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31 October 2004 @ 11:09 pm
When you wake up, you'd better still be asleep  

Ah, self-imposed exile. You gotta love it. And kill peppers. Yes, they are evil, particularly because after drawing them from every conceivable angle, in every possible way, angle, shape and composition, they start to smell REALLY BAD.

Still, I have a portfolio now, and this, apparently, is what counts.

Now for fics.

I have several.

This is one. One part of one. Multi-ship, AU, tries to be humourous and of some use in the world...read the first paragraph and if you don't get it after that tell me. Slash and het, PG-13. And I had a much better summary, but the damn thing wouldn't post.

Cut up into bite-sized chunks. Lj don't like it big, man.


The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.

At five to nine on one cold January morning the students of Oakfield Comprehensive School began to converge on the school gates. Predictably there was a huge scuffle, much pushing and shoving, and as a background hum the screeching of damp bicycle brakes as their riders desperately attempted to avoid running someone over. Being pulled for dangerous bicycling is not the best way to start your day, especially a school day, which is only ever going to get worse.

The students of Class 6A detached themselves and wandered in a most relaxed manner to their form room as the bell began to ring. Their starchy Scottish form teacher, Miss McGonagall, stood in the doorway, impatiently beckoning them on.

‘Hurry up there, Potter, Weasley – and Potter, how many times have I told you, trainers are not part of the school uniform! Don’t come in wearing them tomorrow.’

Potter, a scrawny young man with close cut gelled hair that contained several bleached highlights, wearing battered specs, a baggy uniform and scruffy trainers, muttered, under his breath, ‘Then I won’t come in!’

‘I heard that, young Potter,’ Miss McGonagall said, scowling fiercely at him and his best pal Ron Weasley, who was wearing his tie around his head and had his jumper slung about his waist. Only one of his shirt buttons was done up, revealing a Grateful Dead t-shirt underneath. His too-short trousers revealed two different socks, one red and one purple. Trinny and Susanna would have had a field day.

‘Hurry up there, Black!’ Miss McGonagall called abruptly. Much to her chagrin, she spent most of her teaching career marshalling people into class, and far less doing any actual teaching, which suited her students, at least, just fine.

A tall, lean blonde boy was sauntering down the corridor, flanked by his two shaven-headed, thug like mates, Greg and Vinnie – the terror of the school. The attention of sundry females was firmly fixed on Black, as nature and he himself intended it to be. One of his pale blonde eyebrows was shot though with a steel bar in the shape of a dragon, and as he stuck his tongue out at the girls he revealed a partner stud piercing that. Like Ron, he wore only his shirt, rolled up to the elbow and gaping at the neck to reveal nothing but pale, bare skin underneath. His jumper was hooked over one shoulder and his trousers – non-regulation stonewashed jeans – were slung low on his hips, bagging over his Timberland boots, and encircled by a thick leather belt. Sadly, the Village People analogy would have entirely passed him by.

Miss McGonagall sighed in despair. ‘There’s no point even saying anything to you, Black,’ she said. ‘Take a detention for flouting uniform regulations and get into class.’

‘Whatever.’ Black shrugged, showing the utmost indifference to the punishment he received almost every day. In his opinion, it was a small price to pay for wearing whatever the hell he wanted.

As Black strolled through the door, an out-of-breath girl dashed up, curly hair flying, her arms hugging about half-a-dozen books.

‘I’m so sorry, Miss!’ she gasped. Black turned around to watch the spectacle with a mildly amused expression. ‘Mum’s car wouldn’t start this morning and I had to walk, then my locker got stuck again – ‘

‘It’s quite alright, Miss Granger,’ Miss McGonagall said fondly. ‘Just go take your seat.’

The girl edged into the room past Black, who made no attempt to move out of her way. She made the utmost effort not to touch any part of him, being about the only female in the school (aside from McGonagall) who treated him as though he had contracted leprosy rather than as a walking Viagra factory, and eventually got inside.

‘Move, Black!’ Miss McGonagall barked.

She took her seat at the battered teacher’s desk that stood at the head of the small, grubby, grey-walled classroom, whose grimy windows overlooked a windswept, desolate concrete yard. It was very inspiring sight, in the ‘oh looky a little flower outside my prison cell window’ genre. Unfortunately for any budding poets, most teachers at Oakfield Comprehensive were too busy trying to instil basic grammar skills into the lower primates who filled its ranks to pay any attention to potential genius, and one or two flowers blushed unseen and wasted their sweetness on the Tuesday-curry-scented air.

‘Black, why aren’t you sitting down?’ Miss McGonagall burst out, having just noticed Black lounging against the wall, one foot propped against it, hands in pockets, staring out of the window with what appeared to be avid interest. He turned slowly at her voice, looked at her for a few seconds, then said in a clearly enunciated voice, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, take a seat!’ Miss McGonagall was nearly apoplectic with rage.

Where?’ asked Black in disdain. Miss McGonagall noticed that all the back seats were gone. In a barely controlled voice, she pointed at the one free chair – next to Hermione, at the front of the class – and said, ‘Here.’

