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10 November 2004 @ 06:42 pm
Some days I just HATE MY LIFE  

See subject? My art is in the wrong century. My fic, which uploaded here http://www.schnoogle.com/authors/alvira/ACVBU01.html has completely arse-ways formatting...all the punctuation marks are QUESTION MARKS! How did that happen? Why? What did I do wrong in my past life, murder someone? (...not to mention it got only two reviews, but fair enough, it's CRAP.)

Okay, maybe not crap, but not stunning either, which basically sums up my LIFE.

A freak in my class fancies me and keeps trying to TALK to me. Nothing pisses me off more than when people I don't fancy fancy me, there's no better way of getting me to outright hate you. And I despise him (because, d'you know, I hated TONY, and that was different).

Anyway, the next bit of the chapter is here. Obviously not in full, because it won't fit, but the next will be tomorrow. Which will be up, because I'm too pathetic a person to even look at those tempting sleeping pills...it's downright horrible being cursed with terminal optimism, not to mention a superiority complex...will the  torture never end?!!?

Oh, yeah, opening quote (C) Pete Seeger, whoever the hell he is. Some dude who had a quotation archived at the quotations page, basically. Chapter title: TS Eliot.


Education is when you read the fine print.

Experience is what happens if you don’t.

Minnie McGonagall would not be the first to admit that she did not have many pleasures in her life. She would have to join an extensive queue of people who were clamouring to do it for her. Admittedly, this was mainly out of spite, but all the same there was an awful lot of truth in it.

However, even she couldn’t deny the thrill of delight when she opened the door of the staffroom early one Tuesday morning – as ever, among the first teachers to arrive, if not the first – to find Bertie Dumbledore sitting hunched up on one of the horrible polypropene chairs.

Minnie had been in love with Bertie since the first time she’d ever seen him. Fresh out of teacher training college thirty years before, his flashing blue eyes, wild auburn hair and rip-roaring laugh made her think there might be something better than cats out there, after all.

She had taken the post of English teacher at Oakfield when it was offered her, although what she had always wanted to do was to go back to college, get her Masters and eventually pursue a Ph.D – a lifelong dream. She had stayed because she wanted to be near Bertie, despite never having the courage to admit her passion – and passion it was that quivered in the upright, prim and proper little school marm’s soul.

And she had watched in despair as all his bright hopes faded and all his daring schemes collapsed to dust, once burdened with the heavy weight of reality and bureaucracy. Felt her heart turn to lead as he turned increasingly to the bottom of a bottle for solace.

It was a horrible, odd, tearing feeling, both loving someone enough to sacrifice one’s hopes and dreams and aspirations for them, and hating them for so completely for betraying both themselves and all they had ever stood for.

Still, she could not prevent the guilty, pleasurable squirming in her stomach at the sight of his – too thin! – figure huddled over the table, his gingery hair shot through with grey now, his once-bright eyes dim and red-webbed, his chin scratchy with several days growth.

‘Minerva.’ The voice sounded raw, out of practice. ‘Up with the birds, as ever.’

‘It’s good to see you back,’ she said, and added, with her typical bluntness, ‘Although it would be better to have seen you earlier, and actually looking good.’

Bertie made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. ‘Have I failed you, Minerva?’

‘Yes,’ she said honestly.

‘I’m sorry.’ The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to deepen.

‘It’s too late,’ she said, shrugging dismissively. ‘I’ve already forgiven you.’

She moved towards the coffee machine, but he caught her hand. ‘What do you want, Bertie?’ she asked with an attempt at sternness, but inside her heart was skittering about her thoracic cavity, and hormones were hopping down to her fingers, enclosed in his warm, slightly muggy grasp, like fleas off a wet dog.

‘Want?’ He laughed hollowly. ‘I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make this school a bright, happy place, where children could come to learn, not just pass the time before getting pregnant or dying of a drug overdose or signing on.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Bertie,’ Minnie admitted sadly. ‘I don’t know how to help you get that for them because – well, I never even wanted to be a teacher, not really, I just don’t care enough. But you did, once. Maybe –’ she was struggling now, not entirely sure what she was trying to say. ‘Maybe you could care again.’

