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15 November 2004 @ 06:17 pm
Sabrina doesn't have a magic wand, she just uses her finger!  

Haha. The most interesting thing happened to me today was finding out that they've published Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone as gaelige. In order to encourage young people to read in their 'mother' tongue. They conviently forgot this cogent fact: reading a book in another language AFTER reading it in English is, bluntly, impossible. I tried it with GoF in French - it was all in the past historic, which I haven't a clue of,  but I learned nothing because I knew what was going to happen anyway. Still, for the entertainment value...

Draco came to himself, lying in a huddled heap, and freezing cold. As his consciousness slowly returned, he abruptly wished it hadn’t, as he hurt everywhere.

He was lying prone on his own front doorstep, and had evidently spent the night there.

Trying to ignore the hangover that even now was thrumming relentlessly at his temples, he made a careful body check to ensure that none of his appendages had withered off from frostbite. None had, but the vast, horrendous sheepskin jacket sported a light dusting of frost.

Draco decided he rather liked the coat, and wasn’t going to return it.

Just as he was spurring himself to get up and whisper at his mother to bloody well open the door – hollering, of course, was out of the question, as such an act would surely split his head open – he heard voices behind the tinted glass panes of the door.

‘I’m sure he stayed over at Greg’s or Vinnie’s. We’re safe.’

Those, surely, were his mother’s distinctive cut-class accents.

After a few seconds, he was fairly certain of it. The words, however, remained incomprehensible.

The door abruptly opened, and Draco, who had been leaning against it, rolled inwards slightly.

To look up at the frankly unpleasant sight of the wrong end of someone’s nostrils.

‘Good morning, Draco,’ Binns said pleasantly.


Draco was not the only one waking up to the payment of a night’s heavy drinking. Hermione was also. However, Draco had on his side the experience of having done so before, and the comforting knowledge that he’d known what he was letting himself in for.

Hermione, on the other hand, did not.

She reared up from the tangle of blankets on Blaise’s floor, which had constituted her bed for the night, and barely made it to the bathroom before she started vomiting rainbows.

A quarter of an hour later, Blaise, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, yawning widely.

Hermione was sitting huddled on the coarse reed mat by the bath, clutching her ankles convulsively. She turned her face to look at Blaise with a haunted expression.

‘And you tell me people do this regularly?’ she muttered hoarsely. ‘For – fun?’

Blaise, who could hold her drink far better and had drunk considerably less anyway, smiled unsympathetically. ‘Yes, of course. What could be more enjoyable than spending a fortune on fermented wine skins that you’re only going to chuck up the next morning?’

Hermione appeared to consider this deeply.

‘Almost anything else?’ she said at last.


Seamus stayed in bed until at least midday every Saturday morning. He felt it would be a crime against sanity to rise any earlier.

Being woken at nine am by Dean bouncing enthusiastically on his bed, therefore, was not favourite.

And he had to get Dean to stop bouncing soon, or he wouldn’t be responsible for the results of his actions.

‘Dean, what the feck are you doing in my bedroom at this unholy hour of the morning?’ he growled unwelcomingly.

‘I just got back!’ Dean said cheerfully.

‘From your date? What the hell is the time?’

‘Oh,’ Dean checked his watch. ‘Ten past nine.’

‘Oh.’ Seamus leaned back weakly on his pillows. ‘What did I do in my past life to deserve this cruelty?’

‘Seamus, you’re a Catholic. You can’t believe in reincarnation.’

‘At nine in the morning I’ll believe what I bloody well like.’

‘You’re a wanker. You have to get up twice as early for school.’

‘That’s different. This is a Saturday.’

‘Don’t you want to hear about my date?’

‘Why would I need to? I nearly planned the whole thing.’

‘God, but you’re grumpy in the morning.’ Dean was indomitably perky. ‘Perhaps I should come back at a more amenable time?’

‘Good thinking, ninety-nine,’ Seamus muttered into his pillow.

‘Shove up then.’ Dean kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up onto the bed. ‘And throw me some of that duvet, you nasty blanket-hogger.’

‘Wh – What are you doing?’ Seamus scooted to the far end of his bed in alarm.

‘Getting some well-deserved kip, obviously.’

‘In my bed?’

Dean had used Seamus’ sudden vacation to gain himself a good half of the bed. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it after his shoes, then patted the blankets around himself into a more comfortable position. A small burst of Lynx Africa drifted in Seamus direction, making his throat tighten uncomfortably. He carefully resettled himself, trying to reduce himself into the smallest size possible.

Dean’s eyelashes were already fluttering.

‘Bet you the Fellowship of the Ring didn’t make such a fuss ‘bout sleeping in the same place,’ he murmured, half way to sleep.

Seamus looked down at his friend’s relaxed features, mouth curving into a half smile, and thought that on that matter, it was as well to be silent.


Sev opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said, with deep and heartfelt meaning.

He felt – odd. And sore in the strangest places. Not painful but – chafed. Oh God. His cheeks flushed darkly as the memories tripped over each other to be first to enter his waking mind.

Live dangerously. Yes, that was certainly true. He wasn’t even sure if they had used condoms. Oh, please, god (or gods or godettes, or any supernatural force available really), let them have used condoms.

