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09 March 2005 @ 09:46 pm
Fic: Starcrossed and can't escape  

Amigos, this post concerns Discworld books and Potterverse fic, so if you ain’t in the mood for that…but chill. No one’s going to force you.

Due to one of those schedule mix-ups that leaves me doing the Bad Thing and having to wait around for my mother, I ended up reading Small Gods (sixth time? Eighth? Um) in three hours this arvo. I now have Brutha on the brain.

Lord Hong = PS!Daniel Radcliffe?! *is ver’, ver’ - winsomely even - happy to have made this analogy*

The bit in Interesting Times when Rincewind comes back from the desert island and runs through Ankh-Morpork - at the very end, after eating Dibbler’s sausage-inna-bun and getting coshed by the Thieves’ Guild, he says, ‘Well, I’m back.’ I never realised before that hello, LotR Sam!

On the point of pastiche, The Last Continent. Mad the Dwarf is a piss-take of Mel Gibson’s post-religious/psychotic-fevour Mad Max, yeah? (It took me three reads for that to actually click.) I am torn between being amused and distraught that what Australian film-culture is summed up as in forn’ minds is Mad Max and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

I cannot describe how much I love the fact that Rincewind invented Vegemite. We get it sent over specially by my grandma. No, it doesn’t taste like Marmite, okay?

In a concerted effort to shove some meaning, in whatever way shape or form, into my (ahaha) writing, I again try an exercise in Teh Craft. Which in my head was something like ‘An exercise in writing how I hear the songs I love’ or some shite like that. And what in reality is ‘An exercise in seeing how purple we can make it and just how many commas we can leave out’, as well as an attempt at torturing people as much as I could - and not just readers, for once. There is, after all, something I want to capture, the beauty in ugliness the anything-but-perfection the hatred so strong and gosh, I’m so full of [CENSORED]. Anyway, the point is it's an exercise and won't be archived and hasn't been beta'd.

PG-13, Harry/Ginny, title from a song. Can’t remember song or artist.




It all started when Harry found Ginny crying.

Thus people (read: Weasleys) were fond of saying - as if it were a virtue, to start a lifelong partnership with tears and snot and wet handkerchiefs. Anyway, it wasn’t true. Harry, in those mornings when he woke to a four o’clock, streaky grey sky and a knot in his stomach, knew, even if he refused to acknowledge it, that it had really all ended there. On that day, late summer evening in fact, when he came in from the grounds warm from a quick broomstick outing and the certainty of beating Slytherin for another year’s Cup to find Ginny in floods of tears.

Harry had never quite understood crying. It was one of a long list of things he didn’t understand - a list on which girls in general featured quite high up - and something he’d never done himself. It seemed that girls just did it all the time, though, particularly around Harry. Perhaps that was where all his tears went - into nearby girls.

‘Er - you all right, Gin?’ he’d asked, sweaty and awkward.

Ginny, when she looked up, was rather sodden about the eyes. Harry coughed. Ginny snuffled. He’d gone to pat her shoulder and she’d flown into his arms, evidently because the charade of being a strong independent woman was irreparably torn, and because Dean had broken up with her.

Harry couldn’t have said why on earth she decided to confide in him, albeit between sniffles. If he could have picked someone from the line-up of humanity to detail all his woes to, it wouldn’t have been himself. Perhaps that had been the point. Ginny, distressingly watery-eyed, had pressed his hand (which she’d captured early on in the proceedings) and told him tremulously that he was a wonderful friend.

Harry begged to differ. He was always getting people killed, for one thing. That wasn’t the action of a wonderful friend. On the contrary, it bordered on an almost psychotic disregard for said friends’ welfare. However, if it made Ginny better, he wasn’t going to gainsay her.

In retrospect - something Harry, out of respect for his sanity, rarely indulged in - that had been his first, and greatest, mistake. He hadn’t gainsaid her when she decided to sit beside him at mealtimes, either, when Ron and Hermione were occupied in arguing vociferously and eating off each others’ plates, which apparently constituted a relationship. He hadn’t denied her when she asked in for help with her Defence homework, which required very little in the way of correction despite her constant claims otherwise. He hadn’t turned her away when she walked next to him to the castle from the Quidditch pitch. He never ignored her when she called his name, or sat down beside him, or met him in the corridors. He never informed her that the shine in her eyes when he was around could, probably, be more than a little misplaced.

