There Will Be No White Flag

HP Fic - The Cigarette

2004-07-22T08:25:28Z

Title: The Cigarette
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil, Millicent Bullstrode
Type/Words: Ficlet/820
A/N: Long overdue challenge from sabinelagrande. "Padma Patil and Millicent Bulstrode are in love. Go!"

Padma waited. Millicent should have been out of the dungeons now, but Padma was still waiting for her outside the portrait she'd been told to wait by. Nervously, she checked her watch. Sure enough, it was already fifteen minutes past their set meeting time. Padma wasn't sure why she was so disappointed. It was Millicent Bulstrode, not Roger "Bloody" Davies. Not Harry Potter. Not even Michael Corner.

Sighing, she let her hand slap against her leg and pushed off the wall, kicking her heel against the hard brick. Padma yawned, rubbing her tired eyes and turning toward the Grand Staircases.

A pair of cold hands covered her eyes, lips hovering near her ear. "Not leaving yet, are you?"

Padma turned around, jerking out of the bigger girl's grasp. Pursing her lips together, Padma shot Millicent a look. "That's not funny. I could have hexed you into a pile of dragon dung, you know."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't," came the retort. Millicent was smirking at her now, giving her an appraising look. "You ready?"

"I suppose," Padma sighed, nodding in the direction of the front doors. "But if we get caught, I'm going to rat you out."

"And I'd do the same to you," Millicent remarked, grinning sardonically. "If I was a prefect."

Padma didn't respond. She walked to the front doors, pushing one open just enough to squeeze through. Millicent followed. They continued on in silence. The moon was fat and bright, hanging low in the sky. Padma thought it might fall into the lake if the string that held it up broke. Well, if there was a real string that was.

Once they made their way to the lake's embankment, they both took a seat, tucking their robes beneath them. The spring evening was brisk, and Padma shivered unconsciously. Millicent looked up at the skyline, scrutinising something she saw in the stars. Padma was watching Millicent, though.

"You know, I'm glad I'm a witch," Millicent said, rummaging through her robes. "It would be dreadfully boring to be a Muggle. No spells or potions or – heh – Divination. Well, no real Divination. Yeah, definitely glad."

So poignant, Padma thought, rolling her eyes. "Well, everyone at Hogwarts is a witch or a wizard, so I don't think you'll hear any complaints."

Millicent scowled, turning her attention from the sky. "That's what you think."

Padma shook her head. Exactly what was she doing out here with Millicent Bulstrode. Completely unlike her, but the witch had somehow managed to catch Padma in an awkward situation with Michael Corner – one that could get her expelled if anyone knew. Millicent had been blackmailing her for months now, and Padma knew that she was indebted to her until they were finally finished with schooling.

"Want one?" Millicent held out a pack of cigarettes.

"What are doing?" Padma asked in a scandalised voice. Her eyes were wide, her mouth was hanging open.

"I'm offering you a cigarette. Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be smart; you're in Ravenclaw for Merlin's sake."

"No," Padma said sternly. "I meant this. Why do you make me go with you on these walkabouts? I could just stand by the front doors and make sure no one knows you're out here."

"Again, I say: I thought you were supposed to be smart. Isn't it obvious?"

Padma glared, her eyebrows shooting up. "No, it's not."

"I'm trying to make you fall in love with me," Millicent said, her voice soft and – was it almost tender? "You see, this is the part where I offer you a cigarette. It's symbolic; like Eve giving the apple to Adam – don't look at me like that; I know some Muggle stories. If you take what I'm offering, you've fallen for me. If you don't, my loss."

Millicent had turned back to admiring the skyline. She lit one of her cigarettes and was now puffing away on it happily. Padma sat in stunned silence, wondering what to do or say. This was burly Millicent Bulstrode, who took joy and pleasure in making her life miserable. Millicent Bulstrode, who'd threatened to blackmail her. Millicent Bulstrode who Padma had fallen in love with. After all, she didn't exactly have to be out here with her. And – Merlin! – she actually enjoyed these little moments after curfew with her. Millicent didn't begrudge Padma her nasty streak. Millicent didn't judge her based on her marks or if she'd lost or gained weight – of which she'd done both in the past six months. Millicent Bulstrode.

Padma leaned over, reaching out her hand to take the pack of cigarettes. She fumbled in getting one out and held it daintily between her fingers. All right. Now what? She stared down at the cigarette, wondering if she could light it with her wand, but there was already a flame lit in front of her. And Millicent was practically glowing as she smiled at Padma.

Nevermind / So What?

2004-06-06T02:08:28Z

Title: Nevermind
House: Ravenclaw
Word Count: 100
Characters: Hermione, Harry (with a bit of Pettigrew)
A/N: Cut for subtle movie snark.

Harry's eyes widened as Pettigrew shrunk away into a rat, leaving behind his clothing. He'd started to move forward when he was struck with a sudden thought.

"Hang on.." Harry said, turning to look at Hermione perplexed. She was busy twisting strands of her hair around her finger to make perfect, little ringlets. "When Pettigrew transformed from Scabbers.. he had clothes on. Now he's left them behind. That makes no sense." Harry pointed towards the pile left behind. Hermione just stared at him blankly.

Harry made a disgusted face. "I'd hate to be around when he transforms back into Pettigrew."

Title: So What?
House: Ravenclaw
Word Count: 100
Characters: Ron, Harry, Sirius
A/N: Cut for subtle movie snark.

“It’s a trap, Harry! He’s an Animagus!” Ron cried. Harry’s gaze drug from the dusty floor spotted with paw prints up into the eyes of Sirius Black.

Harry frowned before turning back to Ron. And I’m supposed to care… why? It wasn’t as though Harry had spotted the Grim out on the lawns with Crookshanks or on the Quidditch Pitch. It wasn’t as though Sirius had attacked Ron. He just couldn’t care much either way. Best to get this out of the way, though. He swore he’d kill Sirius. Why had he said that? He shrugged and ran at Sirius.

nowhiteflag @ 2004-06-04T16:46:00

2004-06-04T21:46:45Z

I got my Chose Your Author Assignment:

Characters/Pairings you want the story to focus in. dawn/spike (romance or straight sex) dawn/angel (romantic), or Spike/Buffy, Angelus/Dru/Spike
Characters/Pairings you want in the story too. whatever

Things you want: if you do the dawn one, dawn must be at least 16, not more than 18

Things you don't want: go wild

Extras: NC-17

Dawn/Spike or Dawn/Angel? Wow.. Sloppy seconds for Dawnie? Heh, no.. Don't think so. I shall be doing Spike/Buffy or Angelus/Dru/Spike.