‘Again? I never stopped, Minnie! It just got so painful that I had to find some way of numbing the agony.’

‘Caring shouldn’t be that painful,’ Minnie argued, lying through her teeth. Of course caring hurt; the word was basically a synonym for pain. The happiest people, in her opinion, were the ones that didn’t care. The most satisfied students were the ones who didn’t give a damn about their marks or their futures, the ones who never knew the agony of aspiring for more than they had.

Bertie was looking at her through those once-so-blue eyes, a spark of understanding in them. ‘No, that’s wrong,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘But you have to say it, or the despair will be too much even to get up in the morning.’

‘I care for you, Bertie,’ Minnie said desperately. ‘I wish that you could find meaning in your life again. This school was like your child, but – but, I don’t know, when things got too tough, you copped out. It wasn’t on, Bertie.’ The anger was blazing from her eyes now, years of pent-up frustration and sorrow giving added vehemence to her words. ‘Back then, we all believed in you. But a couple of setbacks, and that was it. The school was doomed. It was bad then, it’s still bad, but you know what, there’s still some hope in it. If you believe in anything you can believe in hope. I dare you – just walk around your school for a while, really look at it, and not in an alcohol-blinded daze, and come back and tell me that it’s not worth fighting for.’

Her words seemed to be working some magic, for Bertie was sitting up straighter and the ever-present depressed and self-pitying look was dimming somewhat.

‘You had the makings of a great leader!’ she ended with a hiss. ‘It must still be there!’

‘What can I do?’ he asked, sounding like a lost little child. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

Minnie felt the first faint quiverings of hope.

‘I think,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘that you should talk to Remus Lupin.’

Lucius’ plan to meet with his son, as he did quasi-regularly, had fallen through. Draco was relieved, but not altogether surprised. Therefore, it came as something of a shock to him, entering the kitchen on a Tuesday morning a few weeks later, to find his father sitting at the table. His mother had gone to her French class, as per usual, and Draco had been rather looking forward to a solitary breakfast, unplagued by inquiries after Pansy, his schoolwork, Vinnie and Greg, and of course, the ever-feared: ‘When are you bringing your girlfriend home to meet me?’

Therefore, he was not particularly disposed to be civil.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked rudely.

His father looked up. Like his son, he had blonde curtains of hair, but whereas Draco’s was a darker, corn shade, Lucius’ verged on being silver. He shared his son’s grey eyes, his long, almost equine face and his pointed chin.

‘I am your father,’ he pointed out mildly.

‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Draco said nastily, stomping over to the coffee filter. ‘But, do you know, no one’s ever offered me solid proof of that fact. Plus, fathers, in general, tend to stick around a bit more. And this isn’t your house, more to the point.’

‘I bought it,’ Lucius laughed, leaning back and stroking his chin, looking at Draco with a piercing gaze.

‘But it’s in Mum’s name,’ Draco said, pouring out a huge, American-style mug of dark expresso.

Lucius smiled ruefully. ‘Your mother was always very astute.’ He paused, clearing his throat self-consciously. ‘And if I hadn’t been in jail so much, I would have visited you more.’

‘Its nearly a year and a half – two years – since you got out.’

‘Yes, but – well, to be honest I wasn’t entirely sure you wanted to see me,’ Lucius regarded his son uncomfortably, as Draco stirred in several spoons of sugar. ‘I thought you hated coffee?’

‘I do.’ Draco seated himself at the table, opposite his father. ‘This is for you.’


That Tuesday, Hermione was mildly disgusted to find that Black was out, and more to the point, that she missed him. Oh, not in a caring sense. Just that – she noticed he was gone, and she’d never done that before. It was irritating – like having a Black-shaped hole in a universe that previously had been utterly complete without him.

