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Okay, here's another first (one of many, really. I've been on a tear about tidying this journal up, utilizing it more, making it spiffier, etc).

I signed up for Chapter 10 of "Shadow", which is a round robin Firefly story where authors sign up to take on one chapter at a time.

I had twenty-four hours to come up with between 100-1000 words, and as usual had to trim it down at the end. Wow, am I wordy!

Anyway, if you like Firefly, here's the link to the previous chapters (Shadow) and here is my contribution.
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You know, this is addictive!  Thanks, [livejournal.com profile] brandywine421 for the challenge!  The picture wasn't easy to write for, but it sure did turn into something other than what I expected! 

Also, I know this isn't HP, but could this count as fluff, [livejournal.com profile] wishweaver?  I can write fluff - really!  ;-) 

The photo for this challenge is here

My response?  Written in The O.C. verse.  I was really looking for an excuse to write another Firefly ficlet, but couldn’t seem to be able to buy there being jelly beans in space.  Turkish delights, perhaps, but not jelly beans. *g* 

Just as a warning, there's cursing and some frank talk, but this is a teenage boy we're talking about.  I'd expect no less.  Hope you enjoy! 

Read more... )

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I'm still here! Thanks, by the way, brandywine421, for the nudge (I didn't know they had that sort of thing in Live Journal), and Beachtree for the email! I've been sick, traumatized, and blocked, although not necessarily in that order, but have still occasionally lurked, albeit silently. I've certainly missed being on line and writing.

Thanks for the invite, Wishweaver, and sorry I haven't been much of a participant. I love what you've done!

So... I'm still pushing forward with my fics - no orphans here, just latchkey kids.

I just wanted to give an update to all you kind peeps - sorry for the disappearance act. Expect more fic, and more comments. I've missed you all, and come bearing cookies! ::mwah::

For woodsong_1978, who gave a sentence as a prompt that intrigued me enough to write a tiny cookie about it. For Firefly. With spoilers for the BDM, one curse word and hints of slash.

I know, I know, yet another fandom to be obsessed about. Speaking of which, if this is the real deal, how cool would it be?

Firefly - Season 2

Here's the cookie - Firefly Cookie:

The Competition (from woodsong_1978's sentence:)

Read more... )

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This is for joey51, who asked for either an update of SitC (which will be coming soon) or a short, super angsty one-shot.

Just a warning, this has got curse words in it, but really - when you write from a teenager's pov, how can you not? ;-) Hope it doesn't offend! Oh, and this is O.C.

By the way - ATLB gets worked on this weekend, as I officially dig into the pain/joy/masochism which is NaNoWriMo. Good luck to all you participants out there!!!

This time, instead of doing just one original story (which I did last year), I've modified the goal to be written words applied towards any variety of fics I'm working on. That keeps me from wrapping myself completely around the axle if I start to feel stymied.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
1,294 / 50,000

Well, enough blather and on with the angst! I hope you enjoy, joey51! *waves*

Read more... )
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I adore reading Sam Vine's livejournal. He's adorable, and I'm in awe of his consistent, powerful and prolific prose. His Remus is one of my favorites.

He has a Drabble Challenge today that I thought I'd try. In honor of his Remus/Sirius tendencies *winks* and the fact that he's feeling under the weather, I thought I'd contribute to the cause. Of course, it's slightly over 500 words (But not by much! And really, have you ever known me to be succinct? *g*)

So, without further ado, it's...

Stormy Weather

“You’re cute when you’re sick,” Sirius announced as he walked in the dorm room, tray floating behind him. It wobbled ever so slightly under the immense load. He’d been charming the house-elves again.

“Stop it,” Remus grumbled as he slid further under the covers. He suppressed the urge to throw a pillow at his friend’s cheerful face.

“Really, you are!” Sirius insisted as he directed the tray to Remus’ nightstand. It was a dreary, drizzly Saturday morning, and everyone else had gone to breakfast. He’d hoped to have a good lie-in, but obviously Sirius had other plans.

“I’m sick once a month anyway,” he observed, and really, that was all he could think. Wasn’t he already ill too often as it was? Shouldn’t his werewolf constitution compensate or something? It seemed entirely unfair to him, and loathe as he was to admit it, he was feeling a touch sorry for himself.