He tentatively raised himself up on his elbows and looked around himself. His alcohol-hazed brain hadn’t been in gear for taking in details last night, even if there hadn’t been other – distractions.

The room was small, and bare. The large iron bed on which he was currently lying was the only significant furniture of the room. That, and a pennant hanging on one wall. Squinting closer, he realised it was from Eton.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he refused to sink into procrastinating pondering over the pennant’s origin, and looked down at the man sleeping beside him.

To his shame, Sev couldn’t remember his name. Or even if they had exchanged those. Bodily fluids: check. Sev squirmed slightly. Definitely check. Names: not so certain.

The man’s chest was rising and falling gently in sleep; a well-built chest, wide shoulders tapering to narrow, snake-like hips. His shaven head gleamed gently in the early morning sun, creeping in through thin drapes. His arms were thrust protectively around himself, the long serpent tattoo half-hidden. He looked even younger than Sev had first thought; he couldn’t be thirty, even. How incongruous, then, that he, not Sev, was the seducer in all this.

Sev leaned closer, close enough to feel the man’s warm breath on his neck. Idly, with one finger, Sev traced the matching skull tattoo on the man’s shoulder, not thinking, not thinking at all.

The man’s eyes fluttered open, long spidery lashes dancing.

‘Still here, are you?’ He sounded vaguely surprised, but not unpleased.

In answer, Sev pushed forward the tiniest bit, and kissed him.

Because he wanted to know what it felt like when he was sober. Because he wanted to see if this strange, consuming desire could compete with sobriety. Because, dammit, he wanted to see if it really was as good as he remembered.

It really was.


Minnie McGonagall woke up on Saturday morning, after a very disturbing dream, determined to do something with her life.

In the dream, she had been very old, and dying. An angel – Azreel, the angel of death – had come to take her to heaven, and on their way he had asked her what she had done with her life.


Minnie looked at herself in the mirror. It was her birthday today; she was forty-four years old.

She didn’t look it; she could have shaved five years off her true age, no problem. Spending over two decades of money on herself – money that most of her contemporaries were throwing desperately at children, mortgages, college funds - she had spent on herself. She had given a lot to charity, true; but living in a small basement flat, inherited from her grandmother, with her only dependant a cat who liked to be known as Crookshanks, had left her with quite a lot of cash on her hands.

Expensive Lancôme moisturisers had left her hands soft; lack of hard toil had prevented them from becoming knobbly and arthritic, as she remembered her mother’s as being. Her regular – if supremely unmusical – attacks on the small upright piano that came with the flat had also helped there. Equally expensive moisturisers, UV protection inbuilt, made from the grossest things – from crude oil to fish spawn – prevented her face from drooping too drastically. Occasional, shameful Botox injections had not gone astray there either.

Her glasses were designer; she never could bring herself to bother with contacts. Her hair was as black as ever; or at least, as her hairdresser could make it. Regular walks and a diet that would have made Kate Moss feel competitive had kept her figure trim. All in all, for such a harsh, aesthetic woman, she kept herself well.

And Bertie had never noticed – she’d done it for him as much as herself.

Well, bugger Bertie. He had found a new lease of life; but it included her as much as the old life had. That is to say, not at all.

Going to pin her hair in a tight bun, Minnie paused, and thoughtfully brushed it out again. She ignored the kilt and sweater she had lain out for herself. She went instead to the back of her wardrobe, where the contents of one day’s impulse buying lay nestled in paper shopping bags, labels still attached. She withdrew the sharply cut black trouser suit, the daringly low cut, red blouse, and quickly put them on.

Agenda for today: buy more new clothes, as all kilts and woolly jumpers are to be ritually burnt.

Life may not begin at forty-four, but that’s no excuse not to get one.


By eleven, Hermione felt sufficiently recovered to wolf down six sausages, three rashers, sinful heapings of black pudding and several rounds of toast. Blaise, picking unenthusiastically at a dry slice of toast, watched her in amazement and not a little alarm.

As Hermione reached for the ketchup, Blaise ventured to say, ‘Clearly, you are not the queasy hangover type of person.’

Hermione shrugged, and swallowed a heaping mouthful of bacon. ‘How would I know? This is my first time.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’

Blaise dismissed the issue with a shake of her long, dyed black locks, and pressed on to more interesting matters.

‘So...I take it you saw Black last night.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘As you did,’ Hermione said non-committedly. Blaise rolled her eyes.

‘Enough with the blasé attitude. That’s my name, that’s my game. I thought he looked horrendous. Like a bridge tramp or something. And what was with that coat!’

‘He certainly didn’t put a lot of effort into his outfit, that’s for sure,’ Hermione agreed.

‘I’d say he drank as much as you did, too. Why on earth was he out drowning his sorrows?’

‘Innumerable reasons spring to mind. Perhaps he ate a bad Coco Pop last morning. Maybe Pansy’s on his back. Perchance he found a split-end.’

‘He kept shooting you evil looks, that I do recall.’

‘Did he?’ Hermione frowned, finding herself oddly disturbed by the news. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘Not surprising. You downed more Fat Frogs in the half-hour after he arrived than I’ve ever drunk. I don’t think you were in a state to remember your own name at that stage.’