English seemed somehow off-colour without Black muttering imprecations in her ear and making lewd suggestions about McGonagall’s sex life. Chemistry felt wrong without him blithely copying her experiments and reading his answers out of her homework. No matter that when he was actually there and doing these things, she glared at him – as if her eyes were miniature ray-guns which could melt him to a smouldering pile of melted tissues with one glance – and clucked her tongue and tried without success to remove herself and her books out of his reach. Life suddenly seemed that bit duller without him around, and she hated herself for it.

Moreover, Black had been telling the truth when he said that he didn’t skip school much, for this was the first day out that he’d had since she’d started – been forced – to endure his company in every class.

That was another thing she couldn’t stand. That she actually knew that.

She admitted as much to Blaise, in the girl’s toilets, during breaktime. The toilets were practically deserted, as ever. The school body had long ago stopped bothering to reprimand smokers, and instead seen to the establishment of a smoking room in a large unused classroom near the canteen. No one hung out in the toilets to smoke uncomfortably out of a window when they could do it freely in a comfortable (relatively) plastic chair with the majority of the school in situ for added entertainment.

Blaise had somehow become her friend. Hermione hadn’t really had one before, on the one hand not really wanting to associate with the sort of people who attended Oakfield, and on the other being a pretty self-contained person, especially if she had a book. But one breaktime, Blaise had sought her out. Sat down on the bench next to her, talking about inconsequential things. Lavender and her obsession with her hair. How annoying that was. How did-you-know-that-Ron’s-doing-hash, probably crack and heroin too, what-a-surprise-not. And she made Hermione laugh with her dry sense of humour and her complete disrespect for everyone, and Hermione had often thought in her head a lot of the things Blaise said aloud. Blaise was intelligent, too, in her own, specialised way, with her extensive knowledge of rock bands, socialism and the human condition. Hermione, strictly apolitical, had found herself becoming embroiled in a debate with Blaise over the merits of communism. That was it – they were friends.

The bathroom was a quiet and warm – if not particularly clean – place to congregate, and they found themselves there almost every day, without even planning it.

Blaise was looking into the cracked mirror, inspecting her heavily coated eyelashes, unperturbed as the torrent of Hermione’s vitriol and self-abuse washed over her.

‘And, well, he just pisses me off, as you know, but,’ Hermione finished helplessly.

‘I suppose you have considered,’ Blaise said carefully, for Hermione’s touchiness was well-known and feared wherever people gathered to disparage Pratchett (nowadays, in very low voices), ‘the fact that you might – ahem – fancy him?’

Hermione opened her mouth to scream a raging denial, and shut it again.

‘Well, no, I haven’t,’ she said, amazed that Blaise could get to the heart of the problem so easily and yet so inoffensively. ‘I spend most of the time denying that he likes me and insisting that he’s a complete twerp, I guess I didn’t have time to wonder about that.’ She felt herself blushing, and quickly pushed the button on the hand-dryer to provide an alibi for her red cheeks.

‘Well, let’s,’ Blaise advised. ‘He likes you, that’s pretty damn obvious. No, don’t object for a minute, maybe think why it is you object to that so – violently. Also, you have some kind of freaky connection, even if it is just a skirmish of insults. And lastly, you’re missing him, so on some level he’s important to you.’

‘That’s all true,’ Hermione conceded reluctantly. ‘All right, so, the evidence seems to show that I – sort of – like him – a little! But leaving aside what I’m feeling – what about him? You said he fancies me, or something. Well, be that as it may, having someone like me is not a prerequisite for me liking them. I mean, I adored Victor Krum for years, since about first year, until he left, and he paid more attention to his shoes than to me.’

‘Oh, I remember that.’ Blaise giggled – it was a habit she was finding hard to shake.

‘You did?’

‘Oh, the whole school knew about that,’ Blaise said vaguely. ‘Not that they cared, really, or gossiped about it unless it was a slow week on the ‘who’s-up-the-duff’ front.’

Hermione grimaced, but the current situation was more pressing than the revelation of past shames. ‘Right, whatever. The thing is, you have no proof that he fancies me. In fact, he treats me like dirt. Dirt from a Calcutta slum distilled through Sellafield’s sewage system. I’d go so far as to say he hates me.’