“That’s different, though,” Sirius said, proceeding to pour Remus some tea after pulling up a chair beside his bed.

“Enlighten me,” Remus replied dryly.

Sirius furrowed his brow for a moment in thought, as solemn as Remus ever saw him.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Remus murmured.

“Do you want to know why or not?” Sirius asked with mock indignity.

“No no. Please go on…” Remus said.

“When it’s *that* time, it’s long suffering… You aren’t sick, you’re tired: It’s weariness. It’s noble and heroic and brave, how you face it, Remus. I think you’re amazing, and I can’t believe you do it every month and are still the man you are,” Sirius said with intensity, his blue eyes burning into Remus’ own.

He was so mercurial. From clown to *this*. It’s what Remus loved about him. All that bluster and bravado hid the soul of a poet, who loved and grieved deeper than anyone would ever dream give him credit for. Remus remained silent. He didn’t know quite what to say.

Sirius didn’t move for a few moments more, then slowly blinked; the intensity being drawn inward as his facade returned. It was like pulling thick curtains on a bright, summer day. Suddenly the mask was back in place as Sirius grinned and waved his hand to include Remus and the bed he was currently ensconced in.

“But this…” he pronounced, the last word lilting upward dramatically to signal he wasn’t done.

Remus cleared his throat, annoyed at his own roiling emotions, and rasped, “Yes?”

“Look at you! With your red nose and your hair sticking every which way, your watering eyes and froggy voice… Dignified, yes, but I had no idea you could be so *cute*!” Sirius practically gushed. Remus sighed and budged over, ignoring the tea Sirius was trying to hand him.


“Yes?” he replied, quirking his head in such a doglike way that Remus had to suppress the urge to pet him. He patted the space next to him.

“Shut up and come here.”

“See? You should have said that ages ago! It would have saved you a lot of heartache!” Sirius said enthusiastically and practically leaped into the bed.

“I’ll remember that next time,” Remus murmured as Sirius’ nearby body heat already began to warm his chilled bones.

“You do that,” Sirius stated with authority and began to sip Remus’ tea. Remus closed his eyes and sighed. He’d take this over a lie-in any day.
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I simply do not update this journal nearly as often as I'd like. Although, I haven't quite figured out how I intend to use it, either, so there you go. ;-)

Of course, I'm thrilled to use it for posting cookies, but isn't there more to life than just HP? *looks around expectantly*

No..? Well, I'm sure there is. I just need to figure out *where*. *g*

In the interim, here's another OotP cookie. This really is quite short, but I enjoyed writing it. It's been rolling around between brain cells for quite some time, but I knew I needed to review Malfoy's *voice* before going forward. After all, I've never written him before.

So, without further ado... Oh, Disclaimerville: Not mine.

The Conflict )

New post

May. 14th, 2004 04:23 pm
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So, it's official! I'm a married woman! Yeah!

To celebrate the occasion, and with firm resolve to write much more than I have been, here's a little something I hope you enjoy.

Take care!

Once again, post OotP. Wish it were mine, but alas!

Read more... )
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It's Wishweaver's birthday tomorrow, the author of Realizations, so I thought I'd post this little ficlet in celebration. Of course, I know she'd much rather I post an NANA cookie, but it's in the works! Really!


And now, in honor of figuring out ways not to spam people's updates, I've set this up as a link instead! Go me! It only took me *how long* to figure this out? *shakes head*

Enjoy! Oh, and if you haven't read Wishweaver's Realizations, do so! Shoo!

And now, on with the Post OotP angst-a-rama...

Professions )

Post OotP

Feb. 16th, 2004 03:37 pm
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I'm still doing these little fics. I might just sew them up into a collection and post them under Folly on ff.net, but am not sure. They all tie in to the same things, though.

A Recurring Theme

Hermione is having a recurring dream. She has it two or three times a week, and each time she does she wakes up with soaked sheets, hair stuck to her forehead and palms slippery with sweat.