Black gave her a disbelieving look, but, noticing the whiteness of her lips, and not wanting, after all to be expelled, he sighed and meandered between the maze of desks to the front. As he made his way forward, Miss McGonagall noticed Hermione flushing in embarrassment and slowly clearing a space, attempting, with difficulty, to stack all her books in one pile. Black slammed his one book – a tattered, dog-eared one it was too – on the desk and slammed himself down after it. He then took to chewing the end of his biro, all the while affecting the same complete interest in the view outside of the window. Hermione edged herself and her books away from him, then leaned down so close to her novel that her forehead was almost touching its pages.

‘Roll call!’ said Miss McGonagall, eyeing her class beadily through her small square glasses. She smoothed out her tartan kilt skirt, brushed a few non-existent specks from her white Arran jumper, self-consciously hitched up her wrinkled black tights and commenced.

‘Well, Black, you’re clearly in. Wonderful. Millicent Bulstode?’

‘Millie’s not in, Miss,’ volunteered her best friend, Pansy, who was chewing gum with loud smacking sounds. She was wearing a skirt so short it could have doubled as a belt and a too-tight shirt, its buttonholes straining at the seams. ‘She’s – uh – sick. Ya know, de painters are in.’

‘Remove that from your mouth, Miss Parkinson,’ said Miss McGonagall automatically, too long in the tooth at this stage to actually expect Pansy to obey her. ‘Alright.’ She marked Millicent Absent. ‘Remind Miss Bulstode to bring a note tomorrow. Terry Boot?’

‘That’s me!’ said a freckled boy with long, floppy chestnut hair in altogether too cheery a voice for that time of a cold, dull Monday morning. He turned to wink lasciviously and grin with sparkling white teeth at the girls behind him, who fluttered eyelashes and fringes back.

Miss McGonagall rolled her eyes. ‘Lavender Brown?’

‘Here, Miss,’ said a giggly brunette with growing out highlights. Her skirt, though not as indecent as Pansy’s, was still an inconsiderable length, as were the skirts of the two other girls squeezed at a table for two. All wore their jumpers in deference to the bitterly cold weather, but their legs were completely exposed, their knee socks rolled down to the last degree. The other two girls, who were identical twins, had long shiny hair, which they were constantly flicking over the desk of the boys behind them. They were all heavily caked with eyeliner, sparkly eyeshadow and sticky lipgloss, presenting the world with the overall image of an exploded working diagram of a cosmetics factory.

Miss McGonagall rolled her eyes. ‘Vincent Crabbe.’ Vinnie made a grunting noise, which she took for a declaration of his presence in the room.

‘Seamus Finnigan?’

A gangly boy in the back row said ‘Yah’ in a languid Irish bogger accent. His jumper was pinned with dozens of Irish flag badges of the type sold to gullible tourists. His tie was bound directly around his neck, bypassing his collar entirely, which had been coloured green with a highlighter and inked with the letters IRA at intervals.

‘Gregory Goyle?’ Another incomprehensible grunt.

‘Hermione Granger?’

The curly haired girl, seated alone in the front desk, looked up vaguely from the open books spread around her. She appeared to have been interrupted in train of reading ‘Great Expectations.’

‘Oh, present,’ she said, so Miss McGonagall could just hear her, and bent her head back over her book.

‘Neville Longbottom?’

A podgy boy with a food-stained jumper and white socks spoke in a trembling voice. ‘I’m here.’

‘Padma and Parvati Patil?’

‘Here!’ the twins chorused, tossing their hair in unison. Pam and Par, as they liked to be known, then turned to Seamus, who was behind them, and winked. Pam blew a huge pink bubble. Seamus made a horrified face and tipped his chair back. He then clasped his hands behind his head and grinned at Dean, two desks down, who ignored him.

‘Pansy, you’re here,’ Miss McGonagall muttered. ‘Harry Potter.’

She looked down at him when he didn’t reply. Harry had his eyes closed and was leaning back in his chair, nodding his head slightly. Miss McGonagall stormed down between the row of desks, incensed. Her anger only increased when she detected the tinny sound of Lost Prophets wafting from the tiny earpieces wedged in Harry’s ears. Spotting the teacher descending like a bat out of hell, Ron opened his eyes properly for the first time that morning, took stock, and rammed his elbow into Harry’s side. Harry’s eyes jerked open just as Miss McGonagall snapped the headphones out of his ears.

‘Listening to music in class!’ she cried, breathing hard. ‘Take a detention, Mister Potter, and if I see that blasted contraption within five yards of your person again I will personally take it and clobber you to death with it!’

‘Not bad, Miss,’ Black drawled approvingly. Hermione gave him a admonitory – albeit extremely rapid – look from under her bushy fringe. Dean held up a scrap of paper on which he had artistically delineated a rather curly eight.

‘Humph!’ Miss McGonagall snorted through her beaky nose. ‘Back to the roll call, then, if you please! Dean Thomas!’