‘There’s a fine line,’ Blaise began, but Hermione cut in impatiently.

‘Okay, severely dislikes me, then.’

‘Does he, though?’

‘Blaise!’ Hermione shook her head in frustration. ‘He laughs when I get things wrong in class, like it’s some kind of personal triumph for him. He rolls his eyes when I say things, and mutters ‘shut up’ when I ask questions. He’s always trying to get me in trouble! He teases me the whole time, he, he, why are you laughing?’

‘Me? Laughing?’ said Blaise innocently. ‘The most I can aspire to is a throaty giggle, come on.’


Sev had been aware for some time that the young student teacher, Serina he thought her name was, had something of a crush on him. Well, no, crush was the wrong word; that was a term for the silly self-flattery that Trelawney engaged in as regards Lupin. (She was far too old for him, for one thing, and divorced, and a complete idiot. He needed someone who’d provide a lot more mental stimulation, who was up for a laugh, even, dare we say, a little less out of their tree....)

Anyhow, Serina had some kind of regard for him, that much was very clear. It was a very practised, and predatory, sort of attraction that she indulged in. The dropping of a pen to lean down and expose a swelling of skin, the crossing of long legs encased in sheer silk, even the provocative twirling of hair around a slim finger with a pointed, shiny pink talon – so different from Lupin’s square fingers, his gnawed nails and the flecks of biro ink that denoted his constant activity.

Sev knew, in a detached sort of way, that Serina was an extremely seductive woman. She had masses of long, dark hair, an artfully made-up face and a massive range of tight sweaters and short skirts in dark, passionate colour like crimson, emerald, violet. Her wardrobe had to be the size of a small country, like Australia. He had to commend her on her dress sense, which was superb, and moreover exactly tailored to what she was – unpolitically correctly, a high-class slut.

Or maybe that was just his ‘gay’ side talking.

Although Lupin had never shown any evidence of such snideness.

Mind you, was Lupin gay? All right, there was the banged-up tradesman mate of his, but aside from that......and he was a surprising character. It was unlikely that Lupin had fabricated that whole story about him and Sirius, but perhaps it was merely a close friendship that Lupin had hyperbolised for......the shock quotient?

Did Lupin ever, actually lie? Was his a deceitful nature?

These thoughts made a mess of Sev’s head, giving him an air of permanent confusion mixed with annoyance.

They also meant that, when Selina asked him out, with sex on her mind and in her eyes, he said yes.


As the bell rang for class, Hermione pulled Blaise away from the mirror, refusing to let her be late even though ‘It’s only Chemistry, and Snape doesn’t care.’

‘He loves you lot anyway.’

‘He’s gay, Hermione. That’s denial. Although its nothing to Lavender’s – she’s planned out their whole life together, including the number of kids and the make of car they’ll have.’

‘But – the leather trousers!’


As their voices faded into the distance, the door to a cubicle cautiously opened –as if pushed by a hand, connected to a person who had been there the entire time....


Minnie happened to be in the staffroom when Selina Vector asked Snape out. She was glad she was, because Selina had talked about it for ages (well, a week, at least) and Minnie would have felt rather miffed to have been left out of the fun. After all, Snape was gay. It was only Selina and the new chap, Lupin, who didn’t seemed to have grasped this. Mind you, she was fairly certain that Snape hadn’t either.

So all in all, she was pleased to be present when the momentous occasion occurred.

Selina had sashayed her way over to him, in that insinuating way she had. No doubt it earned her multiple rewards at those disco thingys, but from the security of age, wisdom and of course, cynicism, Minnie found it rather irritating and not a little pathetic.

‘Hi, Severus,’ she whispered sexily, pouting like mad.

‘Oh, hello, Serina,’ he replied distractedly, looking up from a piece of paper on which he was doodling. Minnie bit her lip to stop herself from bursting out laughing. She shared a secret smile with Marie Sinistra, who was the only other of the old-crowd – and hence privy to circumstances – in the room. Lupin didn’t count.