The information that he was her boyfriend still came as something as a shock. He’d heard it from Malfoy, who didn’t lose the opportunity to swagger up to Harry and make some concise and stunningly derogative statements about his choice of partner. That didn’t matter, though, because Harry hadn’t lost the opportunity to back Malfoy up against a wall at wand-point and threaten to turn his balls blue and green if he said anything like it again. Malfoy was chastened and furious and it made Harry pleased, so it was all okay.

The thing was, for once, Malfoy’s nasty little rumour wasn’t misplaced. The only person who seemed to think so was Harry. Ginny slipped her hand into his when he came back from the dungeons, weary at the thought of the long Potions essay he’d been set in time to Malfoy’s everlasting smirks, and after so long developing the habit Harry let her.

For some reason that was taken as proof. Evidence, in the face of all sense, that Harry was sweet on Ginny. Or something. Harry did think Ginny was a sweet girl. He thought the same about Hermione, when she wasn’t in a foul strop over house-elves, as well as Parvati, and Lavender, and Susan, and almost every girl Harry knew with the possible exception of Pansy Parkinson (there really was no excuse for going out with Malfoy).

In one late-night common room dying firelit couch, Harry allowed Ginny to kiss him. If allowed wasn’t too strong a word. Her lips were faintly sticky with something that tasted of strawberries, if strawberries had been made of plastic and sprayed with industrial amounts of cheap perfume. She seemed happy that he hadn’t forced her to go farther, which completely bewildered Harry. He hadn’t wanted to come this far, even if Ginny was good company and had a substantial line in risqué jokes inherited from the twins and seemed to like him. He was amazed that she hadn’t spotted his ambivalence for what it was. Instead, she seemed to be mistaking it for deep respect for her, Harry didn’t know, womanly virtues or something. He wasn’t too clear on the whole situation, as womanly virtues were not something he had cultivated an abounding interest in.

Eventually, he was sure, Ginny would realise. She’d probably cry again, but this time someone else would find her and comfort her and maybe even want to force her to go farther to wherever it was there was to go farther to. Harry felt pre-emptive relief at the thought.

What happened after that remained forever jumbled and unclear in his mind. There was certainly a very clear period in which he dragged his feet to the common room every night, because he knew Ginny would be looking up at him with bright, bright eyes and waiting for him to seize a moment to pull her into some secluded niche, of which there were an irritating number in the common room alone. And then…and then…there was a church and white robes and Ginny, flowers twined in her loose fiery hair and waking up beside her on odd mornings covered in freezing sweat.

On one such morning, Harry, instead of lying down again beside his wife, swung his legs out of bed and padded into the kitchen. It was drenched in the strange light of almost-morning, which shrouded everything in a grey fug which was just enough to see by (make love by) but not enough to read by (love by). The flat was situated in an affluent area of wizarding London - Ginny’s choice. Harry would have preferred to stay away from crowds and recognition and too-busyness, but he didn’t gainsay his wife. He hadn’t gainsaid her since he was seventeen years old, so there was no point in starting now, a decade on.

People often wondered why there were no children (yet). Even Ron remarked, only half-joking, that little Molly and littler Benjamin would be soon too old to play with any children of Harry’s unless he got cracking. The thing, the fact that hung unspoken between them was the legendary Weasley fecundity.

Harry was certain that it was his fault. Ginny had been very gentle with him. She assured him that she didn’t mind his impotency in the least even as her eyes strayed to other (less washed-out tired-looking black-haired) men. One day Ron would probably get his dark nephew or raven niece. That it probably wouldn’t be Harry’s didn’t bother Harry unduly, and certainly not as much as it should have done.

Harry Potter being Harry Potter, there had been no trouble obtaining Dreamless Sleep potions and insomnia potions which should have combined with the fertility potions and stimulant potions to make everything quite all right again. The only problem being that there was no ‘all right before’ to actually go back to, at least for Harry.