Dean held up another piece of paper on which he had sketched ‘Here’ in bubble letters. Seamus gave him a friendly nod. Dean pointedly shifted in his seat so that he was facing away from Seamus, who folded his arms in a huff.

‘Blaise Zabini?’

A girl with very long dyed black hair (for which there is no equivalent in nature), black eyeliner, black lipstick, black (not to break a winning formula) fingernails and a fake-pale complexion indolently raised one hand, tugging down her skirt with the other. Terry gave her a come hither look and she gave him the finger. He shrugged and went on attempting to find his reflection in the zip of his pencilcase.

‘Well that concludes that, at last,’ Miss McGonagall said. ‘Now, if you could all open your copies of – uh – the Scottish play – today we’re going to be studying the theme of Kingship in its different forms.’

‘Notice the way she can’t say Macbeth?’ Black sniggered, ostensibly to Hermione, because there was no one else in the vicinity.

‘Some people think it’s bad luck,’ Hermione replied pointedly.

‘I thought that was only actors?’

‘Bad luck can happen to anyone.’

‘Only if you believe in it.’ Black stretched his arms lazily behind his head.

‘Aren’t you fortunate, to be able to think like that,’ Hermione said waspishly.

‘Jeez, no need to be so defensive,’ Black said in surprise, opening his eyes wide. Hermione coughed angrily and started maniacally rearranging her books; anything not to have to look in a direction that contained Black.

‘Black!’ Miss McGonagall’s voice lit on Black with altogether too much malicious pleasure. ‘Try and see if you can name me all the kings in the play and the type of kingship they represent.’ It was the kind of question she usually reserved for Hermione, or Neville if she was feeling particularly patient.

‘Duncan represents the wise and beloved king who’s a bit too gullible for the job. Macbeth typifies the evil tyrant as he gains kingship through the forces of darkness. Edward is a sainted king and Malcolm at the end shows signs of being both a good and wise ruler, unlike his father,’ Draco shot off, barely pausing for breath.

Miss McGonagall merely raised her eyebrows. ‘If only you used that intellect more often, Black, you’d make a class A student,’ she said, so that only he and Hermione could hear.

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Black said dismissively. ‘I’ve got better things to do with my time.’

Miss McGonagall only shook her head sadly and moved on to try and coax a relevant answer out of Lavender. She had seen too much wasted potential in Oakfield to get het up over what was, after all, just another bright loser. Hermione, however, had no such experience, and when Miss McGonagall’s back was turned, rounded on Black.

‘Why don’t you try a bit harder?’ she accused him in a hiss. ‘What more important things have you got to do than earn yourself a better future?’

Black simply regarded her impassively with his blank silver orbs. ‘What future did you think I currently had, that a couple of years in Oxford, like you want, would improve on it?’

Hermione shrugged, her lip curling. ‘Unemployed. Checkout chick – only you’d be a guy. Drug pusher. Hell, if you were a girl I’d say pregnancy and living off social welfare. That’s what people do around here.’

‘I thought we were talking about my future here, not my post-secondary school employment.’

‘Same thing!’

‘Not at all,’ Black said with infuriating calmness. ‘I’m an only child, and the ‘rents have stacks of money. I’d never have to get a job if I didn’t want one.’

‘If your parents are so loaded, what are you doing here?’ Hermione said disbelievingly. ‘Why aren’t you at Winchester or something if you can afford it?’

‘Ah, there you have it,’ Black said, grinning. ‘I never said that the money was technically legal or anything.’

Hermione stared at him with round eyes, then, compressing her lips into a thin line, a la McGonagall, proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the class.

She stayed behind after class to check her latest essay with Miss McGonagall, so that everyone had gone by the time she had left to go to Chemistry.

Her tardiness was not noticed, as the class was in its usual state of disarray. Most of the sixth form girls had taken Chemistry, not out of any love for the subject, but rather lust of the teacher’s arse. Mr Snape, by Hermione’s calculations, had to be at least thirty-something, but he didn’t act it, with his Adrian Brody-esque floppy black locks and tight leather trousers. She could not, for the life of her, see what the girls liked about him, but she was ineffably polite to him always. He was, after all, a teacher.

She made her way to her usual seat at the front, not even bothering to apologise for her lateness, as Snape was draped over Lavender and Blaise’s desk, ‘correcting homework’. Even the habitually taciturn Blaise was moved to a rare half smile in his presence, although she still didn’t condescend to say a word. Hermione shook her head in astonishment, as always, and went to put her books on her desk –

Only to find that their space was already occupied. Hermione stared at the foreign books for several seconds, trying to guess their origin, before turning her eyes to her stool, which was being insouciantly lounged upon by Black, radiating an air of sullen cool.

‘Black, why are you here and what are you doing in my seat?’ Hermione said, with a valiant stab at politeness.

‘I need a new lab partner,’ he muttered, flicking repetitively at the battered wood of the desktop. ‘Greg transferred to Maths because he fancies Miss Vector, so I was left alone.’