‘You sound quite disapproving, given that you were the one who coerced me into going out in the first place.’

‘Well, you can’t say it wasn’t a baptism of fire, at least.’

‘Or a plague of frogs, perhaps? Seeing as we’re being all biblical.’

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of Hermione’s contented munching.

“I suppose you’ll be heading home after this, for another joyful day of study,’ Blaise said, sounding resigned.

‘Nah,’ Hermione said succinctly, ignoring Blaise’s surprised look. ‘I think I’ll go wild and – not study at all this weekend.’

‘Truly, a daring move,’ Blaise said, but her approval was genuine. ‘What are you going to do today, then?’

‘I have some ideas....’Hermione said vaguely, staring into the middle distance. Then her eyes abruptly snapped back onto Blaise. ‘You – are going to be there too, aren’t you?’ she said, with a tremor of uncertainty.

Blaise leaned back casually in her chair and regarded Hermione with a wide grin. ‘Last night I discovered you’re a secret body-piercer. Then, you drink Black under the table, albeit across the room. Now you’re abandoning study for a whole forty-eight hours.’ She let her chair legs hit the floor again with a thud as she reached forward for more toast, her appetite suddenly returning. ‘Of course I’m bloody coming. Otherwise, God knows what I could be missing.’


Draco sat huddled under his huge coat at the kitchen table, clutching his pounding head and trying to make sense of the world. He was making dispiritingly little progress; it made no more sense than when he wasn’t hungover. There was, of course, the added complication of finding his mother and his history teacher in the throes of – something. Quite what, he would not be able to determine without immediate application of Alka Seltzer and psycho-analysis for his repression of all and any hints of knowledge regarding same.

He heard movement in the hall, and for a moment toyed with the idea of flinging himself under the table like a four-year-old. The warning alarm bells of pain ricocheting under his skull prevented him, and then it was too late to consider further action.

His mother entered the kitchen with the determined look of a firing squad member preparing to execute Erskine Childers. Draco scowled up at her, ignoring the wailing of pain inside his head.

‘Where’s lover boy?’ he grated out.

‘Joe has gone home. We – that is, I – thought it would be better if I talked to you alone.’ She suddenly reached across the table and grasped his hands. ‘Draco, I can explain –’

‘It’s quite alright, mother,’ Draco said. ‘I know where the birds and the bees come from. Under the cabbage patch. And oh, won’t someone get me some painkillers!’ he added plaintively. ‘Horse tranquillisers! Anything!”

Narcissa made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been of amusement or annoyance. She gracefully rose from the table and started rummaging through cupboards.

‘You’re as bad as your father,’ she said lightly. ‘He could never hold his drink either.’

‘I can hold my drink!’ Draco snapped, affronted. ‘I just – don’t usually hold so much at one time.’

‘How much, Draco?” Suddenly stern.

‘Um – however much fifty five pounds can buy.’ Meekly. ‘Oh, and that reminds me. I must pay back Greg for the fifty.’

‘You got drunk on someone else’s money?” Narcissa quirked a pale eyebrow.

‘Well, it would have been on my own, only you see, I was chucked out of my house with no cash on me,’ Draco said sweetly.

The barb hit home. Narcissa hurriedly sat down again, pushing a glass of water and two Panadol tablets at her son, which he received with desperate gratitude.

‘I don’t want you to think I was trying to get rid of you –’ she began.

‘Why? It’s what you were doing,’ Draco pointed out, gulping down the first pill.

‘Well, true, but only partly,’ Narcissa continued, unabashed. ‘I really was worried about you. It’s not like you to mope. By the way, that is an absolutely horrible coat.’

‘Stop turning the conversation around,’ he commanded. ‘Why was Binns here and what were you doing? Did you, perhaps, lose one of your other sons, and need his help in finding him? No, implausible, you only have one son. Me.’

He stopped and waited expectantly. Narcissa looked almost discomfited.

‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept that Joe and I are – together,’ she said finally. ‘Well, almost, I mean, he hasn’t actually said anything –’

Draco rolled his eyes. Typical. He was now privy to the convoluted love lives of both his parents. He was clearly going to be here for some time.

‘Have we got any ice-cream?’


Hermione’s plan for the day wasn’t exactly earth shattering, except when seen in terms of her life, which could be viewed as one long cycle of neatly timetabled revision and learning, with short breaks for eating and sleeping.

They were going to a gaming arcade.

Hermione had never been to one before; it was not the sort of place, that, after the age of eight, you wanted to be taken to by your parents. By the time the protective Grangers had granted their only daughter permission to go out on her own, she was too enmeshed in a web of study to have either the time or the inclination to follow up on a childhood desire.

She still didn’t have the time. The inclination, however, was another matter.

It was pure luck that a huge, shiny, new arcade had opened up in the local shopping complex – the place was called Zonko’s, and it was immense. Vast, glittering disco balls revolved slowly under the flashing lighting, throwing Hermione’s animated face, and Blaise’s guarded one, into high relief.

Hermione wanted to try everything, and she had brought lots of money, too. She was just coaxing a wary Blaise onto a motorbike simulator, so they could have a virtual reality race, when she looked up, and her face twisted.