He’d probably forgotten to take the insomnia one again. It happened, when there were so many little glass-stoppered pots in the bathroom cabinet that there was no room for toothpaste or toiletries any more. He’d offered to buy Ginny a sink of her own, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and kept all her makeup in a purse on her bedside locker.

The tiled floor was achingly cold against his feet. Harry hated being barefoot and there was the feel of bare feet on stone slabs, jumping from one to the other to try and conserve some warmth as he struggled into floor-crumpled robes. Harry would have gone back to the bedroom to retrieve a pair of socks, but he’d surely wake Ginny - a notoriously light sleeper - if he did that. His wife had an early start at the Ministry in the mornings, so it would be unkind to deprive her of her sleep and cause her unnecessary worry. Ginny had no idea that the insomnia potions occasionally didn’t work or that he forgot to take them or that he refused to, because sometimes he wanted the memories even as he hated them, resented them, knew that she hated and resented them.

Harry conjured himself a mug of coffee. Black and bitter, just as he liked it. Ginny always put in milk and sugar when she made if for him, because that was how she liked it herself. Harry liked it like that too, of course, otherwise he’d have said something to her, wouldn’t he? And she did so like to do these little things for her husband.

It lay like burning salt on his sleep-furred tongue. The wise drinker would have abandoned it, or at least washed his mouth out first. Instead, Harry went to watch the sky out of the large bay window (‘- with a cast-iron balcony offering magnificent city-scapes. You should see it at sunset’. ‘Oh, Harry, let’s take it, do let’s!’ ‘Of course. If you like it.’). Harry had never seen it at sunset. When they’d first moved in, Ginny had rhapsodically described it in terms of fire and the colour red. Harry didn’t like fire. He’d always had evening Quidditch practices in the roofed Quidgym instead, or had come home early and drawn the curtains.

Fire purged. Fire cleansed.

That was how they’d triumphantly described it. ‘Smoked them out, like rabbits from a hole’, the Minister for Magic at the time had trumpeted - Harry couldn’t remember his name. He’d later been forced to retire under an ignominious cloud of sexual assault allegations, none of which came before the Wizengamot. His name wasn’t one to remember.

Even at the time, Harry was sure it wasn’t rabbits. Wasn’t it badgers? Wasn’t it foxes? Even the harshest of commentators wouldn’t call Death Eaters ‘rabbits’. No, he was pretty sure the term was ‘foxes’. Or even ‘rats’.

Now, rats was an eerily appropriate one.

He didn’t mind sunrises so much. It was London, after all; the sun usually sidled out sheepishly from behind a thick bank of clouds, as if it had had a tough night on the tiles the night before and was now waking up to remember exactly what it had done with that balloon, the photocopier and the secretary’s skirt. And Harry had seen a lot of sunrises.

He curled up on the cool leather sofa (on these mornings Harry for once truly regretted not arguing more strongly for damask or cotton or something, something which didn’t repel the touch of human skin so much at first and welcome it so readily after. It was too much of a metaphor for his liking). There was something about the juxtaposition of leather under his bare thighs, coffee on a gummy tongue and half-darkened window glass that brought back a slew of memories, even though none of these things corresponded in the slightest with the memories themselves.

Harry winced as fragments of forgotten denied, buried, sunk conversations played back in random blooper reels in his head. He gulped at the steaming coffee, but the definite heat only made it worse.

‘So, Potter, how’s your Weasel girlfriend?’

Harry felt his fists clenching involuntarily. Here, in the library, he thought he’d made the perfect escape from Ginny, thoughts of Ginny, surrounding chatter about Harry-and-Ginny. He’d really wanted to just think about Potions, for a wonder and a miracle and a water-from-the-desert brand of amazingness.

Malfoy, though. Trust him. Just. Trust. Him. To intrude, even here.

‘Better than you will be if you don’t shut the hell up and leave,’ Harry grunted. The analogous properties of Transfiguring Potions and Transfiguring Spells. Now, there was a thing. If only Harry was allowed to only think about that. Imagine, once he’d have done anything to escape such a topic! Harry had to shake his head in despair at the Harry he’d been.