A-Drabbling We Go

2004-05-28T08:46:12Z

hp100 sets up challenges every week. I went back and found mine. *snooort*

Warning: This one is Squick-alicious
Wasn't Expecting / Just Like..

Mudblood

Before We All Die

RETURN

The Eyes of Voldemort

The Alternate Series!

2004-03-31T10:06:36Z

Heee.

Am not sorry I have spammed you all!

I found a collaboration I used to be a part of. I took each monthly thing and made it into an arched story with whatever the topic turned out to be. There is no fandom. It's in the first person, but it makes sense. I would love feedback on this, as I'm actually kind of proud of this. I'd hate to think no one else liked it. :(

Here they are in order. If you read them out of order, they will not make ANY sense.

Alternate
Compendium
Phantasm
Clandestine
Dimensionality

Dimensionality

2004-03-31T10:03:11Z

Title: Dimensionality
A/N: The final part of the series.
The Premise: surreal

At first, I thought it was a dream. The cold, dark bedroom. The humming air conditioning. The fuzzy blanket. Wrapped up in warmth, I could only focus on a few things. The sweat poured off me, as I threw off the cover. I tripped over a black cat curled around my feet.

"My cat!" I announced louder than I meant. I scooped her up and hugged her. "I'm back! I'm back!"

I ran into the living room of my small apartment. It seemed so small and different. Video tapes were sprawled on the floor. CDs and DVDs cluttered the sofas. There was no sitting area. Dried and old food stained plates. Mold floated in glasses. I had to hold my nose from the stench. There was an eviction notice left taped to the door knob. It was as though a junkie took over my apartment.

The curio cabinet my dad built was broken. The glass had been shattered. There were dark stains on the walls. The carpet was soaked with an acidic stench. Is that urine I smell? I wanted to roll over and wake up. Safe in my bed, with the Husband laying next to me. One of the children would tug on my blanket, scared at the boogie man in his closet. How would I explain that I was afraid of the boogie man? Or that I am the boogie man?

My eyes teared up at the destroyed apartment. She brought me back when she had done as much damage as she could.. Look at my house. It didn't even look like my house. It was a nightmare house.

In the middle of the chaos, I noticed a pink index card. It was perfectly clean, as though it had been set down as an after thought. I knelt to pick it up, noticing that I had no slippers or socks on. The wet carpet sloshed between my toes. I cringed.

I'm just getting started.
Don't you worry.
-Me

I couldn't hold my balance anymore. My whole life had been switched around, and I hadn't even cried just once. As I sank into the carpet, I let go. I finally let it all out. The Alternate held my life in her hands. Both of my lives. I had grown fond of the other life and love. I enjoyed my carefree "real" life. Either one would have been fine. But I needed one of them. Not this switching between the two whenever she wanted.

A glowing light caught my attention. It wasn't nearly as blinding as I first thought it was. In fact, it was soft and calming. I crawled on my hands and knees into the kitchen. I didn't look around. I didn't need to to know that it was just as destroyed as the rest of the house.

The light was actually part of some odd shaped lamp. It looked like a lamp out of some futurist movie. I reached out to touch it, see how it worked. As my fingers pressed against it, there was a swelling. The air around me seemed to grow. I could almost see them in their molecule form. Everything slowed and the pressure built inside me so tight I could hardly breathe. The light grew brighter and brighter. It enveloped me.

Then nothing.

Clandestine

2004-03-31T09:59:34Z

Title: Clandestine
A/N: Another Storyteller Collab. Continuation from Phantasm.
The Premise: Write a short story whose beginning sentence is: "The crowd was expertly held in thrall." / And whose ending sentence is: "The only thing left to do was pray that the secret was never discovered."

Continued from Phantasm

The crowd was expertly held in thrall. I laughed a little too loud. I knew I was overcompensating, but no one else seemed to notice. I hoped I didn't seem any different than I had before.

The Alternate had been secretive. That much I was definitely sure of. Her own husband and children did not seem to think anything was wrong. Had she been as insecure in her life as I was here? I glanced around the dining room. Medical doctors and scientists crowded around. One in particular kept his eye on me.

Is he onto me? I thought. Outloud, I excused myself to check on something in the kitchen. The Husband looked towards me, smiled softly and then went back to his conversation with an attractive doctor with long black hair. I detected a hint of jealousy inside me.

The office seemed so quiet compared to the dining room. It was dark and cool, and it was the complete opposite of every other room in the house. Where the living room was alive with color, this room sucked it out. Everything was mahogany and black leather. It was inviting and aloof all at the same time. I wanted to crawl into the chair, put my head on the desk, and forget this transformation ever happened.

Something was different, though.

I had memorized the layout of the room by now. Every inch of it was meticulous. I didn't want to give anything away. I hid the fire safe inside the metal cabinet. Instead of the potted plant on top of it, there was a yellow legal pad in it's place. I walked quickly to it.

Your reality is much more fun than I imagined. Lucky for me, you were being held at gunpoint; not lucky for the poor shmuck holding you at gunpoint.

Changing my personality has a meaning to them. To me, as well. I get to be as free as I have always wanted to be.

Word to the wise: Never plan another dinner party with the husband. Our friends don't mix. You need to watch out for Shannon. She's a firecracker.

Shannon? Isn't that the girl that the Husband was talking to? The one he seemed vaguely ashamed to be talking to? I ripped out the sheet of paper. I needed to hide it.

The fire safe was a tribute to the Alternate. Pendants, photographs, and journals. There was quite a collection of handwritings and papers. I laid the latest on top of the scientific findings. Findings I had no way to decipher.

Maybe these papers should be burned. Maybe I shouldn't even look at them. I'm doomed to this life. She doesn't want it back; she's happy bouncing in and out. I felt resigned and saddened. I would never see my best friend Zoe again, or have coffee with Lucy. My life would revolve around science and children and Being a Good Wife in a marriage I never chose.