‘What’s he doing here?’


Draco paused at the threshold of Zonko’s, having been pulled thus far by the child-like eagerness of his two friends. When Narcissa had eventually released him – following the consumption of two tubs of Caramel Sutra Ben and Gerry’s on his part and extensive soul-searching on her’s– he had headed over to Greg’s again with the intention of repaying him. He had found himself caught up in their plans for a day on the town, and was thankful for having changed his clothes and brushed his hair.

The sight that had greeted him when he passed through by his bedroom mirror had not been a pretty one. His eyes were webbed with delicate red lines, his clothes stunk of smoke and his hair – already whorled from lack of combing after its cold water wash – was unspeakable. He’s had another shower, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark green Armani jumper – a Christmas present, from his mother. Over it all he had settled the sheepskin coat, after dousing it, first in Febreze, then in Lynx, to kill or at least overpower the scent of stale cigarettes. He’d become strangely attached to the thing. He had brushed his hair, but it was still wringing wet, and leaving cold trails of the back of his neck.

‘Come on – let’s play Pinball!’ Greg urged, tugging on Vinnie’s sleeve, and they shot away like greyhounds out of a trap, leaving Draco feeling rather lost.

He turned up the collar of his coat – another habit that was rapidly becoming engrained – and shot an icy look around the room. Only to meet a venomous, all-too-familiar brown stare.

‘Granger,’ he said with a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure the sight of her brought him. He rapidly turned away and headed for the well-stocked sweets counter, suddenly feeling the urge for more Ben and Gerry’s.


‘Go talk to him! You know you want to! And god, he’s still wearing that awful animal skin,’ Blaise said, hopping off the bike with almost indecent relief.

‘I might want to, but I can’t,’ Hermione acknowledged reluctantly, through clenched teeth. The fact made her irrational anger at his presence burn more brightly. ‘And he still has a girlfriend.’

‘I’m not entirely sure you can even class Pansy as a member of the human race,’ Blaise said impatiently. ‘She must have a duck somewhere in her ancestry. Look, I’m going to the toilet. Don’t follow me!’

She sped off, and Hermione was left standing gaping after her.

Well. It was clearly reckless courage in the face of abject fear that was called for here. She had that, in spades.

She squared her shoulders and walked towards him. She thought, at first, of going to the other side of the sweet counter, pretending she didn’t notice him, and allowing him to engage her in conversation if he wished.

But then she narrowed her eyes. She remembered her thoughts from the night before, concerning Lavender’s now-I-mean-it, now-I-don’t, attitude. She wasn’t going to play-act.

This wasn’t a game. This was Life.


Draco watched her approach with wariness, poised to flee, only hampered by the tub of ice cream that he was in the process of paying for. She looked attractive, far more so than the night before. Her woolly zipped-up jumper allowed him just the merest, tantalising glimpse of collarbone. She also looked very, very angry. Draco gulped, and wondered, first what exactly he had done, and second where the emergency exits were located.

‘Black,’ she acknowledged him curtly.

‘Granger,’ he returned, clutching his congealed dairy product for dear life and snatching his change from the woman at the till.

She ran her eyes down him, making him redden unaccountably. There was nothing appraising in her gaze, which was a thoughtful one, but he found it helplessly seductive, nonetheless. She appeared to be thinking deeply.

‘I like the coat,’ she said, and graced him with the first real smile he’d ever received from her.

‘Thanks,’ he managed, trying his best not to die from shock.

Her manner became abruptly business-like. She stepped in closer to him, and he could smell her perfume, although he had no idea what it was. He was uncomfortably aware of the stultifying combination of Lynx and Febreze emanating from himself as the coat warmed up.

‘I fancy you, you do realise,’ she said, with as much passion as a pathologist declaring the obvious about a corpse.

Time held its breath as he stared, terrified, into her eyes and saw the glimmer of uncertainty there. On spotting it, his devilish side decided to play Russian Roulette.

‘Good to know,’ he squeaked.

She frowned, put one hand lightly on his shoulder, curling her fingers in his damp hair, drew him closer to her, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

For a second, the tableau held. Their lips brushed, parted slightly, and the kiss deepened. Hermione’s hand tightened at the back of Draco’s head, sliding her fingers through the heavy silkiness of his wet locks.

Then, before he could think of dropping his ice cream, grabbing her tightly, kissing her harder, more urgently, before he could even think of anything at all except her mouth and her hands and the warmth of her body, she had spun away from him.


Hermione burst into the bathroom, hair flying, cheeks high with colour, just as Blaise was washing her hands.

‘Quick! Quick!’ she shouted, sounding terrified, but there was an octave of panicked amusement in her voice. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’

Not waiting for Blaise to respond, she whirled around, and spotting the one, small, half-open window, she charged for it.

‘What the –’ Blaise followed more slowly, as Hermione’s hands grasped the sill and she began hoisting herself up. ‘Hermione, you really aren’t – what happened?’

Hermione glanced at her, one arm and half a leg already over the edge of the window. It was a look of someone who had rushed in where angels feared to tread, with bells, balls and brio, and was now out on the other side. She grinned widely.