‘Excuse me if I’m not weeping buckets at your predicament,’ Hermione said sarcastically. ‘But I’ve managed to get along just fine on my own for the past two years, and you can bloody well do the same!’

‘Do sit down, Hermione, so that we can start,’ Snape murmured, finally deigning to stop flirting with Lavender and the Patil twins in time to start the class. ‘I’m sure you’ll find Black doesn’t bite. Much.’

Scowling furiously, Hermione plonked herself down on the stool next to the blonde-haired first-class pillock, biting the side of her cheek to stop herself punching him. She made a mental effort to reign in her passionate anger. He’s not worth it, she reminded herself. In fact, she hadn’t even noticed that he was even in the class until now, when he just had to go and annihilate her personal space.

At Snape’s command, she began setting out the equipment for an EDTA test on hard water. To her dual gratification, Black managed to stay out of her way, and more importantly for her state of mind, stay silent.

They worked in silence for the next hour, Hermione even refraining from comment when Black blatantly copied her write-up of the experiment.

As per usual, one of the tables had ‘accidentally’ spilled a container of Erichchrome Black T all over their table, and Mr Snape was most solicitous in offering his aid. Hermione stared into space, unable to even summon up the will to make a start on her homework while Black was beside her, flicking at the table again.

‘Stop!’ she growled at last.

‘Stop what?’ Black seemed genuinely affronted, as if he didn’t realise what he had been doing. Hermione didn’t reply, only snatched up her books as the bell signalled welcome release.


Draco looked up from the boring-as-hell literary passage he had been given to transcribe as detention work and was instead doodling on. To his left, Harry Potter was scribbling away furiously, but from what Draco could see it wasn’t an essay on cultural context in Silas Marner – rather, something more along the lines of Slipknot lyrics. Draco couldn’t see why he was bothering to squander the paper – the teachers never actually read what was written in detention. He’d even tested it once, by transliterating a well-thought out, steamy piece of erotica in which Mr Snape, Miss McGonagall, Mrs Sprout the biology teacher and a good deal of whipped cream had featured prominently. He had even felt slightly insulted that he’d got no reaction from them – Greg, whose only reading material consisted of tomes from the Black Lace line, had assured him it was worthy of publication. Anyway, the point was that if Potter was trying to shock the teachers with a few obscene lyrics, he was wasting his time.

Draco stared out the window, trying to find shapes in the clouds, a pastime that occupied him during most of his classes. The sprinkling of his classmates around the windswept concrete yard caught his attention. There was Weasley, with a few of his drongo mates, staggering dizzily around in the shelter of the wheely bins, clearly smoking something illegal that made them go ‘wow’ a lot.

Terry Boot, Seamus and Dean were playing football. Correction – Terry was flexing his muscles at the gaggle of girls, who were giggling gamely despite their blue knees, Seamus had removed his shirt in an effort to show something off (quite what, Draco couldn’t ascertain), and Dean, with a look of desperate determination, was kicking the ball at a nearby wall.

Hermione was sitting on a bench, reading a book. Draco nearly scowled at her, then reminded himself that this was a futile act, as there was no one there to see. Potter didn’t count – he didn’t pay any attention to anyone except Weasley and possibly those voices inside his head.

As he watched, Greg and Vinnie began throwing things at Hermione – coins and fag butts, by the look of it. Hermione didn’t respond beyond picking the things out of her hair. Draco frowned. He’d have to have a word with them about that. If anyone was going to be tormenting the Granger swot, he should be the one that was doing it.

At long last, McGonagall returned and let them out for lunch. Potter immediately inserted his headphones into his ears and headed off down the corridor with a set look on his face. Draco ambled after, wondering if the delights of chicken in the canteen for the third week in a row were enough to get over the bother of eating at all. He idly crumpled up the sketch of Harry he’d drawn and dropped it in the bin. Deciding to opt for the easy way out, he stopped by the vending machine and inserted some silver.

As a Mars Bar was slotted through the hatch, a disapproving voice said, ‘You’ll ruin your teeth. And chocolate for lunch? That’s very unhealthy.’

‘Why Granger, I didn’t know you cared,’ Draco replied, ripping off the foil with his teeth without turning around.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you die slowly of vitamin deprivation.’

‘I thought you were outside,’ he said, turning around to look at her. Her cheeks were stained red from the cold.

She gave him an odd look. ‘I was, but your precious mates decided to start throwing things at me again.’

‘Do they stop when you move away?’ Draco asked curiously.

‘I’m not worth the bother of following, Black.’ She laughed hollowly.

‘Besides, I brush my teeth twice a day,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘What?’ Hermione looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Or rather, considering her opinion of him, as if he were finally deigning to demonstrate to the world what she had long considered to be an inalienable fact.

‘See? Heffy sink song.’

‘Yeah, but having a tongue piercing knocks the enamel off your teeth.’

‘Why, Granger, you’re no fun,’ Draco complained. ‘Can’t I do something a little bit wrong?’