The metal clinked against metal as the drawer slammed shut. A hand slid around my waist, pulling me up. Without looking, I leaned back into it. The Husband wouldn't have it any other way. If I was going to be here, I was going to make the best of it. There was a coldness to the embrace, though - a coldness I hadn't felt before.

I turned around to find the staring Colleague so close to me, I nearly screamed. He cupped a hand over my mouth.

"You've forgotten about me? About us, already?" His eyes softened and misted.

I could feel my arms gently pushing him away from him, rejecting him with everything centimeter. My face was a mixture of horror.

My idea of the perfect family was torn apart by the Alternate's secret life. Secret lovers. Secret work. Secret emotions. Her journals, her work, her life.. All of it was a lie. A lie that I would have to live. I could feel the tears coming. I could feel all those pent up emotions.

The grass isn't greener. It's just a different shade.

I eased myself out of the Colleague's arms. Without a word or even looking back, I walked into the dining room, all smiles. The Husband looked towards me, and realization that the Colleague had followed me struck him. I could see it in his face. It broke my heart. I headed straight for him, sliding my arm through his. He looked down at me, then back at who I presumed was Shannon. She smiled an impossibly perfect smile with perfect teeth behind perfect lips. I wouldn't have blamed him for taking her on, when he had to come home to this.

The Colleague looked defeated as he sat in his chair. His eyes followed me for a while, before I had noticed that in his fist was a balled up piece of yellow paper. He tucked it away in his sport's jacket pocket. Panic struck me.

Did I lock the fire safe? I would have to talk to the Colleague tomorrow. If he had read the paper, he might think I was insane. Or even worse, he might know the truth.

Now, I was the one with a secret. I was playing the Alternate's game.

The only thing left to do was pray that the secret was never discovered.

Phantasm

2004-03-31T09:54:02Z

Title: Phantasm
A/N: Another Collboration. Continuation from the other two.
Premise: fantasy (simple enough!)

continued from Compendium

It's a space ship. The dashboard is smooth and gliding. My hands slide down it and onto the wheel effortlessly. The radio station bores me, so I turn it off.

The directions guide me to a small corner building. The brake stops me before I even realize I have put my foot onto it. The car still smells new.

The area is downtown. It shouldn't be this clean, this advanced. In my reality, this section of downtown remained dusty and mostly unused by banks and financial institutions. Here, there are exquisite jewelers and upscale banks. No pawn shops. No homeless sleeping on corner streets.

When I open the car door, a valet immediately tips his little black hat at me. "Good morning, Mrs. Marshall."

He knows me. I should act like I know him. I smile to him, realizing the Alternate has been here far too many times. The same thing happened to me at my favorite stores prior to this fantasy.

The bank vault is downstairs and to the left, the clerk tells me. Again, she calls me Mrs. Marshall, then asks me how the kids are doing. I reply that they are doing as well as they always have been, not knowing the right answer.

"I know the feeling," she says, amused

I have to shove the urge to burst into laughter deep into the back of my throat. I can still feel it rumble in my chest. I don't think she could hear it, thankfully. I take a deep breath and trek down the stairs. My hand is sore from clutching the key with my life. My life is in the box I'm going to open.

There is a small imprint from the key in my palm. I would rub it, but I'm too busy sweating. I'm too busy thinking of all sorts of unimaginable answers that I will get.

Panic strikes. What if there are no answers? What if there is only more journals detailing mundane things?

I can't let myself think like that. I find the box. 101.

The key clicks once to the right, sending a tiny spring inside of it upwards. Lifting the lid, I feel as though my heart is going to skip a beat. These past twenty-four hours have been like a dream. A surreal dream where I am flying, soaring. Any moment, I'm going to come crashing down. And I have the knowledge that I will come crashing down.

It strikes me. Could this be death? An unending dream? Is this heaven? Am I dead? Was I gunned down during the mugging?

This could go on forever. I could be stuck here. If this is heaven, could I get to hell? Or maybe this not knowing, this constant goose chase could be hell.

I'm sweating enough for this to be hell. But last night, the way he touched me.. He has to be an angel.

Shaking my head, I peer into the box.

Letters, cards, pieces of scrap paper. At the back, tucked under some ragged station, five journals. When I open them, I find the handwriting impeccable and tiny. College ruled lined. Double sentences per line.

"This is going to be interesting," I tell myself, as I shove the contents into my briefcase.

There is another Post-It note stuck to the top journal. The Alternate's handwriting, of course.

Glad you made it. You are not dead. You are not in the afterlife. This is the alterlife.

Compendium

2004-03-31T09:50:43Z

Title: Compendium
A/N: Another The Storyteller Collab
Premise: Write a story about a book. The book can be about whatever you'd like, and its circumstances can be whatever you'd like (place, time, culture). Tell about the meaning of the book, or who's lives the book has touched, or how the book has changed hands and why, or the story of the author(s) of the book, or any combination of these... basically, what's so special about this book?
The "book" can be any writings (scrolls, manuscripts, whatever), existing in the "real world", or entirely fictional. One that you make up (some "magical tome" that has healing powers) or one that really exists (like a made up story about how the Dead Sea Scrolls ended up in that cave). The book doesn't have to be fiction, just the story you're writing *about* the book.

continued from Alternate
***

It didn't matter how long it had been there; I don't even think it mattered where it was. Just that it was. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. In the other realm, I had been subject to journal writing. I had even been patronized and teased because of it.

"Look, BabyIlliana's got a notebook. I wonder what she's writing about us!" They always seemed to mock me.

"Nothing. Nothing about you," I'd say, sticking out my tongue. My life story - and those directly around me - had always been included.

When the children were safely tucked in bed and the husband snoring away in bed beside me, I decided to wander downstairs into the office area. I still marveled at the plaque on the wall that stated my Bachelor of Science degree. I still tripped over dolls and toy trucks. I turned the small lamp on and opened the desk drawer.

A familiar scent assaulted me.

A leather bound book. It was tied with a piece of rawhide string. The cover was immaculate and soft. It was very well cared for. It wasn't until the grandfather clock chimed the hour that I realized I had been holding my breath as I took it out of it's place.

My journal.

Or, rather.. my counterpart's journal. The Other Illiana. The one with this life, this family, this degree. I assumed the Alternate would have taken it with her or locked it up. Maybe she wanted me to find it, so I would have something to fall back on.