‘Or not,’ Malfoy’s rejoinder came at last, right in Harry’s ear. Harry shivered as the warmth of his breath trickled from the shell of his ear down the side of his neck.

No, Harry thought, clutching his mug so tightly the nerves in his hands screamed in pain, that wasn’t right.

Harry shivered in disgust.

‘Malfoy,’ he said, managing to keep his voice even only by remembering how much he’d loved - hated! The verb was hated! - the feel of Malfoy’s chest, knocking against Harry’s shoulder. It was a great distraction. ‘Here’s a tip, if you like your nose the way it is. Leave me alone.’

‘Physical violence, eh?’ Malfoy’s voice sounded smug and he was definitely encroaching on Harry’s personal space now. Any closer and his chin would practically be resting on the top of Harry’s head. Or, at least, the top of Harry’s hair, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

‘You’re not much of a wizard, are you, Potty?’ The tone was sing-song. Harry hated it with every fibre of his being, so much so that his robes were fast becoming too tight to hold in his skin. ‘Always resorting to filthy Mudblood tactics…that’s the only way you win…’

‘That’s it,’ Harry said. He shoved his chair back into Malfoy’s stomach and with an slow-burn brutality, gripped him by the neck of his robes and pushed him against the wall.

He didn’t even realise how many times he’d punched him until he saw Malfoy licking blood from his split lip.

His eyes weren’t bright. They weren’t adoring. They were narrowed and filled with spite and hate and lust -


That blooper reel stopped every time, as soon as Harry thought that word. Lust lust lust lust lust. Did Ginny know lust? Of course she did, he felt it radiating off her when they went to restaurants cafés clubs pubs theatres and she saw men. Men who were virile and lusted for their wives as much as they respected and loved them.

In the end, the respect ambivalence had palled even for Ginny.

Another sip of cooling coffee. Another memory from the chill snap of winter.

People often revelled in the first snows, even though they’d be complaining of the slush and the damp socks and the incessant head-colds within days of it. There was only one day of first snow, and months upon months of second, third, fourth and slush snows. It probably said something about life. Harry didn’t know what, though.

Making snowballs meant that water seeped through your gloves and froze your hands into small ice-blocks, suitable for parties, but that was no reason not to do it. The Hufflepuffs were building a fort, the Ravenclaws were creating delicate and stunning ice-sculptures, the Gyffindors were dashing about at cross-purposes throwing snowballs at any available back and the Slytherins were sabotaging as many of these activities that they possibly could.

Ginny had gone upstairs, or not come down yet, one or the other. Harry would have missed Seamus more than her, because Seamus had excellent aim, mainly due to his well-defined arm muscles. Those muscles had beat Harry hands-down more than once at arm-wrestling and there was nothing at all wrong in studying the competition. One day Harry was going to beat him, but it required forward planning.

He never paid much attention to Ginny’s arms, but why would he? They didn’t wrestle, except when Harry was tired and Ginny wasn’t and the line between Harry forcing Ginny and Ginny forcing Harry became exceedingly blurred.

Harry discovered pretty early on in the battle that, to conserve energy and to concentrate on multiple targets, it was much better if you were stationary and not a target yourself. The stationary part was easy enough if you sheltered behind a tree. However, with Malfoy on the grounds, there was absolutely no escape from being a target.


The one word was enough to start melting the ice in Harry’s hands, not to mention all the snow within a two-foot radius of him. Harry turned around. Sneering face, eyes burning a hole through Harry’s robes and Harry’s skin and Harry’s head, yep, it was Malfoy all right. Harry thought for a moment, then smushed his handful of snow into his mouth.

‘Ack, yuck,’ Malfoy spat when he’d scraped the stuff from his face. ‘What’d you do that for?’

‘Felt like it,’ Harry said, shrugging. Malfoy scowled, which made Harry laugh, as it always did after he’d discovered such a course of action irritated Malfoy beyond belief.