‘It’s Selina,’ Selina said, more loudly and emphatically.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Snape said, looking up at her and smiling that rare, beautiful, angelic smile that made Minnie, for a moment, forgive and even feel sorry for Selina in what she was trying to do.

‘I was wondering....’

Well, that was the gist of it. But as she heard Sev – shock and awe – reply ‘yes’ she was distracted by the look on young Lupin’s face. That which before had been smiling and amused was suddenly shut off, dead. It was as if a brick wall had descended over the landscape of a sunset. Abruptly, he stood up and left the room, scattering papers and threads from his jumper haphazardly as he went. Minnie took the opportunity to raise her eyebrows at Marie in wonder and not a little worry. Snape appeared to be looking after him with much the same expression, but he was trapped by Selina’s small hand against his chest, reigning him in to plan their date – ‘Friday would be really good for me, what about – ’.

Finally Snape shook her off and headed for the stairs at speed. Content and self-satisfied, Selina didn’t notice the desperate expression on his face as she set about pouring herself a cup of coffee, humming as she did so.

With the rapid slow-walk that years of teaching had perfected, Minnie got to the table and picked up the scrap of paper that Snape had left. Scanning it quickly, her eyes widened and she stuffed it into her skirt pocket before anyone saw it.

At that moment, Ivy came in, a pained look on my face.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said piteously, as Minnie looked at her guiltily, Marie with tired interest and Selina with inflated confidence in the pulling power of her cleavage.

‘They let out the locusts in the biology lab. Again.’


Draco’s father had persuaded him to take the day off of school, despite Draco’s protests.

‘I have school, Dad.’ He almost said, ‘What about Hermione?’ but he remembered that any knowledge his father had about the love life of his son was currently restricted to Pansy, the duck-faced blonde, alone. (Oh yes, he had heard Hermione calling her that. She’d obviously read it out of his own mind, the psychic little minx.)


There really wasn’t any arguing with that brand of persuasive argument.

Lucius insisted on going to the local playground, despite the fact that Draco was no longer four years old, and in any case it was, of course, a junkie’s hangout. Syringes and burnt tinfoil crunched under their feet as they made their way to the dilapidated swings, still intact, although much graffitied and banged about (even druggies need something to sit on).

‘Why did you insist we go here?’ Draco said, perching on a battered swing and attempting exasperation through chattering teeth.

‘Nostalgia, perhaps,’ said Lucius, somewhat mistily.

‘You used to play in this dump?’ Draco grimaced.

‘Play? God no.’ Lucius made an affronted face. ‘No, I remember the good old days ... when we were just starting out on the sliding scale of soft to hard drugs. Used to push ‘em here, too.’

‘Dad, that is sick,’ said Draco conversationally, staring at the ground.

‘Yes, sorry son.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, the reason I brought you here is that I think I owe you an explanation.’

‘For what? I know you got done for possession, that’s no secret.’

‘Not that. The reason why me and your mother broke up.’

‘Oh, that.’ Draco shrugged. ‘Mum always said you had ‘irreconcilable differences.’ It was ages before I figured she got that off some American law programme.’

Lucius had an odd look on his face. ‘Well, in fact that’s as close to the truth as you could possibly get.’

‘How do you mean?’ Draco turned to look his at his father face-on, uncomprehending.

‘Son, I’m gay.’



Hermione and Blaise had originally set out to brave the withering cold in the courtyard, but were finally driven to concession when they lost feeling in their fingers.

They stood in the bathroom, alternately freezing then burning their bare legs on the one radiator, and blasting their hands beneath the hot-air dryer.

‘So Blaise, who do you fancy in school?’ Hermione asked lazily.

Blaise coloured up a little. ‘You’ll laugh.’

‘Considering the choice, I’d probably cry.’

‘Well, Black’s taken of course.’

‘Darling Duckface.’

Blaise snorted. ‘I meant by you.’