The dream never changes. She dreams she’s in the Astronomy Tower watching a Quidditch game, which is silly of course, as everyone knows that that is the worst possible place to watch such a thing. Nonetheless she does, watching it with the same view as if she were in the stands.

Harry’s back to being a Seeker, but instead of feeling relieved, which she knows she would should Harry ever again decide to play, Hermione feels a nearly overwhelming dread. Dumbledore’s replaced the soft, golden Snitch wings with razors, but that doesn't stop Harry. He intends to win.

He pushes up into the air, but his face shows no expression. In life, watching Harry fly is the most beautiful, most intimate thing Hermione has ever witnessed. His face reflects his emotions better than any mirror ever could. The joy, the freedom… She knows how much peace, how much pleasure he gets out of flying, which is why she pushed so hard for him to play this year. Even if McGonagall hadn’t asked for her help, she would have still tried to persuade him to resume Quidditch on her own.

But in the dream… This is no game for Harry. He flies as effortlessly as he ever does, but there’s no love in it. She watches as he swoops about the pitch, scanning for signs of the Snitch without even sparing a glance at how the rest of the team is doing. Truthfully, Hermione’s not watching them either.

Instead, she’s desperately trying to figure out what how she’ll transfigure the razors into cottonballs, or some such thing, for she knows there’s no question as to whether or not Harry will catch the Snitch. He will. Even if it means he loses a hand to do so.

Too soon, the Snitch appears, and Harry goes after it - a streak of red. She’s not fast enough, smart enough to cast her spell in time. Harry’s upon the Snitch, and almost… Almost it dips out of reach. The broom doesn’t maneuver properly, but rather than give himself another shot at it, Harry bodily throws himself off the broom, catching the Snitch even as he begins to fall back to earth.

This is when she realizes he’s going to fall right past the Astronomy Tower window where she’s standing. Terrified, she doesn’t pronounce the Wingardium Leviosa spell properly, and he continues to plummet. Throwing her wand aside, she reaches out her arms as if to catch him.

“Grab my hand!” she screams and feels a jolt that nearly tears her arms out of their sockets. Somehow, she’s caught him, but his hands are shredded and bloody and it makes it nearly impossible for her to get a good grip.

“Your hands are too slippery! Wipe them on your robes!” she calls, but Harry is limp, doing nothing to save his own life. He looks up at her with flat eyes, and she realizes he’s not even trying to hold on.

“What are you doing?” she nearly shrieks. “Do you want to die?”

“That’s not the question,” he answers softly as she desperately tries to lever herself so that she can begin to pull him up, bracing herself against each side of the window with her legs, her back and shoulders straining against the dead weight.

“What’s the question, then?” she asks between gasps, but try as she might, Harry doesn’t budge.

“Do I want to live?” he asks.

“That’s stupid. Of course you do,” Hermione responds crossly, knowing that the key to saving Harry is coaxing him into saving himself.

“I want my life back,” he says and his hands slip completely from her grasp. She snags his robes and he bounces, falling just a few feet further. She tries to find a way to hook her hands in the fabric, but fails and wants to sob so badly she can hardly breathe. Why doesn’t he help her?

“What life?” she asks him desperately, trying to make sense of what he's saying.

“Exactly,” Harry replies with a pleased expression, and the fabric of the robes slips between her fingers, burning her palms. She frantically screams for him to try to fly, but he doesn’t. He falls but never lands. She sees his face, oddly tranquil, and waits for him to impact, but he never does; he just keeps falling.

She’s tried to tell Ron about the dream, but he’s such a boy, and all he fixates on is that she’s in the Astronomy Tower watching Harry. He insists on teasing her about having a secret crush on Harry until she’s forced to swat him upside the head with her seat cushion. She wishes Ron would take these dreams seriously. She does.

She’s in the Astronomy Tower for a reason, she knows. Probably it is because of that ridiculous prophecy Harry told them about in a surprising moment of candor at the beginning of the year. It appalls her how seriously everyone takes it. After all, this is Trewlawney they’re talking about. But for Harry, it’s written in the stars.

She could also be in that Tower because it’s the only place where you can see where Sirius is. Sirius, the Dog Star. It could even be because it’s an open view of the heavens, where Harry’s parents are supposed to be.