‘You’ll get yours,’ Malfoy said, in the satisfied tones of one who knew. Harry was highly doubtful of Malfoy’s precognitive skills, but his mouth, cold against Harry’s and his tongue, icy against Harry’s, and his body, searing hot against Harry’s, drove lingering doubts of any sort right out of his head.

It was Crabbe that time, bellowing for his master. Malfoy had shoved Harry away as easily as Harry shoved him away when it was Ron calling. It was only mischance, or something along those lines, that Ginny turned up at that point, glowing from the cold and with her hair specially and carefully curled.

Harry didn’t see Malfoy again all afternoon. When he went to ‘study’ in the ‘library’ he wasn’t there either, so Harry returned to the common room glum and, when Ginny pushed, he went.

Afterwards, during, Harry felt pain, more pain than Ginny, who he supposed was a virgin. He didn’t know very much about these things. When she asked him if he was too, he said no automatically. It didn’t faze her. It seemed to be acceptable, as long as it was in the past. There was no question but that it had been with a girl.

And the next time he kissed Malfoy he tasted of tin and the next time he undressed his tattoo was fresh.

What had happened after that? For once Harry was trying, not refusing, to wonder, but it was still a smudgy time in his mind. Ron’s face all twisted up in shock. Ginny crying (again). Hermione’s soothing hand on his forehead, ‘Drink this, it’ll make you feel better. It’s for the best, Harry. Shh, now.’

The blooper reel came around to a far more distant and less temperamental memory.

But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard.

Harry was a powerful wizard.

He squeezed his eyes shut and, when he opened them again, it was to a blaze of red, fiery sunrise. ‘Shepherd’s warning,’ he recalled and winced, stumbling away from the sight.

More time had passed than he realised, because the sound of Ginny’s morning ablutions was petering out from behind the bathroom door. Harry began to get dressed. He hadn’t got practice today, Thursday, but he always did the grocery shopping on Thursdays. Ginny had asked him to, ‘unless it was too much trouble’, which of course it wasn’t.

He looked up at her, still feeling slightly embarrassed after all these years at her towelled-dry nakedness. The words formed themselves in his mouth without accessing his brain.

‘Would you ever leave me, Ginny?’

I’m never going to let you go, Potter. Even when I’m dead I’ll haunt your sorry arse.’

‘Haha. I didn’t ask.’

‘I know.’

Ginny’s eyes were troubled, no longer lit up from the inside at the sight of him. Once, Harry had wished for that.

‘Of course, I wouldn’t, silly,’ she said, pecking him on the cheek before going to fetch her makeup bag.

Of course she wouldn’t. What would that look like, if she abandoned the great Boy Who Lived, the Saviour of Wizardkind in favour of that tall dark Auror with the wicked smile that she always looks for at staff parties?

She was trapped just as well as he.


The next line of the song goes: God damned and can only wait…

I'm so insane I think I'm starting to rival cocktail sausages.

Current Mood: sadsad
Current Music: 'Wonderwall', Oasis
gabbysun on March 9th, 2005 03:14 pm (UTC)
You broke me.

That was lovely.
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Hr/Rscoradh on March 9th, 2005 03:23 pm (UTC)
*sticks tongue out of side of mouth in patented Village Idiot expression*

Did I fool ya, though, did I did I? xD

I solemnly swear not to post too many of these 'exercises', though. Possibly they just need to go on a diet.
(no subject) - gabbysun on March 9th, 2005 03:46 pm (UTC) (Expand)
kabeyk on March 9th, 2005 04:20 pm (UTC)
I do believe the song is by Ash and is probably called 'Starcrossed', I'm not sure, but the words are familiar. Oh Ash, what happened to you? (wistful sigh)

I really loved the fic. I admit it read it purely because you wrote me such a nice review, as I normally avoid H/G (I figure that people may as well leave that one to JKR), but I loved it, and not just because it so clearly wasn't H/G either.

I loved Canon!Draco (you don't get much of that in H/D!), I loved your perfect description of leather sofas, I love your style of writing in general, and I loved the way the fic was structured too. And it was dark in such a lovely way too.

Strangely wonderful, and I really enjoyed reading it.