It was Hermione’s turn to blush. ‘Please don’t say that, you’ll only make it worse,’ she pleaded. ‘I want to get over this – stupidity – as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’ Blaise wanted to know.

‘Why?’ Hermione repeated, baffled. ‘It’s a –a distraction. I mean, even if, in some alternate dimension, we actually did get together, where would it get me in the end? A boyfriend – who incidentally uses me as a verbal punch-bag – for a couple of months. There’s no continuity there, nothing real.’

Blaise was looking at her with a mixture of pity and contempt on her pale, almost triangular face.


‘Hermione, do yourself a favour, and start living now – not when you go to uni, not in ten years time, when you’ve got a good job and a house and a pension fund, do it now before you forget how to.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hermione asked, a little frightened by her intensity.

‘Well, look at you. You cut yourself off completely from everyone here. Fair enough, you think studying is important and you want to go to a good college. But it’s not everything. Look at how much you deny yourself because you don’t think that this is your real life. You’ve made no friends here – we wouldn’t be mates except I basically shoved you into it. You refuse to face the fact that you fancy Black because you think it’s pointless, even though the times when you’re with him are the only times you feel really alive. And yet you want to – what did you say? ‘Get over it as soon as possible’? I have to tell you, missy, that living is a habit that’s hard to shake off, whether you started it off your own steam or someone else opened your eyes for you.’

Hermione stared at her, open-mouthed and not a little stunned.

‘And you don’t even put any effort into how you look,’ Blaise added critically. ‘I’m not saying everyone should be as shallow as Lavender – ‘

‘Or Pansy’s forehead,’ Hermione muttered, eliciting another snort from Blaise.

‘Seriously, though, you act as if you don’t care at all. That’s not good. Caring is what living is all about, and you could look quite good if you tried a little.’

‘Well, thanks,’ said Hermione, piqued. ‘Here I was thinking I was happy with how I am, an individual, but in fact it turns out that after all, I’m just not making an effort.’

‘Exactly,’ Blaise replied equably. ‘Here, look.’ She grabbed Hermione around the waist and deftly rolled up the waistband of her skirt about two inches, as Hermione let out a yell of protest.

‘You can see my knees!’

‘Mmm. Lavender’s are a lot fatter, that’ll piss her off. What’s with all the scars, though?’

‘I fell a lot when I was younger – climbing trees and stuff,’ Hermione said defensively.

‘A tomboy, eh? Who’d have thought it?’

‘I’m not going to leave it like this, you know.’

‘Yes, you are. Because you have something to prove to yourself.’

‘And what is that, pray?’

‘That you are who you think you are – not what other people want you to be. They want you to be the swot they’ve always seen. I’m going to give you a few more options and you are not going to choose the frumpy look just because you’re scared of all the others. Oh, and you’re coming to my house this evening to play with my ceramic straightener.’

‘But – I have study – revision,’ Hermione protested.

‘It can wait for one night, can’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Hermione acceded. ‘But – ‘ her faced paled in fear, ‘What if that starts a downward slide? What if I keep missing study, and – ‘

‘Start living instead?’ Blaise’s tone was dry. She added softly, ‘Don’t you think that would be the tiniest little bit – exciting?’

As Hermione followed her out of the bathroom, a small horrible part of her was madly agreeing.


Dean and Seamus spent lunchtime sitting on the flight of stairs near the vending machine, being part of the small minority of non-smokers in Oakfield. Seamus had a bouncing ball, and was idly hopping it off the wall. Dean was waxing lyrical about Tolkien, while Seamus listened with a half-smile.

Eventually he felt compelled to say what was on his mind.

‘Dean, this is truly fascinating,’ he said, he hoped with sincerity, because it was. ‘But you are eighteen now, and I really think you need a girlfriend.’

‘What?’ Dean fell off his step in shock, falling hard on his back on the floor. Seamus, shaking his head, reached down to grab his hand and unceremoniously haul him back up (not thinking any bad naughty thoughts about this hand, none at all, no siree).