‘I kissed him, I kissed him, that’s what,’ she gasped, hauling herself over. Her next words were accompanied by an ‘ooof’ as she landed hard in the concrete car park. ‘Now come on, we’ve got to get out of here!’

Blaise shook her head in admiration, and grabbed the windowsill.


Later, much later, Sev finally asked.

‘My name is Marv,’ the man said, smiling the long, slow smile of the recently and soon to be again shagged.


Minnie stood nervously at the reception desk as the secretary fussed with papers and forms. She was already regretting what she’d done, but it was too late to go back now. She’d applied, she’d signed her name, she’d even given them a check for Christ’s sakes, and now she was in with no way out.

‘All right then,’ the secretary – a Mrs Figg, from her nametag – said, finally shuffling all her papers into one neat pile. ‘If you’ll just wait a moment, I can just print out a list of recommended reading material for you, and you’ll be ready to go.’ The older woman gave Minnie a cheerful smile, which Minnie felt ill-disposed to return. She walked slowly over to a row of modern wooden waiting chairs, and idly flicked through the piled academic journals, which were scattered over the low ash table.

She became immersed in an article about Reflective Practice, and so didn’t look up when another person entered the airy reception area from the campus side and began speaking to the secretary in a deep, mellifluous voice.

‘Anything for me, Arabella?’

‘Hang on for a second, dear, and I’ll just check. I’m printing out something for the lady over there. Actually –’ there was a rustle of papers, ‘Yes, she’s in your new course, as it happens.’

‘I think I’ll go over and introduce myself, then.’

‘Good idea.’ Arabella’s voice dropped a notch. ‘I think she’s a little hesitant.’

‘Well then, I’ll definitely have to talk with her.’

There was a patter of footsteps; a man’s heavy tread. Minnie deigned to look up – carefully composing her face into a cool, set mask – and for only the second time in her life, fell completely, utterly and helplessly in love.

The blonde vision pushed back his crinkly gold hair and winked one eye – so blue it was almost purple – at her, and held out a hand. He was dressed in a stylish, if loud, suit of royal blue, with a lemon coloured tie.

‘Hello,’ he said warmly, taking her hand in a warm grasp and, instead of shaking it, pressing it briefly to his lips.

‘Hello,’ Minnie replied, breathlessly, completely bowled over.

The man – who looked in his mid to late forties – settled himself in the chair next to hers and leaned close enough to cause her heart to jump around uncomfortably.

‘Now,’ he began engagingly, ‘People around here tend to call me a lot of things, You Lazy Bastard being favourite, but I think I’ll just introduce myself as Gil, for that is my given name. Now, I hear you’ve applied for my Master’s programme.....’

Current Mood: dorkydorky
Current Music: 'All the Small Things,' Blink 182
Caitcoralia13 on November 16th, 2004 01:47 pm (UTC)
Okay, here's what I'm thinking right now:



Yeah, I'm pretty excited. I love this story. I must have more. And, not to beat a dead horse, but will there be more about Harry?

every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 17th, 2004 02:51 pm (UTC)
Yup. Damn, that abbo didn't work as a disguise, much?!

That good it must be fiction...xD.

I am absobloodylutely delighted you love it. I was having a shitty week and a half and it just started getting better today...that REALLY HELPED. THANK YOU.

You will. Lemme see - I think it's chapter five? (Is he your fav character generally?)
Caitcoralia13 on November 17th, 2004 10:00 pm (UTC)
You know, I didn't realize Harry was my favorite character until reading your stuff, because usually, I don't read fics that involve Harry as a main character. I usually read MWPP fics because non-canon drives me crazy (except for yours, it seems!), and there is so much more open for interpretation in MWPP. I really don't like 5th year fics, as a rule. I will take short vingettes that take place in Harry's time, but not long stories. So, like I said, I stick to the MWPP, where I decided that Remus is probably my favorite character, though I do love Sirius (and a properly done James), as well. So, yes, I guess Harry is my favorite character. I actually had a running monologue with him while reading the fifth book ("That's alright, Harry - you don't need those tools, you tell 'em ... Get a friggin grip, Molly - right, Harry?... Awww! Harry, you'll always be my prefect... Don't let her use that pen on you again !" That kind of thing.)

Glad I could help you feel better!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 18th, 2004 08:16 am (UTC)
Yeah - outside of this I don't usually write Harry in school, but in the future, narrow though it is to have H/D in the future - I mean, who knows people from school when they're 25? Ah well. At least I'll try my hand at MWPP now. I've decided on Lily/James (I love what JK has done with that as a ship), is that okay? Non-slashy enough?

I haven't quite decided what I think about OotP! Harry...he's a very genuine teenager at least, and I have to say the kiss was absolutely brilliant! (Mind you, it should have been Draco xD).

Caitcoralia13 on November 18th, 2004 08:51 pm (UTC)
Haha - I'm not sure JKR is quite ready to release a gay kiss on the public. I for one, would freak if Harry and Malfoy hooked up. Harry is SO straight, and Malfoy is SUCH a jerk. Canon Malfoy, anyway. Fanon Malfoy rocks.