Also, exactly how insane are cocktail sausages?

every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Harry/Draco greenscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:40 pm (UTC)
Yes, I was thinking it was either him or Richard Ashcroft. xD

*is mortified* Please, please don't feel obligated to read my stuff. I friended you because I wanted to read YOUR stuff. I seriously hate putting people under pressure to read mine, though!

As for cocktail sausages, they are insane in their utter pointlessness and evil colour!

(no subject) - kabeyk on March 12th, 2005 03:57 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on March 12th, 2005 04:22 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - kabeyk on March 12th, 2005 05:31 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on March 13th, 2005 11:28 am (UTC) (Expand)
amazing vaguely humanoid armadillopersoncryptid on March 9th, 2005 06:16 pm (UTC)
(This is about the first part of the post. I'll write something about the fic in another comment, 'cause it seems weird to jump from one thing to the other.)

Lord Hong = PS!Daniel Radcliffe?!

... You lost me there, I'm afraid. How!? O_o

Oh, surely there's more to Australian film-culture than that? Like, say... *thinks* *thinks some more* ... uuh... Prisoner? Except that that's not really film, is it... um... *thinks harder. faint sizzling noises can be heard* ... Oh, I know! Crocodile Dundee! :D

... on the other hand, I think the list looked better without that addition. Mad Max and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert are both good movies, after all. (MM II: The Road Warrior at least, I'm not sure if I've seen the first one.) Not that I didn't enjoy Crocodile Dundee muchly when I was younger, though.

Wait, there's some Aussie fellow named Yahoo Serious, right? Not that I know anything about him, but that name... ye gods. O_o

But hey. At least Australia's contribution to international movie canon is more uplifting than a bunch of pornos and the occasional existential drama full of t3h m4d 1337 AAAANGST kthx. Thanks a lot, Ingemar Bergman. XP

Rincewind invented Vegemite? Escaped my notice... but then I'm not very clear on what it is, exactly. Just that it's supposed to make you grow tall and strong, or whatever.

Buying bread from a man in Bruxelles
he was six foot tall and full of muscle
I said 'Do you speak-a my language?'
and he just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich...

... Now I'll never get that song out of my head again. It's terminally catchy. :P
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:44 pm (UTC)
I meant I got the exact mental image of Dan when reading the description of Hong. xD

Actually, wasn't Tank Girl an Aussie, too? I quite liked that film. And The Dish, which was exceedingly boring.

Vegemite is like a flavoured spread? You stick it on bread. Tastes a good bit like solidified beer covered in salt, but you grow to love it, trust me!
Liz_eliza_b on March 9th, 2005 07:16 pm (UTC)
I was concerned for you (writing what looked like a het story) until there was the part with Malfoy. Whew.

It's so dark and angsty! *revels in it*. Love all the flashbacks. Also how you describe Harry ending up with Ginny without even meaning to. Really nice.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:54 pm (UTC)
Thank you, m'dear! I'm glad you liked it.
Caitcoralia13 on March 9th, 2005 08:19 pm (UTC)
Oh. My. God. That was SOOOOOO good. Like, really, really, really ridiculously good. Like, my contacts are all dry and itchy now because I didn't blink for fifteen minutes while I read. Like, my toes are numb because all the blood has deserted them for squeeing nodes in my brain. THAT WAS SO GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have questions, but I will read it again before I ask them to make sure I'm not just being dumb. For now, I just have to take another moment to marvel. Damn.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:55 pm (UTC)
*blinks* I actually thought you'd detest it, because it really wasn't H/G at all...or only half, anyway.

There's no such thing as a dumb question. xD
(no subject) - coralia13 on March 12th, 2005 08:22 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on March 13th, 2005 11:02 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - coralia13 on March 14th, 2005 09:34 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on March 14th, 2005 10:10 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - coralia13 on March 14th, 2005 10:35 am (UTC) (Expand)
Minnow: marriage iconminnow_53 on March 10th, 2005 01:01 am (UTC)
I started off saying, eurgh, Harry/Ginny, but I'll read it because scoradh is always so good and entertaining, even when she's writing chicken slash. Especially when she's writing chicken slash! Don't like H/D either, but hey, what the hell.

