piece of canon and throw our boys together and this one does exactly that; it's super. What more can I really say? It's hot and not overlong and tweeney writes (and draws) really well. So go read! It's smut! Pure, unadultered smut.
Author's Summary: Because in this version of HBP they almost didn't. Almost.
Rating and spoilers: NC-17 and HBP spoilers. 8/10

One Night at the Ministry by maeglinyedi. This story is set at an after war party at the Ministry and is full of several hilarious incidents. There's a bit of smut here I guess, naked running - don't ask, just read - and drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. With a happy ending. Fantastic, eh?
Author's Summary: One night. One party. One arch-nemesis. Lots of champagne. Now all Harry has to do is survive. Harry/Draco. Slash.
Rating: NC-17. Er, I'm not sure if they're any spoilers in this but I don't think so. 8/10

Partners by megyal. I've been reading megyal's fanfic for a while now but always forget to rec. I finally remembered and was flicking through my flist when I saw this post. Now, I love stories which have Draco and Harry working together as Aurors because... well I reckon it's one of my kinks and I am also partial to a good Veela story be it with Harry or Draco. This story is well written and has some really good interaction between Harry and Ron as well as with Draco. I think it's so funny when Draco gets the wrong end of the stick, which clearly happens here. Really, really like this piece: it's adorable and should be read by everyone.
Authors Summary: [Request] Draco (with glasses!) and Harry are assigned partners during Auror training; Veela!Draco with suddenly attracted and irritated!Harry.
Rating: NC-17. 8/10

Harry/ Snape

I used to be a very avid Snarry shipper I'll admit but lately I haven't found a lot of good ones - or rather I haven't been looking overly hard. There are a few that I really deem worth reading and I want to rec my favourites here. If anyone on my list has a really good Snarry fic they think may just convince me to start persuing the ship again, will you leave it a comment for me? Please? Cheers!

The Death of a Soul by Roedhunt. This story isn't really to convert anyone to Snarry because it isn't about how loving their realtionship is and how it is true that this snarky aul git has feelings. I reckon this story is more for angst lovers. Harry os forced into a marriage with Snape after Voldemort is dead and it explores how Snape treats him, how Harry feels. There are a few tidbits of Draco in this fic and the characterization is lovely: he's brutal, mean and cruel at most parts and then he does something unbelievably sweet. Snape's characterization is basically the same apart from the unbelievably sweet thing - although, at time, he does seem to genuinely care for Harry. There is a major twist near the end which is unbelievable and took my breath away. I completely adored it. The author split the last chapter up into four parts and has yet to post 2 parts of it but other than that this fic is completely finished and your imagination fills in the ending for you.
Author's Summary: The wizarding world has controlled everything in Harry's life. Now the only thing he has left, his freedom, is about to be stolen from him. Will Harry finally stand up and fight? Het in chapters 1 & 2
Rating and spoilers: NC-17 and I think there's a few OotP spoilers. 9/10

If You Are Prepared by cybele. I read this a while back and loved it then; I was literally unable to drag myself away from it which was problematic at the time. I've went back countless times to re-read this story and I can't seem to find fault with it. The characterization's are superb, the plot is intristic and wonderful, it's so sweet and so sad at the same time and the writing is exactly what you would expect from Cybele. She writes wonderfully well and this, I feel, is one of her best works. In fact I would say it is. She makes the reader truly believe in everything that occurs in the story, makes them feel the emotions of her characters and leaves them sobbing at times. I laughed and cried and when you finish this believ me you will need a hanky. This story was spans from the summer after Harry's fourth year to his seventh and really convinces the reader that Snarry is a genuine ship. This story is the one that started it all for me: I read it on a friend's insistence and complely adored it. I am pretty sure if you want to convert someone to Snarry you just had to rec this fic... pure brilliance.
Author's Summary (for all 3 parts):HP/SS. Begins the summer after fourth year and follows Harry into his seventh year. Severus is commissioned to train and protect Harry from the Dark Lord. But there's more at stake than the life of a boy. Attempts to answer the question Dumbledore deemed Harry too young to know: But why would [Voldemort] want to kill me in the first place?
Rating: NC-17. 10/10

I was going to rec more Snarry but I am kind of sick of typing html codes so I shall some other day - I have a few others I want to get out there.

My brain has broken

Sun, 20 May 2007 17:00:49 GMT

So, I don't have much time to post at all because I have about three minutes on this bloody thing but so-so. I shall anyway. I have one or two recs but I also have some stuff to say about my story which you can all completely ignore because I know you want too.

I finally managed to write the kiss! I did it! I am so proud of myself! And it only took me until chapter eight and around 108 pages! I am so proud of myself! ... I reckon I have said that before, eh? Aw, well. I never realised before how hard it was to get things down on paper and, well, now that I have I have a whole new respect for the authors who write hundreds on hundreds of pages. For example, romaine wrote Double Edged Sword which is a H/D fanfic right? I copied it to my memory stick to read later and it is 1008 pages! 1008! I very nearly died when I read that. Very shocking.

Gosh my sentences are all very muddled today. Can't help it my brain is still fried from yesterday. A bunch of friends and I went to see Spiderman 3. Which I shall talk about tomorrow when I make more sense and when I haven't been up until 7 in the morning trying to finish chapter eight. But it's done so I'm happy.

Yeah, only one rec.

Advanced Charms by missparaphilia. Hot and funny. There is little else you need, is there? And, like I said above, my brain isn't working properly so there isn't much else I can tell you apart from that. I'm brilliant, aren't I? 9/10