‘Far be it from me to stop you,’ said Hermione, with a closed expression.

‘What class do we have now, out of interest? So I’ll see if I’ll bother turning up.’

‘Did you say that just to infuriate me?’

‘Maybe. Come on, Granger, have you ever known me to miss a class?’

‘How should I know? What do I look like, your Filofax? You’re always on detention, I know that much.’

‘Not for missing class, though.’

‘PE. We have PE.’

‘Thank you. That was all I wanted.’


Half an hour later, 6A were assembled in the freezing basketball court that doubled as a football pitch and unihoc court and tennis court and lacrosse pitch, as well as, occasionally, disguising itself as a hash den. (It lead a fully and varied life and in the line-up of sports arenas, was the token schizophrenic.) Oakfield Comprehensive’s obligatory gym class outfit of navy tracksuit pants, a white polo shirt with the school crest and a navy jumper was of course hardly evident – Hermione was the only one who was shivering in it in its entirety.

Harry was huddled against the sagging, torn goals, dressed in a huge black hoodie which displayed a pictorial rendition of Metallica on the back, dusty black cords and hiking boots. Standing, but swaying slightly, at his side, Ron appeared to take no note of the cold, from the fact that all he was wearing was tracksuit pants and the school polo shirt. However, the shirt was tie-dyed in rainbow colours and ‘Sex Kills Die Happy’ had been scrawled across the front in permanent marker. He still retained his school tie, knotted around his head.

The other girls in the class had chosen the option of wearing gym skirts which were larger than their usual school ones only in the volume of material they contained as opposed to actual length. They all sported labelled designer zipped hoodies – each a various shade of pink. Blaise remained the exception, for her top half was swathed in a black lace poncho. She was flicking at her nails while the others chattered like a flock of starlings in DKNY.

Terry barely covered his decency in black football shorts that clearly showed where the name had come from and a tight white Calvin-Klein-modelesque t-shirt. He was jogging on the spot, gamely trying to keep the circulation going in his legs, all the while shooting Pearl Drop smiles at the female component. Dean was more sensibly, if still rule-breakingly, attired in a West Ham jersey and black Adidas tracksuit pants. He was determinedly not looking at Seamus – in a Sinfest t-shirt and baggy jeans – who was bouncing a ball off his head in a vain attempt to get attention.

Greg and Vinnie looked as if they were bouncers from a grotty nightclub who had wandered in by mistake – all black leather and inexplicable wrap-around shades. (The last reported sighting of the sun in the area had been June 14, 1978.) Beside them, Black lounged with panther-like grace, carrying off a faded All-Blacks jersey and white tracksuit pants that on anyone else would have looked ludicrously camp. Neville was excused from PE due to raging asthma.

Hermione wrapped herself in the arms of her voluminous jumper, trying to squash herself into as small a space as possible in order to enclose maximum heat.

Black flicked a coin at her. Her reflexes, tuned from years of putting up with similar every day, snatched it out of the air before it had even begun its downward cycle. She sent him a venomous glare.

‘Buy a clue, Granger,’ he called over lazily. ‘No one wears the proper uniform to this class anymore.’

‘Bugger off,’ she retorted, doubly annoyed that she couldn’t think of a wittier put-down. But it was always the case – Black irritated her so much he managed to shut down a lot of her thinking cells, allowing something far more primal – and primitive – to surface, hence the uncharacteristic cursing.

‘Oh, Hermione, you’re so lucky,’ Parvati sighed. ‘I wish Black paid as much attention to me as he does to you.’

‘But he’s a twit!’ Hermione said in amazement, completely forgetting to add, ‘Please, you can have him! Just take him away before I poke his eye out with a biro lid and get done for murder although with strong provocation.’

‘Oh, it must be love!’ Lavender said rapturously, and she and the twins went off into a storm of giggles. Hermione snorted incredulously, and was rewarded with a killer wink from Blaise. Hermione dared to venture a small grin in her direction.

‘All righ’ class, line up!’ came the booming tones of the PE teacher, Mr Hagrid. He was dressed in size XXXXXXL trousers and polo shirt, on which sweat stains were already forming, despite the icy coldness of the air.

Notwithstanding his intimidating size and foghorn voice, Hagrid could exercise as little control over the class as any other teacher. Within minutes, Harry and Ron were seated in the lee of the goals, with a headphone each. Dean was ramming Seamus’ head repeatedly into the wire boundary, while Seamus shrieked, ‘I wasn’t really looking at your arse, I swear!’ Terry was showing the girls warm up stretches, amidst the inevitable giggling, and Greg and Vinnie had wandered over to watch and try and spot any knicker-flashing. At last, only Hermione and Black were left, the former clutching a tennis racket, the latter unmoved from his original position, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

‘Well – ‘ Hagrid gestured helplessly. ‘Yous just – get set up there, and I’ll be back in a mo....’

As the teacher’s table-like back retreated in the direction of the equipment shed, Black deigned to sidle within Hermione’s earshot.