Another thought: Why hadn't she kept it in the lock box?

Maybe it held the key to why she had brought me, how I had been brought here.

I nearly dropped the book. I kept thinking of Raiders of the Lost Arc, as though it was the Arc of the Covenant. Or the original Quran. If I opened it, would my face melt? Would my eyes pop out of my head? Would I go blind? Would I be blaspheming everything this book stood for?

Delicately, I laid it on top of the piles of papers on the desk.

Franctic, I ran back to the stairs, listening for any noises. The grandfather clock just ticked at me. The air conditioner turned on. When I was excruciatingly positive everyone was completely asleep, I tiptoed back, making sure not to cause any noise.

I pulled the chair as close to the desk as I could. I pulled the little lamp nearer. I forced myself to breathe. I was paranoid that any little noise I made would wake the entire house and set off alarms. I felt like an intruder in the Alternate's house. I did anything to stall opening that book.

Why can't I open this one book? Just open it. It's not going to bite you. You're not going to get sucked into it. I had to stifle a laugh. Being held at gunpoint seemed to get me sucked into this fate; opening a book could kill me. At this point, what do I have to lose?

The pages were trimmed with gold. It was the kind of journal you could get at a fine paper store. The Alternate was just as meticulous with her journals as I was. The pages seemed to come alive with beautiful handwriting. I didn't recognize it though. Apparently the Other Illiana had learned to control her handwriting. Sadly, I smiled.

A yellow Post-It note stuck out from the edges near the first pages.

You're quicker than I thought. Why didn't you do more in *your* reality? Start with this journal. The others are in a safe box at the bank. Another key.

Behind the Post-It note, sure enough, was a key taped down. I peeled the tape off, letting it stick to my finger. I pulled the key up and stuck it in the house coat pocket.

"Are you writing in your journal? Again?" A sleepy voice startled me. I grabbed onto the chair to keep myself from jumping out of it. My first instinct was to slam the journal shut.

I forced a smile as I turned around. "You know me," I chirped.

The husband yawned. "Baby, come to bed. Please?" His hand seemed to melt flesh on my cold shoulder. I reached for it, instinctively. It had been a long time since anyone had touched me in such a commonplace, but romantic, manner. Then I let him lead me back up the stairs to the bedroom.

Alternate

2004-03-31T09:45:17Z

Title: Alternate
A/N: This was a The Storyteller Collaboration I wrote several years ago.
The Premise: Write a fictional story in which *you* are the main character. The story may be in any person (first, third...). Write about a life completely different from your "real" life. Take it in any direction you want. To help clarify the topic, some suggestions would be to write about yourself in a different career, or from a different nationality, or even as a different sex. You could have superpowers, or a talent you've always wanted but don't possess. It can be as long or as short as you'd like. Just have fun!

When you go through life, you take for granted what is really your memories and other people's memories trapped in your head bank. Your brain handles a lot of data. Sometimes, it might go on overload.

That's the only thing I can pinpoint at this moment. I look around, and I don't recognize anything.

When I woke up, I felt as though I had slept through my whole life. I knew I hadn't, there were photos that I remember taking. There were documents in the drawers. There were odds and ends that I clearly remember buying.

Is it my house? A friend's house? Do I belong here?

My shoes are off. I'm wearing soft sweat pants and a tank top. The sun is streaming in the room. It's quiet. Almost too quiet. Blinking, I push myself up on the couch.

Clean. Almost too clean. It seems nearly sterile to me. Very unlike me.

After taking a deep breath and judging the surroundings, I figure it's time to get up. Have a look around other rooms. You know, to make sure there are no trick mirrors. I don't want to be a lab rat; the jokes on me.

The mirror catches my attention. As I court myself, scrutinizing every line, every detail, it still looks like me. Same hair cut. Same hair color. Same mouth, eyes, lips, neck.

Same furrowed brow as I remember.

But this damned house, I think to myself. It's not mine. It's too big, too clean. Just.. too!

My foot hits something. A worn cabbage patch doll. Something I used to have as a child. I don't remember keeping it. I distinctly remember throwing it out as I threw out my childhood years before.

What's going on? I couldn't tell how I had gotten there. I felt like me, but displaced. I felt like a small fraction of myself. How did I end up here? I can hear some children playing outside. Not around this house, not around me. But outside. Somewhere in the distance. Their squeals of joys only magnify the strangeness of the situation.

Closing my eyes, I beg myself to find out what the last thing I remember is. Come on, just concentrate! Sitting on the edge of a chair, I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself through memories.

Then it hits me. That last thing I remember. Tears. Crying. Exhaustion. Being held at gunpoint.

Eyes opened, my breaths are rapid. Still doesn't tell how you got here, stupid.

There are drawers, cabinets. In those, there has to be photo albums or documents. Something on the wall catches my attention. Glancing at it, all I can read from this distance is that it's a diploma from Rice University in Houston, Texas. Moving towards it, my name becomes visible.

Bachelors in Science.

I don't remember any of that. I don't remember college. Or frat parties. Or graduating. I remember dropping out of the University of Houston. I remember working my way through IBM. I remember that I can't remember any of this.

To begin my alternate life, I would have to dig through photos, for my birth certificate.

I find the lock box hidden in the hall closet. No key. Frustrated, I beat my hands against it. Over and over, with no effect. Well, none other than my aching hands. I feel very furious, almost impotent with rage and confusion.

"If this is a game," I say to no one, looking at mirrors and picture frames, "It's over. THIS WHOLE THING IS OVER!"

Still nothing in return.

On the desk, there is an envelope. In the envelope, there is a key and a note.

I read this:

Illiana -
I know that you are confused right about now. I bet I am in your reality. You are me. I am you. I wanted to see how the other half lives. Wasn't that song a favorite of yours? Well, it's still a favorite of mine. The you that you forgot.

Take care of my life. I may want it back some day.

Sincerely - and we both know I mean it,
Illiana

The key fits the fire safe. But it all looks the same. My diploma. My best friends. They all seem the same at a quick glance. It's not until I get to the later years that I see the differences. I continued on without drugs, without succumbing to the abuse of my mother. I look almost happy all the time.