Yes, I certainly approve of L/J! My favorite ship, and so rarely done well. I am so excited to read this MWPP story! I didn't think you'd actually take me seriously!

OotP Harry is a pain in the ass, but he reminds me so painfully of myself at that age. I got so annoyed with him at parts (like when he wouldn't practice his friggin Occlumency, or when he got mad at Hermione for tricking Umbridge into going into the Forest). He will always be my hero, though. I love Harry, and I am so sad that we only have 2 more years with him. Can't wait to read more!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 19th, 2004 11:37 am (UTC)
*droolz at the thought...*


Well, of course I did! It's your Christmas present, because I am so misphilanthropic! Gabbysun wants a cross-dressing party and minor characters, too. Possibly a Arizphale/Crowley entrance for Kentraine. Don't look so scared. It will all turn out well! (somehow...)

Yeah, what was with that? He comes across as SOOO stupie for not doing what Snape asked, after what happened. And what's with Snape not teaching him? He v. bold. Mind you, again, Harry *should* have remembered he was in the Order...but then we'd have no story!
Caitcoralia13 on November 19th, 2004 12:45 pm (UTC)
Harry should have remembered the mirror. Of course, I had forgotten the mirror, too, and was just as upset as Harry when he rediscovered it in his trunk.
Yeah, that whole Occlumency thing just pissed me off. I will always love Dumbledore (he is a god. a god of magic), but he screwed up big time, repeatedly, throughout the fifth book. First with the whole ignoring Harry thing, which drove me crazy, and if he had just explained to Harry what was at stake, and why he wanted him to do the things he was telling him to do, I really think things would have gone so much better. For example, Sirius would still be alive.
Harry has never been a child. The mistake that all the characters, from Dumbledore, to Sirius, to Snape, and even (in a way) to Mrs. Weasley make is that they confuse Harry and James. In the case of Sirius, that means that Sirius says asshole things like "For James, the danger would have made it fun" (WTF??? I wanted to kill him when he said that!). For Mrs. Weasley and Dumbledore, this means they think he is actually an average 15 year old boy, but he's not. They're trying to keep him innocent, give him a childhood, but what they don't seem to understand is that the Dursleys ended his childhood long before he came to Hogwarts. So basically, they are just trapping him in this limbo between childhood and adulthood - he has grown-up problems and concerns, but they won't give him grown-up responsibility. This is, of course, an amazing and absolutely perfect metaphor for being a teenager, and just part of the reason JKR is my hero.
And Snape needs to die. Or at least get a major personality adjustment. I am so sick of his shit. I think Harry should kick his ass.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 19th, 2004 02:44 pm (UTC)
Why the hell did she throw in that stupid mirror if she wasn't going to use it? Obviously she can't now that it's BROKEN!

Dumbledore is Slytherin, I swear to god. What was with that 'twinkle in his eye' when Harry said Voldemort had risen at the end of GoF? I saw that, 'dore!!

I actually liked the way she built up the utter hopelessness in the fifth book. When Dumbledore left/escaped, I really couldn't see how they were going to get out of the mess, which is unusual for me, not to spot plot twists that is.

Thinking about it, Harry should be far more messed up than he is. He's amazingly well-adjusted. My mother, though, thinks he's a wimp...and honestly, why didn't he tell someone at his school about being made to live in a cupboard and do all the housework!?? Even in the nineties that was against basic Human Rights!

Ah, I like Snape! He doesn't hero-worship Harry, so kudos for that. I actually would love to write someone so washed-up and bitter about the past, because I can see it happening to me...it's so romantic! The line in PS where Dumbledore says, 'He can go back to hating your father's memory in peace' sums up for me what the charm of HP is: how entangled everyone is with the past, especially Harry. He can never escape his parents the way everyone else does. He's always going to have rose-tinted glasses and that alone makes him an interesting character. Everything concerning his parents, their friends and people who knew them (basically everyone) hammers home the fact that they're dead and what could-have-been (which, to be honest, is only noteworthy in that context). I have to say that's my favourite thing about the series, and I don't think it's disimproving, the way many people do. I think it's getting better!
Caitcoralia13 on November 19th, 2004 11:59 pm (UTC)
In an interview, or maybe on her official site, JKR said something to the effect of, "the mirror might not have been as much help as you think, and will be more useful than you might imagine". She wouldn't introduce something for no reason, just to torture us and Harry. The same goes for the twinkle. It's there for a reason, but I don't think Dumbledore is evil. Not by a long shot. I think that the "triumphant" twinkle was something to do with Harry's blood having an ill effect on Voldemort in the future. This twinkle is important. Lily's love and protection are in Voldemort now, and that has to help the good guys somehow.