This morning she’s nursing her tea, watching over Harry, who’s already awake and tucked himself into the corner with his books open, studying industriously. He looks exhausted and skinny and lost. She wishes she could talk to him about her dream. She wishes she could talk to Ron. They’re splintered, fractured, and she’s not sure how to bring Harry back to them both. She’s not foolish enough to think things can be as they were… But they can help him. She is certain of this.

“That’s it,” she says to herself, frowning as she comes to a decision, and grabs out a parchment and quill from her bag and begins to write a letter. She refuses to think about how upset Harry is going to be, if it’s the right thing to do, or if he’ll resent her for doing it. When she's done, she stands up and catches Harry’s eye.

“Hermione?” he asks gently. It’s oddly disorienting, because in that moment he’s almost how he used to be. He focuses on her, his eyes intent, his tone both questioning and concerned. She swallows past the lump in her throat and forces her face to remain neutral.

“I’m starved and don’t feel like waiting for Ron to wake up to go to breakfast. Would you like to join me?” she asks, knowing perfectly well he won’t.

Harry smiles, and his mask is back in place. He’s never hungry anymore, and she’s already talked to Pomfrey about ways to sneak supplements and appetite stimulants into his tea. She knows she’s meddling, but the hands-off approach hasn’t worked either…

“No, thank you. I’ll join you in a bit,” he replies. Of course. She nods and waves distractedly. She hurries to the Owlery, anxious to send her letter off before she changes her mind. Hedwig sits dejectedly in the corner, but brightens when she recognizes Harry’s friend.

“Hey, girl, you’ve been pretty bored lately, haven’t you?” Hermione asks sympathetically. Hedwig quirks her head as if she understands the words, and she marvels at how easily she can read human emotion into Hedwig’s expressive eyes.

“Would you deliver a message for me?” she asks, and knows she’ll incur Harry’s wrath for certain now. But he’s wrong to ground Hedwig because he’s afraid she’ll get hurt, and he’s wrong to shut out the world. Hedwig quickly shifts forward on her perch and eagerly sticks out her leg.

“You be careful, Hedwig. I need you to take this to Remus Lupin as fast as you can,” Hermione instructs. Hedwig bobs her head as if nodding in approval, then launches into the morning air with a whoosh.

Decision made, Hermione’s surprised to realize it’s easier to breathe; as if she’s been weighed down facing a decision she didn’t even know she needed to make. She wanders to the Great Hall for breakfast feeling better than she has in weeks and realizes Harry might not forgive her.

He’s falling, though, and she’s smart enough to know she can’t catch him. But get enough people helping, and someone’s bound to cast the right spell to keep him from hitting the ground.
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It's been a glorious day. In fact, I think it's only the second time I've seen the sun in weeks. I was beginning to feel a bit vampirish.

I've written another little cookie, simply because it's still on my mind. I think tomorrow I'll try to sit down and start something new. Wish me luck! Hopefully inspiration will strike twice! 8-)

Happy Super Bowl Sunday to those who care. To those who don't, like myself, have a lovely Sunday to yourselves to go where the whim takes you. Write if the mood strikes, each cookies and sip hot chocolate. Roll around on the floor, playing with your pets until *they* tire of *you*. All in all, have a good day. Ta!


Hermione sits in companionable silence with Harry, occassionally shooting discrete glances his way to see how he is doing. He’s so pale now. He grows more gaunt by the day, revealing the bone structure underneath of the man he might someday become. If he survives. Harry studies as religiously as she does now, surpassing her in classes she never dreamed he would. History of Magic? That alone shows how dire circumstances have become, she thinks wryly.

Hermione was stunned when McGonagall approached her about tutoring Harry in Potions. After all, he wasn’t taking that class this year. So it was a shock to learn Harry did indeed still make potions. He’d been using the Room of Requirement to do so without bothering to tell anyone. It wasn’t until he nearly blew himself up that Dobby discretely intervened, contacting Harry’s Head of House.

Why didn’t Dobby go to Dumbledore? Because Harry no longer trusts him. And Dobby’s not stupid. Forced to choose between the Headmaster and Harry is really no choice at all for the loyal house-elf. If he did anything to betray Harry’s trust, there would be no going back. Not anymore. For any of them.