This life is happy. Why did she want to leave? I let out a breath of relief, knowing all that I could do.

A new folder. Remnents of child labor. All names I recognize as one I would have always preferred. One - a boy - was named Mark. The girl was Alexis. Another photo - a marriage photo. A younger version of me. A handsome guy I had a crush on years before.

A panic attack follows. Me? Married? Children? No, no, NO! I am still a child myself..

A door opens behind me. Pitter patter of little feet. Another set of footsteps. Big feet.

Are they going to know it's me? Or her? Or whoever? Can I be what they want me to be?

"Mommie!" They wail, flinging their arms around my neck. Looking at them from my mess of papers, I hug back. I feel dizzy, like I should lay down.

He looks down at me, the husband. I raise my gaze to meet his. He smiles.

"Are you feeling better, honey? That was some headache you had back there. I took the kids out for a ride so we could let you sleep." He plants a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. I haven't seen him in ten years. For him, it might have been ten minutes. My last memories come flooding back. He's still waiting for an answer.

Without skipping a beat, I answer, "Yes. Yes, I'm doing fine now. What do you want me to cook for dinner?"

Asphalt Diary

2004-03-31T09:25:35Z

Title: Asphalt Diary
Date: 05 March 1999
A/N: No fandom. Something I wrote when I had this weird epiphany.

The small journey between my office and my car is generally the most torturous. I have spent those minutes upon minutes smelling the rubber stained pavement, thinking of deadly acts I could force upon myself. I imagine, as I walk over the suspension planks that lead elevators to stairs, all sorts of death. Ascending the stairs, I remind myself that I had been meaning to climb to the 6th level of the parking garage, walk across the suspended crosswalk and jump over the side of the railing. I always envision aiming for the concrete picnic tables below in the smoking area. I can see my body, twisted and broken, laying across the benchs and tables. A demented smile cross my face, and I feel as though those flighty bimbos from the 9th floor can read mythoughts. I hope they can read them. Their little brains would be so afraid.

My rubber souled shoes softly palpitate across the sidewalk. I can hear the screams of the smokers as my body plunges into their break. I can smell my body - the sweat and blood - and feel my heart beat slow down with the last breath I take. Oh, the thoughts turn me on. I remind myself to masturbate when I get home. I note to myself to take a mental picture of the exact moment my body lands in my imagination. Remember all the blood, the way my body twists against the concrete. The lacerations. My broken glasses pentrating one of my eyes. My bone and gore soaked hair. Torn clothing. Chipped teeth. All of it enthralls me and tempts me to shove my hand into my pants right then. had it not been for all the cameras I knew were around me, I would have. Instead, I'll utilize my bedroom once I get home.

The freshly painted rails, I think, would look a lot better peppered in my blood. A splatter here. A dash there. A pop song has wedged it's way into my head. I hear Alex sing, "wondering which way of the week I'll die on now." It adds to my morbidity of the moment. For these five minutes, everyday, I hear all the death in every song I've ever heard. I think about my friend Rebecca who was murdered four years ago. The countless number of mourners there. I recall my grandmother's death and not being allowed to go to the funeral. The dreams I began having at nine, when I imagined I was falling so hard and so fast. I woke up with a jump from that vision, a scream choked in my throat. All the numerous times the same dream revisted me. I find myself in awe of the heights and the spectacular beauty of elevation. I always find myself looking down again, though. Trying to find the ground, my targets. Where I would land. Where I want to land. I have to grab onto the railings to steady myself, overcome with fears and adrenaline. I thought for a long time that I was doing it to keep myself from falling over the edge. I know now, I grab onto something - anything - to keep myself from jumping over the rails.

Snogging Me Softly / Already

2004-03-08T10:00:44Z

Title: Snogging Me Softly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Lavender Brown/Seamus Finnegan
Type/Words: Drabble/100
A/N: Challenge from velsy. Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnegan go to the Yule Ball. Stipulation? Lavender thinks it's just as friends; Seamus thinks it's a date.

Lavender hadn’t expected it, so when Seamus leaned over to kiss her, her mouth dropped open in shock. Of course, this only served Seamus’s purposes more. He mistook it to mean she wanted a snog, but Lavender couldn’t very well take it back now that Seamus’s tongue was in her mouth, probing her teeth and pallet. She didn’t even feel like closing her eyes, so she stared up at the ceiling, letting him do whatever it is he was doing. Not that she was complaining..

When Seamus finally pulled away, Lavender realized that she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.

Title: Already
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Roger Davies, Fleur Delacour
Type/Words: Drabble/100
A/N: What REALLY happened in the rose bushes at Yule Ball

Roger’s foot tapped nervously. He really wished Fleur would get down on her knees already. It’s not that she wasn’t beautiful, but seeing her like that was doing nothing for him. He smirked, foot still tapping. When she asked him to the Ball, he thought he would get a little something more than this out of it. After the humiliation he suffered at the dinner? He had slapped the table, missed his mouth with his fork? That was all for show. All for this moment with Fleur in the rose bushes.

“For Merlin’s sake, Fleur. Just lick my shoes already.”

Lunch with Padma

2004-03-06T11:13:38Z

Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Lunch with Padma
Words: 1446
Characters: Padma Patil, Dawn Mescher
A/N: Challenge from ragingtears based on the question in JKR's most recent chat.
If you could spend a day in real life with one of your fictional characters, who would it be and what would you do?
JK Rowling replies -> I think I'd most like to spend a day with Harry. I'd take him out for a meal and apologise for everything I've put him through.

---------------------------------------------

I couldn’t keep my eyes still. I kept glancing towards the door of the Starbucks. My assignment was simple. I was supposed to have lunch with my character Padma Patil. Yeah, it gets even funnier, I assure you. She’s in my head so much, yelling at me and telling me all her thoughts and how I should say this for her and do that. When Greg gave me the assignment, I laughed.

“Okay,” I thought. “This’ll be funny.”

But now I’m here. And I’m sitting in this coffee shop because I just know she’s going to storm out just as quickly as she storms in.

So there they go again. My eyes dart to the glass doors. She’s still not here. She can’t Apparate yet, so I guess I’m waiting for her to fly in? Or perhaps on a portkey? Would they even make a portkey for that? My fingers are drumming on the table. Maybe she got lost? Maybe she’s not coming?

But then I see her.