‘Books and films and football are all very well, my friend,’ Seamus made a ‘gay’ leer that never failed to amuse Dean. ‘But a time comes in a young boy’s life when he needs a little something more. In a word: sex.’

Dean nearly fell off the step again.

Spluttering, he managed, ‘Thanks, but not thanks, Seamus. I can manage that on my own.’

‘But you see, you can’t. So as a proper gay best friend, I’ve decided to spice up your love life.’

‘Wha – Seamus, what the hell do you think – ‘ Dean was left mouthing his protests as Seamus stood up and waved at someone, and Dean’s natural embarrassment at his situation shut down his mouth for him.

Seamus leapt down the steps in a balletic jete, leaving Dean to stomp reluctantly after him. When he caught up, Seamus had his arm thrown loosely around the narrow shoulders of a petite, giggling redhead.

‘Ah, here’s the man of the hour!’ Seamus said in delight, removing his mouth from the girl’s ear, into which he had been whispering with excessive secrecy. Dean mooched at little closer, feeling inordinately sulky. Any minute now, and he’d be wailing for his Mummy.

‘This is the one I told you about,’ Seamus said in a clearly audible murmur. ‘Dean, my friend, this is Ginny.’ The redhead flashed him a winning smile from underneath Seamus’ arm.

‘Hi,’ Dean mumbled, horrified to discover that a blush was working its way up his neck.

‘So, what do you think?’ Seamus was nearly jumping up and down from excitement, carrying Ginny along in his jiggling.

‘I like him,’ she said, tossing her mane of long silken curls out of her eyes in a practised gesture. Seamus gave a very gay yelp of delight, and used his encircling hand to shove her forward.

‘Aren’t you Ron’s sister?’ Dean asked uncomfortably. Despite casting desperately about for a topic of conversation, this was the best he could muster.

‘Only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,’ she said sombrely, with a betraying glint of mischief in her dark brown eyes, which matched his own almost incestuously.

Dean laughed, in a mixture of amusement and relief. Maybe Seamus had a point, after all.....

Current Mood: crushedcrushed
Caitcoralia13 on November 10th, 2004 05:26 pm (UTC)
No, NO! Right at the crucial part! I must know more about Harry and Ron (and all of the Weasleys)!

In response to your earlier question, I am really squeamish about slash. Not because I'm homophobic, but because I just don't see any of the HP characters as gay (with the posible exception of Colin Creevey. I'll buy Seamus being gay, too.) So, although I'm enthralled by your story, while I'm reading, I'm like, "No, Sirius! No, Remus! No, Snape! No... Lucius???" Ah, well, I'm hooked anyway. But please tell me Hermione and Malfoy (ahem, Black ) have a chance? Can't wait until they get to "Hogwarts"!
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 11th, 2004 11:41 am (UTC)
It's so strange...okay, few enough people have read this, but everyone seems to like Harry! I only put him in at all as an afterthought!

Fair enough. Me, before the fandom, I was Homophobic, one of those ones who was like, okay, but not near ME, thanks. One year here and poof! (Oh, god, pouf?!!) And it's not that I see anyone as gay really (except Harry himself, 'smatter of fact, he's far too well-adjusted) it's that I read into the dynamics I see in the books, be they between two guys, two girls or a boy and a girl, y'know? So I see: Harry and Draco with some seriously unresolved issues, blatant Remus and Sirius, and Remus and Snape because Remus can't just BE that nice to the bastard. Oh, and for canon itself: Ron/Hermione and Harry/Luna. (Mainly because she's my favourite character!)

HAVE TO WAIT AND SEE! MOO-HAHAHAHA! Only eight more chapters in two parts to go!
henbock on November 11th, 2004 12:40 am (UTC)

Ok I domt anybody drinks a huge mug of expresso because it is incredily high in caffeine and if you did you would be buzzing, literally. Alse its very strong so only tiny cups are used, thats all I wanted to say
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 11th, 2004 10:58 am (UTC)
Go away and sober down, you wierdo.