Bloody brilliant. Really, really. Well, well, well done.

every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:57 pm (UTC)
*smirks* I know your kink, now, honey.
(no subject) - minnow_53 on March 13th, 2005 01:29 am (UTC) (Expand)
amazing vaguely humanoid armadillopersoncryptid on March 10th, 2005 05:29 am (UTC)
H/G, huh. Yeah, right. I should have known better than to believe in that, shouldn't I? :P

Well, ignoring the inherent impossibility of H/D, it's quite exquisitely written. Bleak, but very good. As for the story, well, I'm typically not very fond of when characters just sit around feeling sorry for themselves and don't do anything about the situation, nor when they are too stuck on a past trauma to move on, but it works here, methinks. I can see the situation come to pass, and how it'd take a lot -- too much? -- to break away from it. If what I think you're implying happened, that'd be the kind of thing you don't get over in a hurry.
If it was a longer story, something would have to happen to break the status quo, of course, but that's not really the point of this fic now is it? Even if it would be an interesting premise for a longer fic; seeing them work the situation out and I ramble now. Sorry. I'll shut up soon enough. :P

The hints of Draco's fate and other stuff ('Harry was a powerful wizard.') was much more effective than if you'd stated things explicitly. Good story-telling technique.

Didn't see purple. There is quite a lot of middle ground between hardboiled and ultra-violet, and you never crossed the line or even went very near it as far as I could see.

The verdict: you shall have cookies.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 03:01 pm (UTC)

If it was a longer story, something would have to happen to break the status quo, of course, but that's not really the point of this fic now is it?

To be honest, no. It was more an attempt to be as sad as possible on the part of the characters. Draco is dead, Harry loved him and he married Ginny because why not? You know? I couldn't imagine trying to make this a bigger fic! Anyway, thank you for reading, even in spite of the H/D! *loves*
Lord Marmaduke Newbrycatsmeat on March 11th, 2005 04:29 am (UTC)
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:29 pm (UTC)
It was only 'shit', actually.

Well, how appropriate!
(no subject) - catsmeat on March 13th, 2005 11:23 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on March 13th, 2005 11:50 am (UTC) (Expand)
Caitcoralia13 on March 11th, 2005 08:09 am (UTC)
I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiss yoooooooooooooou!!!
Ummm.... Maya just bitch-slapped me in her LJ... Where are you, my online emotional support?
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on March 12th, 2005 02:36 pm (UTC)
Re: I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiss yoooooooooooooou!!!
Good lord, darling, what did you say? Don't tell me you bit the slash?

I'm here. I came back for you, otherwise I wouldn't have till next week. But I'm here. Tell Mummy! xD
Re: I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiss yoooooooooooooou!!! - coralia13 on March 12th, 2005 08:16 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiss yoooooooooooooou!!! - scoradh on March 14th, 2005 08:22 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: I miiiiiiiiiiiiiiss yoooooooooooooou!!! - coralia13 on March 14th, 2005 09:59 am (UTC) (Expand)
passionate trousers: percyprefect grrliz_iconsgalindaupland on March 12th, 2005 06:01 pm (UTC)
I'm way too sensative. You write the sad!angst!more sad fics very well! :)

Harry/Draco is still my other OTP though, can't stand when they aren't like "I hate you" I hate you more"..."but we're still fucking right?"
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Jesus the Puffscoradh on March 13th, 2005 11:10 am (UTC)
Thanks, darling!

Actually, I think that's the time when they are most true to themselves. Hatesex and all that. I mean, it's hardly going to be hearts and flowers with those two, is it? xD

Love the icon, dude.
leialiai on March 13th, 2005 03:28 am (UTC)
*sniffs* Oh that was lovely. You made it easy to feel sorry for Harry. The memory charm was so horrible... lovely. He he.
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Harry/Draco greenscoradh on March 13th, 2005 11:31 am (UTC)
Why, thank you! *blushes* But in general, is Harry difficult to feel sorry for? I wouldn't have thought so.

Ooh, matching icons!