‘Off to take a coupla nips of the finest Irish breweries can offer, I’d wager,’ he laughed.

Hermione didn’t reply, only frowned, and started to hit a tennis ball against the wall with her racket.

After watching her for a few moments with the detached interest of a scientist observing a very odd specimen under his lens, he denied Hermione her unspoken wish and began to talk.

‘Why are you bothering to do that?’ he asked. ‘It’s not like you have anyone to play with, or you actually enjoy tennis.’

‘It’s a physical education class, and I’m physically exercising,’ she panted, red-faced from her exertions. ‘Besides, who says I don’t like tennis?’

‘You don’t,’ said Black with infuriating certainty. ‘You don’t like things you aren’t good at, and you are most surely appalling at tennis, even against a wall.’

‘Two words: Go. And away,’ she snarled.

‘The truth hurts, huh Granger?’ he laughed, not moved in the slightest.

‘You do know how much I hate you, I hope?’ she said, whacking the ball so hard it imploded against the wall with the force of a nuclear missile and sailed away into the neighbouring housing estate. ‘Oh, shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Black in amusement. ‘I doubt they can afford a new one, but since no one ever plays for real anyway it won’t be missed.’

‘This place is - so - crap!’ Hermione exclaimed. She was astounded at her sudden eloquence. All those years of reading, all the critical analysis, all the memorising of the wittiest literary put-downs and this was what she came up with? Not so hot at thinking on her feet, much?

‘You know, it always sounds so wrong when you utter obscenities,’ Black mused.

‘Bite me,’ Hermione said, scowling. ‘I’ll say whatever the hell I want. Hang on – you just said a four-syllable word? How? Why? Where are the aerial pigs?’

‘I can confound people with four syllable words if you can shock them with four-letter ones,’ he shrugged.

‘Puh-lease.’ Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘You cannot make me think swearing shocks you. Greg doesn’t think something is worth saying if it doesn’t contain at least one reference to a sexual act, and Vinnie can turn the air blue just saying ‘socks’.’

‘Exactly,’ Black agreed, smiling charmingly. ‘That’s how they are. You, however, only do it for the effect, while they couldn’t stop if they tried.’

‘Oh, just – fall off a cliff, why don’t you, and do the world a favour!’

‘The world,’ he said laughingly, leaning closer till they were almost touching noses, ‘or just you?’

Hermione spluttered in indignation, unable to form anything coherent, while Black drifted away, chuckling.

‘Oh, girl, you are so lucky!’ Parvati’s voice broke through her red haze.

‘Oh god, the squawkers descend,’ Hermione groaned, shutting her eyes. She could hear Blaise trying to stifle a husky laugh.

‘Did you see that? They were almost kissing!’

‘No we weren’t!’ Hermione wailed. ‘I was trying to see the quickest way of pulling his brain out of his nostrils and tying it under his chin! Oh, I hate him so much.’

The gaggle watched her as she stormed away. Blaise was biting a finger in an effort not to laugh.

‘Oh, they so fancy each other,’ Lavender said knowingly.

‘Unresolved sexual tension, for sure.’


‘She doesn’t deserve him, though – not with that attitude.’

‘Maybe we should give her a makeover.’


And more forthcoming. This being, like, a quarter of the first chapter.

You lucky people.

Current Mood: crankycranky
Current Music: white noise
henbock on November 1st, 2004 01:36 am (UTC)
"Flattery will get me everywhere!!"
Ok you know I loe this one and eventhough I know the unrealistic ending I want to read it again, which is a good sign as I only read the best books twice.Now, that you have me intrigued you'd better put up the rest. I assume nothing but fabulous reviews will be sent your way. So hows the portfolio and I want honesty not "Oh its shit and Ill never get in with it" ok tell me what you really think of it!!
I saw Sharon the other day and she was bitching bout Ellen it was so funny. Apparantly she couldnt get into the Highland and shes 18 Ha Ha Ha I m so evil. I hope shes not able to read this.! Ill talk to ya l8r lots of love Henbock!!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 2nd, 2004 01:01 pm (UTC)
Re: "Flattery will get me everywhere!!"
Well it won't be up on Ficalley for 10 days...the portfolio is fine...I'm dead tired...and Ellen's forgotten I exist. Which is fine. I'm so tired. Tired tired tired...
Caitcoralia13 on November 8th, 2004 08:07 pm (UTC)
This is really neat so far! I usually don't like AU (I take my canon straight up, ever since my foray into Sue fics - reviewed on pottersues, thank you very much), but this one has me hooked. Such a different look at the characters - who would they be with different backgrounds? I look forward to learning more about them, especially Harry and Ron.

This is a tad embarrassing but, while this story was extremely well-written, interesting, and full of great characters, one of my favorite parts was the British slang. I am such an Anglophile and a total sucker for all things British. Yes, yes, I'm one of those Americans. :)

You know, if you just change the names in this fic, you could have a very publishable piece of writing on your hands. Don't know if that interests you at all; as my occupation of choice, my interest in publishing is much greater than normal people's.
So, to make a long post short, great story!
-The girl from pottersues
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 9th, 2004 10:15 am (UTC)
Neat! I love that word! I'm a bit of an Americanophile, at least when it comes to words like 'dude' 'neat' 'word' etc. And 'tacos'. They sound tasty.