She’s exactly like I imagined. It’s a weekday, so she’s wearing her Hogwarts’ uniform and her Ravenclaw robes. Her short hair is neat and tucked behind her ears. I’d say that her sister got a hold of her before she left. She’s nervous, I can tell.

I start to stand up, but she waves an impatient hand. Her fingers are stained with ink. There’s a permanent writing callous as well. Funny, I hadn’t thought of that. She’s wearing the necklace that Roger gave her for Valentine’s Day. And the ring, too, I see. Padma looks at me helplessly.

“I’ve no idea what I should order?” She asked, a bit concerned with how she sounds. I know this, because she knows this. “I could use your assistance. You know me better than I know myself; what would I enjoy?”

Smirking, I stand up and order an herbal tea with extra honey. Padma’s lips twitch in amusement. She’s realized that I really do know her well. She takes a seat, steeping her tea. Staring down at the little bags, she doesn’t even introduce herself. There’s no point. We know each other already; we’ve just never met.

She looks up at me, sadly. Flatly, she asks, “Why are you doing this to me?”

I start floundering like a fish. My mouth opens and closes a few times. Why was I doing this to her? I had to seriously think about it.

“I guess I want to see how you grow?” I tell her.

“I’d say that’s not a very nice reason,” she said, drawing her attention back to her tea. “I could forgive you for forcing me to break up with Roger in the first place. That wasn’t you; you had to have something to explain my absence.”

Padma’s got this way about her. It’s hard to explain without seeing her, without envisioning her. She almost glides. Her movements are smooth and seem to be calculated, even when she’s caught off guard. So when she brings her gaze back up to look at me, from under her eyelashes, it’s like she’s in a movie. Her dark eyes are almost too expressive. Would anyone really make that face in real life? No, and that’s really the point. She’s Subtlety… With a capital S, dot dot dot.

“But Mulciber? Why?” She’s pleading with me, with her eyes, with her voice – which is also exactly as I imagined it. That mixture of feminine timbre, but throaty enough to give it weight. Her words come out in confidence where my own are punctuated by stuttering, memory loss, and lack of vocabulary.

I feel bad for her. I’ve only just created her in my head, and suddenly I’ve given her death, death threats, peer animosity, concerns, worries, and ultimatums. Then I remember: there’s also been good communication lines with her and Roger these days, that she’s got a friend in Professor Snape and Luna Lovegood. Even Lisa Turpin rushed to Padma and Luna’s defense. Roger told her that he loved her, and she reciprocated. They’ve kissed more times than he and Hermione ever did. And, I even sent the little secret message her way that Xan – Roger’s author – told me. Roger apologized for dating Hermione, that he was grieving over the loss of her. Most people never get half as much as what Padma’s got right now. There’s intrigue, magic, celebrities, everything most people want out of life.

“Because you needed to break out of your little bubble, Padma. There comes a point when you have to grow up and realize that death is a part of life.” I tell her, shrugging. She’s not going to like what I have to say anyway, so it’s best to be honest. And I’m right. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit. Her eyebrows furrow as her eyes narrow.

“Cedric’s death wasn’t enough for you? What about all those people in Hogsmeade? Granger’s parents?” Padma’s face hardened quicker than I’ve ever imagined as she said the name. The animosity I put in place was certainly working on the girl. But just as suddenly as her temper reared its head, her face turned so sad. And then I understood why Roger could never stand to see her cry or be upset. It’s no wonder he professed his love for her in Hogsmeade, she had nearly been crying. How he’d become mush at the sight. I sat there, making a face, hoping it would keep me mean. I was never meant for a management position, that’s for sure.

I exhaled loudly. “Did any of those affect you directly?”

Her shoulders slumped, one of her quirks when she felt defeated. She opened her mouth, looking very much like she was going to burst into tears. I had to look away. I glanced at the door suddenly.

“Roger’s father affected me greatly.” Padma croaked.

I just shook my head. “I didn’t do that.”

“I know.” She licked her lips. “He’s really upset, you know?”

I nodded, not really knowing what to say. The girl spent more time with him than I did. What would I know about it? I know that despite her tendencies to run away, I’m now making her fight. For Roger. For her life. For her family. She’s not used to it, and it shows. She’s grown up under daddy’s wing for far too long.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. Padma took a sip of her tea, wincing at the heat. She looks up at me, thinking I’ve done it.

“You’re in the real world kid; I’ve got no control over anything here.” I laughed. At least I got her to crack a smile. I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled, but I quickly added, “Cheer up; things do turn out alright in the end.”

It had effect I expected. She perked up considerably. Padma’s smile turned brighter. And I knew she was going to ask –

“Yeah? How do things turn out in the end?”

I chuckled. “Padma, you know I can’t tell you everything. I will tell you this: Xan and I have hinted that Padma – er, you and Roger will get married. In the long run, that’s what we see. Does that comfort you?”

I could tell that her heart was thudding loudly in her chest. Her entire face lit up with this new knowledge. Silly, predictable girl. I couldn't help but laugh a little louder. I know that she doesn’t giggle, but she damn near came close to it just then. She covered her mouth quickly, realizing that she was too excited. I could just tell she was plotting wedding dates in her hear.

“Would you be willing to tell me one more thing? Then, I really should be getting back; I’ve got to meet with Professor Weasley in a few hours.” Padma glanced around the shop nervously.

“Nah,” I replied. “Ask away. And Padma? There are no Death Eaters here in the real world.”

She gave me the strangest half smirk – half sad smile. She was formulating her question to me. I already knew what she was going to ask, but I waited patiently. I took a sip of my frappuccino, because I knew I’d need it later for her adventures with Professor Weasley (and possibly Stephen Montague, one of her friends). I didn’t want to mention that I’d need it for Vicky Frobisher later, as well.

“Will I ever learn to play chess the way Roger plays chess?” Padma asked, with both eyebrows raised.

I shook my head. “I’m not a good chess player, kid. Sorry. Now get out of here before Dumbledore knows you’re gone. Don’t want you to get in trouble.”

The Ceiling in Filch's Office Is Grey (or I Don't Want to Look Anywhere BUT There)

2004-03-02T18:07:20Z

Title: The Ceiling in Filch's Office Is Grey (or I Don't Want to Look Anywhere BUT There)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Ron Weasley, Filch
Words: 100
Challenge: hpsquick100 Filch/Any Weasley
A/N: It's not really sexual, but it is EW.