Hermione is profoundly grateful for Dobby’s decision. He's become a powerful ally in letting her and Ron know when Harry’s skipped too many meals, or when he’s gone too many nights without sleep.

Harry pushes himself to exhaustion daily. He practices dueling so zealously that Flitwick has been called in to mentor him. He's surpassed even their current DADA professor, who’s a decent enough man, Hermione recognizes, but ill equipped to teach them how to truly prepare for the inevitable battles to come.

The professor, a mild mannered, oddly bookish former Auror, gets jittery in Harry’s presence and rarely brings him up for demonstrations. Harry’s intensity unnerved him the very first day, and Hermione can certainly understand why. He spends much of the class frowning, deep in concentration, silently mouthing spells as he rolls his wand between his fingers. More than once Harry’s nearly hexed her just for tapping on his shoulder to try to get his attention.

Even if she didn’t read the paper, all it takes is one look at her friend to tell her all she needs to know about what's happening in the Wizarding world. He’s burning away anything that isn’t useful in his quest to defeat Voldemort. He barely speaks at all. He doesn’t laugh. He tolerates Hermione’s constant presence because she does not require attention or effort. She doesn’t try to talk to him. Not anymore.

After all, she’s already done her damage. She’s planted the bitter seeds that have taken root and twined over every inch of Harry’s soul. I told you so. Truer words will never be said. And while she would say no such thing, she’s already conveyed it in every way that counts. She cannot take it back. It is her own version of the Unforgiveable. The burden Harry now carries of: If only he’d listened. If only.

He listens now, and she dares not speak without first analyzing every angle, every nuance. She has never wished so badly in her life to have been wrong about a thing. Now, too late, she understands that knowledge comes with responsibility. For her, words were so easily flung, and whether or not the intended recipient utilizes those messages was up to them.

I told you so may as well be It’s your fault. There’s no question that's what Harry feels. He carries the pitiful few letters Sirius ever sent everywhere he goes. The sprawling, fluid script, as disjointed as the author was, peeks out of Harry’s book bag as he pulls out texts for class.

Where the hell is Remus? Harry barely even makes eye contact anymore. Sometimes the urge to jump up and down on the Headmaster’s desk and shake him until he rattles nearly overwhelms her. He did this to Harry. She’s smart enough to put the pieces together from the little bit Harry has told her.

The Headmaster wouldn’t even look at Harry last year, and no matter what he thought he was doing, what Harry heard was, You’re not strong enough. You’re tainted. You’re weak. So now Harry carefully hides his eyes beneath that black tumble of hair just as much as he ever hid his scar, keeping himself distant… Alone.

She watches as the Headmaster tries desperately to undo some of the damage he’s done, but Hermione knows it’s too late. For both of them. She and Dumbledore both may as well have inscribed their own messages into Harry’s flesh just as Umbridge did for all the harm they’ve caused. It took her too long to understand who Harry is. Only in hindsight does everything become clear.

The lesson at the Ministry should have been that Harry needs to learn to trust others; to confide and seek counsel outside his own. But thanks to Dumbledore's thoughtless blunders, Hermione knows the true lessons Harry learned: He wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, fast enough. He failed because he was weak, and he cannot afford to be again.

So Harry allows Hermione to tutor him in Potions because he acknowledges it is a weapon he must learn to wield like any other. She reads endlessly about nullifiers, counter agents and stabilizers to desperately try to keep up with him, terrified that, good as he’s become, he’ll blow himself up or cause himself irreparable harm. After all, he walks the razor’s edge of exhaustion at all times, but never relents.

He’s further ahead in Potions than if he’d still been in Snape’s class, and she doubts Auror Training could be any more intense than what Harry now practices in the DA. She and Ron both take their new roles seriously, insuring Harry’s not left alone, even if it must be discretely. Their best friend is gone, and in his place is the devastated husk of a boy with the mind of man. It’s all they can do to keep him from burning himself up entirely; to help him survive, and pray there’ll be enough pieces to put back together in the end.


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September 2010



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