How embarrassing? I'm glad you liked any part of it - 'tis what I wrote it for after all! Have to say though, I'm actually Irish (although I have a British passport thanks to my dad!).

OMIGOD, I've actually thought about that! I like to write but I can't seem to plot out of fanfiction...that was my excuse for writing this, to see if I could (then I got hooked on H/D slash which is utterly untranslatable).

It has to be better than that eejit Cecelia Ahern anyway...
Caitcoralia13 on November 9th, 2004 04:12 pm (UTC)
Oops - I believe I have committed the British/Irish faux pas many a time. In my schooling there was never really a differentiation between the two. England was England, and if you spoke English and weren't in England, you were British (or Canadian, or Australian, of course). Silly Americans. Thank you for clarifying. But - wait... who is British, then? The English and Welsh? So much to learn before I can become an English citizen. Everyone says I would fit in better in Ireland, because I have red hair, but I think that's just a stereotype. I am babbling.

As far as the slang goes: it took me about 5 minutes to figure out the world you liked was "neat", and where I'd said it. I thought that your "Neat!" was in response to my liking your story. Eventually, I caught on. So, you guys don't say "neat"? I guess is does sound funny with a British or Irish accent. As for "word"... I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I'm afraid "word" has passed on to the big slang dictionary in the sky. I don't know if it was ever really more than a joke anyway. I'm sure it was, to some people, but I never heard anyone seriously pull it off. Never fear - we have new ridiculous slang for you to enjoy! I actually used one of them in the last sentence: "ridiculous". You see, over here, we like to take words with negative connotations, and give them positive connotations. Maybe it's because we're such a positive people. Examples include: ridiculous, sick, and nasty. I am sure there are others. These can be used interchangeably, in such contexts as, "Did you see Mulhern playing hockey last Saturday?" "Yeah! That guy is sick/nasty/ridiculous!" It kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? I'm not sure how widespread these terms are; my friend, who is from the middle of the country, laughed out loud when I, a New Englander, used the word "sick" in a sentence.
Also from New England, we have the word "wicked", but not the way Movie-Ron uses it. Where I am from, "wicked" is synonymous with "very", so you may hear such phrases as, "She's wicked good at writing," "That kid from math class is wicked hot," "It's wicked cold out today," "I'm wicked sorry," and so on. When I was in middle school, we used to say "wickedly", like, "That's wickedly awesome," but no one really says this. We were just uncool 12 year olds. I think all of these are New England phenomenon. The country is just too big to have it's slang homogenized.
I would love to hear more about your slang! I like writing MWPP fics, but I really don't want to do like the recent Scarlett Morticia Phoenix abomination on pottersues, so I try to get rid of any errant American slang and replace it with British-isms. Sadly, my access to British-isms is pretty limited. A snog and a jumper do not a Brit-fic make. You can start by telling me what in the name of all that is holy an "eejit" is, and who is Cecelia Ahern?
Oh, and in response to your other post, I have not heard of "Magdelene Sisters" (that's it, right?), but I have seen "Evelyn", with Pierce Brosnan. I don't know if that means anything to you.

I just talked to a friend of mine, who made fun of me for not knowing Ireland wasn't part of Britain and then, upon cross-examination, revealed she does not really know the difference, either. I feel better.

Yeah, I suppose H/D slash will not transfer to other fiction. But if you cut out the foreshadowing of Hogwarts, the end of the first chapter really could branch off into something completely original. I have been thinking about this a great deal today, as I have been wishing I could write a short story similar to this, but it would be drastically different if set in an American school. well, maybe not drastically , but the setting would be really different.
Wait - I just thought of something - H/D SLASH?! I thought he liked Hermione???
You must update soon! I will go crazy!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 10th, 2004 10:28 am (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Oh, well, 'word' is in great use in the lj world at least...people who have nothing to say but want to agree with something just use that one word in an entry - it's quite annoying, really!

Wicked is definitely an English thing, although I sometimes use it - Irish people go in for 'deadly'. Same neg-pos thing going on there! I couldn't imagine using 'sick' like that, I mean, sick is just such a gross word! (Actually I picked up a lot of phrases from Sweet Valley books before I even knew about Americanisms, which explains 'gross' - its only used in terms of 'big' over here.)

Eejit would be what you call an Irishism! It's 'idiot', Irishified. 'Langer' would be a big one too, meaning 'drunk' or 'just a plain fool'. Same for 'jasus' for Jesus...that's about it, I think. Oh yeah - England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland are British, although of course NI is a bit iffy altogether, and then you have the Republic. To basically piss us off, England calls us 'Eire' because it never officially recognised our Republic status. Northern Ireland uses English currency as do Scotland and Wales, but the Republic used euros; NI has a completely English culture, down to the schooling system which runs on A levels and not the Leaving Certificate.