Harry is so well-adjusted. He is an amazing kid. SO not a wimp. I think he didn't tell anyone for the same reason that he didn't tell anyone about Umbridge's pen - too proud. It's his issue, he thinks, and he's got to cowboy up and deal with it. That's part of the Gryffindor attitude, in my opinion: foolish bravery and pride, part of what makes them so admirable and, at the same time, so irritating. The Slytherins' problem is that they don't think it is sincere - that it's just the Gryffindors fishing for pity when the truth comes to light and everyone sees all the horrible things they went through, when really, it's just in their nature.
Besides, I would imagine that, at the time the abuse was actually occuring, he didn't really see it as abuse. It was unfair, and made him feel bad, but he had no information or other examples to show him how wrong it was. No one had ever taken an interest in his well-being before, and he wasn't in danger, so he didn't seek help. When he got to Hogwarts, it's not like someone ever sat him down and asked, "So how does your family treat you?" He doesn't seem like the type to go running to McGonagall in his first week at Hogwarts and say, "Oh, by the way, I don't really know you, but I just wanted to say that my aunt and uncle are really unfair to me and never gave me a good birthday and used to make me sleep in a cupboard. Wanna do something about that?"

Snape... ugh. He just makes me sick. He is a fascinating character - so complex and interesting, but I cannot like him. He abuses little kids for fun. There is a difference between not hero-worshipping Harry and harrassing him. Snape crossed that line on the first day of first year. McGonagall does not hero-worship Harry. Nor does Dumbledore. There are infinitely fair, in my opinion. Snape can never be called fair. It's wrong (not to mention exceedingly immature and weak) of him to pick on Harry, but it is completely unreasonable for him to pick on Neville, or Hermione. Neville's dad, as far as we know, never bullied Snape, as if that were an excuse. And that thing with Hermione in GoF? When Malfoy made her teeth grow and Snape said "I see no difference"? What teacher says that? Not to mention calling her all sort of other names on various occasions. He strikes me as pathetic. He was bullied in school, true. But he needs to get over it, move on, spank his inner moppet, whatever. Fifteen years ago, some big bad bullies were mean to him. Boo hoo. Years from now, Harry is not going to take out all his life's miseries on Piers Polkiss Jr, or even one of Dudley's kids. Why? Because he's decent . Because he can be an adult, and realize that a child is not responcible and cannot be held accountable for the actions of his father that took place before he was even born.
The Marauders were terribly cruel to Snape when he was a teenager, yes. But those four boys lost in the end - they lost in every way a person can lose, and yet Snape still , in his infinite immaturity and weakness, lets them win every day by living his life based around what they did to him, by constantly rehashing it, keeping those wounds open instead of just growing up. In this way, he is the character most like post-Azkaban Sirius in the entire series - trapped forever in a time that has gone by, in grudges and obsessions that don't matter any longer to anyone but them, because everyone else has left that time. Sirius was locking Azkaban for 12 years. What's Snape's excuse?
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 20th, 2004 06:15 am (UTC)
Wow. I'm seriously bowled over. This explains why I didn't study English...I've never thought about it in this depth. I try to think about it, but I can never come up with anything coherent to justify any original thoughts I might have concerning ANYTHING. So I just usually steal other people's. As now. You really present Harry in a good light. I just don't understand him, I suppose...me, if there is anyone at all who could worry/sort things out for me, I'd just let them. And you are right about Snape, but if he was professional about it, he wouldn't be Snape. Maybe? *brain hurts*
Caitcoralia13 on November 20th, 2004 09:28 am (UTC)
Haha. Sorry. Yes, you are absolutely right, and Snape shouldn't be changed, because then he wouldn't be Snape, and therefore wouldn't be such a delicious character. I tend to get a little impassioned when it comes to defending my favorite characters, and tearing down my least favorite. And, as you might guess, I have thought about this a lot .
I think one of the reasons I love Harry so much is that I actually can understand him, as much as he can be understood by someone who has two loving parents, is not famous, has a very wonderful extended family, and who does not have anyone trying to kill them.
I think it would be the right thing to do to go to people for help more often than he does, but then he wouldn't be a Gryffindor. If you look at the books, this not going for help is pretty consistent for him. It's just part of his nature, which I think will come in handy for dealing with this whole "I'm the only one who can kill Voldemort" thing. Because he's used to having to deal with bad situations alone, he will be able to accept this new responsibility more quickly than someone else would.
I do struggle with his decisions not to tell sometimes, like with Umbridge's pen. I have done stuff like that, or wanted to, due to an overactive sense of self-pity, throw-yourself-to-the-lions nonsense. The way Harry wanted to reach up to help Cho tie the letter to the owl so she could see his sliced up hand... I have so been there. You want someone to notice how miserable you are, and to be impressed by the strong, accepting way you dealt with it. This is an annoying tendency in anyone, not to mention a stupid one (as any Slytherin - and probably Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw- would tell you), but it is very tempting, maybe only for a certain type of people. I think that this tendency is heightened during the teen years, when self-pity is at an all time high. In the books, ages fourteen and especially fifteen are where that tendency with Harry really goes overboard, and gets him (and others) into a lot of trouble. His refusal to go to Dumbledore about the Occlumency lessons, etc just shows how Gryffindor tendencies don't always save the day and can, in fact, be very dangerous.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 20th, 2004 02:15 pm (UTC)
BTW, what house are you in? I'm a purtyful RAVENCLAW! YAY! House pride!

Ahem. The self-pity thing...well, the thing about me is that subtle is not a word in my vocabulary. Ever heard the phrase 'passing on your monkeys?' Well, unlike Harry, who keeps his monkeys secluded so they breed madly, I pass them on like hot potatoes. If I'm sad or worried or scared, I'll make sure as hell someone knows about it so they can fix it. I'm all for catharsis, and immediately at that!