Will not think about it. Bad enough that Harry had flown off with my sister. Ron had run after them, fully intending on scolding his sister, when that filthy cat hissed at him. Filch followed seconds after, looking like the Tooth Fairy came early. He’d demanded that Ron follow him to his office.

Moments later, Ron was staring at the ceiling, waiting for Filch’s bargain. He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to it. Oh yeah, I don’t need another howler from mum.

He happened to look down the instant Filch opened his gnarly mouth, his tongue lapping on his toes.

Fool's Hold

2004-03-02T13:09:52Z

Title: Fool's Hold
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Crabbe, Goyle (Goyle's perspective)
Words: 782
A/N: A quest from velsy! Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, else perish bravely in the charge! (Translation: Crabbe and Goyle venture into the girls' lavatory!) Lots of piss talk.

Goyle squirmed in irritation. It was funny; he referred to himself as Goyle, though his first name was Gregory. He’d been called Goyle his entire school career. Mostly, by Malfoy, but everyone seemed to call him by that. He’d gotten used to it.

He clutched his groin tightly. The pain was unbelievable. Whatever the Weasley Twins had put in their pumpkin juice shot straight through him; and now the urge to urinate came on strong. He didn’t have to wonder, though, if Crabbe was feeling the same way. Crabbe’s face contorted into the kind of face sprawling the pages of PlayWizard. Goyle snorted before chuckling. Then the pain of urination smothered him again and he groaned.

Crabbe flashed a very confused wince before mumbling, “Bathroom. Now.”

Goyle only nodded in return. They raced down the second floor, scanning for lavatories. They all appeared to be classrooms or offices – anything but restrooms.

“Where’s a bloody bathroom when you need one?” Goyle complained.

Up ahead, Fred and George were grinning broadly, holding open a door. Crabbe’s brow furrowed, making him look very ape-like. Again, Goyle contained his laughter as the discomfort in groin suddenly increased. He waddled down the hallway, about pissing on himself. Crabbe tried his best to keep up, but his short stature kept him trailing behind Goyle. Crabbe stepped on his heel, nearly causing him to fall on his face. Luckily, he took his hand off himself long enough to push against the wall. Fred or George – he never could tell the difference between them – snorted in laughter down the hallway.

Yeah, laugh it up now, but you’ll be sorry soon. Goyle charged faster to the door they were holding open. He didn’t care what it was the twins laced his drink with. Didn’t even care that they now seemed to be their benefactors. He just needed release.

Passing them by – ignoring their mirth – he shoved Crabbe in ahead of him; not out of politeness, though. It was primarily in case the twins had another ace up their sleeve. Crabbe could find out before he did, that much was certain. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

Crabbe, however, had stopped as soon as he walked in. Behind them, the door slammed shut. Goyle spun around to look, but didn’t gawk at it long. He forced Crabbe ahead into the lavatories. They could hear a soft hissing sound.

“Uh, Goyle?” came the chubby boys voice.

“Shut up, wanker. I’ve got to piss.” Goyle retorted.

“Where’s the pissing toilets?” Crabbe was staring around the room with his mouth open.

Shaking his head, Goyle dismissed him until he realized that: no, for once Crabbe was right. There weren’t any. Blankly, he looked around. Stalled doors lined the wall. In the center were the washbasins. But Crabbe was right: no pissers. Crabbe scratched his head, dumbly. He looked like an ape picking fleas off himself. Goyle hunched over.

“Uh? Hello?” Goyle yelled. “Where are the bloody pissers?”

Crabbe imitated him. “Hello? We need to pee!”

No one answered. Goyle guffawed. Of course, no one answered, you git. No one talks when they’re in the crapper. But when the irritation flared again, Goyle started getting mad. His brow furrowed. He cracked the knuckles on his free hand.

“I know you’re in here! Where are the bloody pissers?” Goyle shouted even louder, walking to the stalled doors. “I can hear you, you know!” He added, irritated beyond words.

The hissing sound got louder and louder. It sounded like someone was crying? Goyle groaned, bending over to hold his aching groin. Crabbe followed him, knowing they were going to kick some serious wizard arse if they didn’t respond again. Goyle stopped in front of a stall. He thought the hissing sound was coming from there.

“Look, I’m gonna kick yer teeth in if I come in there.” He said, gruffly.

No answer.

“Right.” Goyle raised an eyebrow to Crabbe who was nodding in encouragement. Goyle shook his head. He lifted his leg and kicked the stall door open.

Moaning Myrtle hovered above the toilet, sobbing. She caught sight of the boys as the stall door broke off its hinge. She suddenly howled a horrible high pitch squeal that made Crabbe and Goyle let go of their privates and clutch their ears. Both of them were wincing in shock and pain.

Suddenly, Myrtle took a nose dive into the toilet. The plumbing burst and water shot out in every direction. Goyle tried to cover his mouth with his hand. He jumped backwards, spitting out water. He fell on his arse, tripping Crabbe in the process. They were soaked.

Luckily, Goyle thought, no one will know we pissed ourselves.

Cut to the Scene

2004-03-02T02:34:12Z

Fandom: Buffy
Title: Cut to the Scene
Characters: Buffy, Spike, Willow, Xander, Giles, Joyce
A/N: Set directly after "Crush" - 5th Season. Spike's confessed his love. Buffy's gone an de-vampired her house. It's not finished and probably never will be. So.. sorry. (Also, not very good!)

Cut to the Scene

There is a scent of some dark musk in the room. She can taste it. Her whitest mary jane styled shoes give way to a set of pale legs. Her dress is stained as if it has not been washed in ages. Her hair is jet black. A slender hand reaches for the nightstand where she has left a glass of what appears to be wine. Her eyes are closed; she has no need for sight in this instance. She can smell where her desire comes from.

Equally strong is the sense that she is not alone.

“I wondered how long it would be before you found me,” she grins before tasting her liquor. She lets the taste linger on her tongue. She can sense his wonder and curiosity peaking.

“You.. look just like her.” His thick British accent aroused her instantly. “Well, except the black hair and the non-tanned skin, but everything else..”