Cecelia Ahern is the Taioseach's (Prime Ministers) daughter. She wrote a god-awful book that only got published, so many think, because of her connections. Apparently being made into a film by Warner Brothers - PS I Love You? (Even the title reeks.) Evelyn is just about some man wanting his kids? I would suggest you try to see the Magdalen Sisters, because that is Irish culture at its true heart - repressed, ignorant and religiously fanatic. Really.

You're right, but adults wouldn't want to read a book about school, surely?!! And it couldn't be a kids book with all the adult themes and swearing. And the next part I'm posting today! No fear! As for the H/D slash...well, its a thing. In this fandom, most readers and writers eventually gravitate to slash because it's better written in general. Does it truly squick you? Nothing I write is graphic, btw :).

Caitcoralia13 on November 10th, 2004 04:32 pm (UTC)
Re: eejit?
I said "eejit" aloud a few times before I got it, and then I felt cool and Irishified. (I make my own fun.) I recognize "Jasus" from Bend It Like Beckham , because the hot Irish coach says it. Do you guys say "guys" over there at all? If not, what do you say instead? It's really hard for me never to use the word "guy" or "guys" in my fics.

Good to know we're not the only country where people get special breaks for having political/monetary connections. The amount of attention paid to the Hilton sisters, or those idiots on 'Survivor' is truly shameful.

I don't think adults would balk at reading about school kids. If you write something that is true, it will speak to people's experiences, no matter what age your characters are. The four years of high school are some of the most memorable, intense, horrible years of many people's lives, young or old. They like to look back and remember how tough it was. Just your scenes of the class completely disregarding the teacher, and anything else... They really spoke to me. I went to a private (er... public?) high school, which was a really good experience, but I went to a public (state?) middle school, grade 5 -8 (age 10-14), and it was hellish. I think if I had gone to public high school, I would have been the Hermione in your story. Just... hellish. If you can create those kind of memories, images, and emotions in anyone, you've got yourself a story that people are going to care about!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 11th, 2004 11:29 am (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Ah, Jonathan Rhys Meyers! The best thing to come out of West Cork since...the best thing to come out of West Cork!

I say guys. Again, Australian heritage cropping up - Australia can't decide whether it's American or English. Over here, people prefer 'lads'.

I truly can't believe someone actually called her 'Paris' Hilton. That just cracks me up. They should have called the other one London or something.

I suppose you're right there! Never thought of that. Oh, and only English people use the wierd 'public' meaning private school thing. Over here it's just private...of which there are about three schools in total on the whole Ireland! Kylemore Abbey, Blackrock Boys College, Mount Sackville, oh and of course the notorious Clongowes.
Everyone else just goes to the local bog school!
Caitcoralia13 on November 11th, 2004 04:09 pm (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Clongowes!!! Even I know about Clongowes! Yay for my private school education (because God knows I wouldn't know about it otherwise)!

The weird thing? She is not the only American girl named Paris. It doesn't even sound strange to me anymore.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 12th, 2004 11:18 am (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Ah! Their snobby Dublin-4-ey reputation is spreading! Duck before you catch it!


No, no, the REALLY wierd thing is that it's meant to be a BOY'S name!
Caitcoralia13 on November 12th, 2004 11:57 pm (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Haha - yes, that's true - it was a boys' name, wasn't it?

And don't worry - I have an extremely low opinion of Clongowes, because the only way I know of it is through Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man . I don't like schools that push boys into square ditches with rats. Poor, messed up Stephen.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 13th, 2004 04:12 am (UTC)
Re: eejit?
You have no idea how deep my respect for you is right now. You've READ Joyce. And, evidently, finished him too. This from a person who basically reads incesscently, but had to FORCE herself to read 5 pages of Ulysses a day and gave up after page 50. I know everyone thinks he's great, but my only reaction was one of angered confusion and a questioning as to what he was smoking...>.
Caitcoralia13 on November 13th, 2004 05:31 pm (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Oh, but Portrait is SO different than Ulysses . For one of my classes, we were given the last chapter of Ulysses , and I had to put it down after 18 pages because my brain was suffocating from the absolute lack of punctuation. All I really remember is some pretty unappealing erotocism. I think I'll have to reapproach that one when I'm about 40. I only got through (and liked) Portrait because my English teacher last year was AMAZING and was able to make us see what a genius Joyce was being. I'm not in love with that book, but I am in AWE of Joyce.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 14th, 2004 08:58 am (UTC)
Re: eejit?
Wow. And for a lickle insight into the Irish mindset: along with Joyce, we've appropriated Oscar Wilde as Irish because he was born here, or something, poor chap (now there's a man I adore!). There are statues of both in O'Connell Street (main street) in Dublin, Joyce standing, Oscar sitting.

Dublin humour being what it is, they are fondly known as 'The Prick with the Stick' (Joyce) and 'The Fag on the Crag' (Wilde)...