I was thinking *shh, don't tell anyone!* about Snape and I reckon I like him because I empathise with him so much! To be honest I am not a particuarly nice person, and unsympathetic in the extreme...I don't like Neville's character - weak and stupid, I don't tolerate fools kindly - and were I in Snape's position I would be equally brusque and impatient. Possibly not to the same extent though, unless he was my brother. However, unlike Snape, I don't carry grudges, they're a bit pathetic. (And one of my brother's favourite hobbies...) All in all, both he and Harry need to do some growing up. (Oh, and me too!)
Caitcoralia13 on November 20th, 2004 06:40 pm (UTC)
I was a Ravenclaw, which I thought was totally weird - I really think I am a Hufflepuff.

I have never heard about "passing on your monkeys". It sounds kind of dirty, but I see what it means. I think I do like to complain a lot, because it helps me get over stuff to talk about it, but when a problem is ongoing, especially when I was going through that sulky, miserable teenage phase, I liked to bottle it up and go over it again and again in self-pitying indulgence. It's a sickness, really.

Yes, both Harry and Snape do need to do some growing up, but Harry is fifteen, so he will be doing some growing up, whereas Snape holds no such promise. Poor Neville. I think Herbology is just evidence that he can thrive if he isn't bullied to death. I can't wait to see what role he will have in the Final Battle. The parallels with Harry, as presented in the end of book five, are so interesting to me! What would have happened if Voldemort had picked Neville, instead? (Now there's an interesting idea for a fic!)
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 21st, 2004 08:04 am (UTC)
Hmm, Ravenclaws are supposed to be snobby and book-smart, which is me. I'm loyal, I suppose, but only to me!

It's in some American management skillz book my mum has. It means taking on other people's problems=monkeys. When I was a younger teenager, I used to throw temper tantrums. (No wait, I still do. Eep.)

Neville is just a langer. 'Nuff said. He trembles. It is weird. A lot of people think he's the Half-Blood Prince...what are your views on that one? I think Voldemort.

And I think the recent spate of Harry/Neville fics are based on that very fact...*evil grin*
Caitcoralia13 on November 21st, 2004 11:34 am (UTC)

Wait, why does this surprise me? After Hagrid/Dobby, anything is possible.

Anyway, I guess Neville could be the HBP... There's never any word of him being HB, though. Maybe Alice was Muggle-born? I think the Longbottoms are a pretty old pureblood family, so Alice would have to be the one to bring in the muggle blood. The word "prince" confuses me.
JKR said that the HBP is not Harry or Voldemort. I don't think it would be a new character - that would be kind of like cheating. I really have no idea. Can't wait to find out, though!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 21st, 2004 12:59 pm (UTC)
It shouldn't really. It's nearly as common as the DE!Neville fics.

But, could it be Tom Riddle? Heh heh. But man, she's like gestating. I'll be in my twenties before that book sees the light of day in Waterstones.
Caitcoralia13 on November 22nd, 2004 08:23 am (UTC)
You mean, like, she'd pull a Dobby on us? "Not... You-Know-Who , Harry Potter!"
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 22nd, 2004 11:45 am (UTC)
That's exactly it! Very popular theory, that. (Not that I picked up on that subtext when I read the book...it was only when I went on message boards and stuff...)
Caitcoralia13 on November 23rd, 2004 02:36 pm (UTC)
Well, she did say that book 2 has A LOT to do with book 6...
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 23rd, 2004 02:46 pm (UTC)
Have you parsed it yet? I thought about doing it but I'm notoriously stupey when it comes to picking up on clues...
Caitcoralia13 on November 23rd, 2004 03:01 pm (UTC)
"Parsed"? No, I don't think so. I don't usually get too wrapped up in trying to figure out what happens next. My only speculations about the future are: R/H, H/G, Dumbledore dies, Voldemort loses.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 23rd, 2004 03:06 pm (UTC)
Okay, not the right word? (I'll admit you had me stumped with the 'parentheses' that time...I calls 'em brackets, does I!)

But...Harry should die. As Cybele and the awesome 'If You Are Prepared' did prophesy...xD.
Caitcoralia13 on November 23rd, 2004 03:22 pm (UTC)

Ahem. Sorry.

I do NOT think Harry should die. What kind of a message does that send? "You can fight and fight your whole life and be good and kind and noble and suffer for your cause, and still EVIL WILL WIN!"? As if we didn't have enough trouble with the Jesus-freaks trying to ban Harry Potter in public libraries...

And for me: [These are brackets.] (These are parentheses.) {These are just fun. Or... also brackets. My vocabulary only extends so far.}
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 23rd, 2004 03:41 pm (UTC)
*head whips*

Demons? But I wasn't expecting them till Tuesday!

No, I don't mean that Voldie should win at all here! No, Voldie is died, vamooshed, conquered...but the valiant Harry dies of his mortal wounds and is forever more revered as a hero! (I don't like happy endings. They're dishonest.)

For me:

() = brackets

[] = square brackets

{} = curly brackets!!