“I was waiting for you here. I know you have a fondness for this place.” As she sits up in bed, his eyes widen.

“You really do,”

“Do you know why?”

“I wager you’re going to tell me. If I can keep a secret.” Spike snarls a toothy grin, mischievous and her arousal goes even further.

“Oh no, I want you to open your mouth. Even if it is to scream. Especially if it is to scream.” She smiles and swings her legs across the bed, sitting up fully. “This way is much more fun, less pressure.” The girl vamps out.

Spike can’t react. All of his senses keep him locked to the one spot. Even as she walks towards him. Even as she digs her nails into the flesh of his neck. Even as her teeth scrape along his collarbone. Even as she pierces his flesh. He barely reacts at all, as if in paralysis. This unnerves her.

“You’re not going to scream?” but she can see his jaw clench as though he is trying not to say anything. He doesn’t know what to make of it. She can feel it running through his body. He can’t decide if he wants to take her or kill her.

She likes that.

* * *

He climbs the stairs of 1630 Revello Drive. He only knocks because it’s polite. And he wants to stay on Buffy’s mother’s good side. With a new player in town, he has to be extra careful. The revocation of his invite hurt, but not enough to stay away. He drops his cigarette on the porch, stamping it out with his foot.

“Spike, uh, what are you doing here?” Joyce’s pursed face tells him everything he needs to know. Buffy has told her everything. She’s not nearly as pretty when she’s angry. Not like Buffy at all.

With his best coy look, he looks up at her. “I came by with a spot of information for your daughter.” A minor pause for affect; his eyebrow arches slightly. “I’m not asking for an invitation.”

Joyce looked around the neighborhood before sighing, “Talk fast, before she gets home.”

* * *

“It’s done. Can I go now?” He was angry. She could hear it in his voice. She could smell something on him that was wrong. Something that told her he would betray her in the end.

So she used it.

“You’re in love with her! I should have known!” She laughed hard and long. “Well, I’ve got a special surprise for you. I’ll tell you my plan; you might just like it.”

She caught a glint of mischief in his eye.

* * *

There was a clink of the bell above the Magic Box door. Willow and Tara followed it, hand in hand.
Buffy smiled up at them. “Hey!”

“How are we coming with the whole Glory situation?” Willow was in serious mode. This killed any hopes of lighthearted conversation Buffy could have. Always business. She was tired of being always business.

There were always demons to fight and worlds to save. Always friends in need. No one ever stopped to think about her needs. Riley just left her. She needed more than work to keep her mind off it. She needed her friends, and they were all off in the Land of the Happy Couples. She still didn’t understand Anya and Xander’s relationship. She was always hurting feelings with her bluntness; he was always condescending to her about humanity. What could be so great about that?

Then she remembered: sex. They seemed to talk about that more than anything else. Buffy remembered the first time her and Riley had sex.

It wasn’t all sweetness. After patrol with the Initiative, the urge was overpowering. Side by side, killing demons. No wonder she and Angel had such strong chemistry. No wonder her sex with Riley was fast and furious that night. Faith was right all along.

Willow was still staring at her. “Uh, you okay, Buffy?”

“Oh, fine. Didn’t get much sleep last night with the slaying and the not sleeping.”

Willow seemed to accept this situation. Watching her and Tara together was like watching a modern day musical. Nothing could ever go wrong in that relationship. They seemed to bring out the best of each other. Tara became more outgoing, more comfortable in her own shell. Not like the days when she would have stuttered through most of her sentences. Willow explored every part of her she had kept hidden since the days of hiding A Charlie Brown Christmas from her family.

And it wasn’t like Buffy was jealous in a bad way. Things just weren’t like that between her and Riley. Sure there was chemistry and she cared about him, but she realized she never really loved him. She was sure he knew it, too. Never loved him, practically used him to make her feel as though she could have a nice boy if she wanted one. That she didn’t need a certain dark, brooding man who left her to fight evil in LA. She needed him to move on. She just didn’t count on hurting him as badly as she had. She wondered now what he was doing or if he ever thought of her. She wanted him to want her, but she knew it was for the best that they parted.

Then there was Spike. Spike who seemed to show up in time to show her Riley’s bad Vamp habits. Spike who seemed to spring up from her basement just when she needed help from the Queller demon. How he showed up in time to pretty much help her with everything. And he didn’t do that disappearing act that Angel used to do. He wasn’t very stealthy. Well, not with her anyway.

She realized she had wandered from relationship woes, to sexual woes, to Spike. That both confused and repulsed her. Spike? Please, what am I thinking?

“The Buffster’s got her thinking cap on.” Xander was staring at her from across the table.

“We’re not going anywhere with these books. She’s not in these. We know she’s a God. How the hell am I supposed to fight a God?” Her eyes were wild with nervousness. She was fairly certain most of her friends had seen it before.

“Don’t worry. The good guys always win. Or is that, the nice guys always finish las-” Xander broke off, realizing he wasn’t helping and that he might get hurt. He jumped up, notifying the entire shop he was on a donut crawl.

Buffy pouted and flopped her head down against a book. “This is useless. I can’t give Dawn to her. I can’t defeat her. What do I do? Giles! Some help here?”

Giles stepped out from behind the counter, mumbling, “Of course you need help. I’m not giving much, am I?”

Troll in the Dungeons

2004-02-29T13:11:25Z

Title: Troll in the Dungeons
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil (with cameos by S Fawcett, Marietta Edgecomb, Cho Chang, Penelope Clearwater, and Kevin Entwhistle)
Words: 1503
A/N:
--------------------------

Sam Fawcett passed her a pumpkin pasty. Padma smiled her thanks before taking a bite out of the tasty morsel. Unfortunately, though, the sweet was just that: too sweet for Padma’s tastes. She made a face before setting it down on her plate. Maybe small bites at random intervals would curb the richness.

Padma turned a page in her Transfiguration book. She had a firm grasp on the nature of transfiguration, but her practical application seemed lacking. Maybe there was something she was missing when she converted the framework into action. Her brow furrowed as she trying to find the missing link.

A burst of laughter from her own table caught her attention. She lifted her face in the direction of the noise. There, she saw Cho, Marietta, Kevin, and Penelope laughing. She felt an unfamiliar kind of ache. Before Hogwarts, she’d never really needed many friends. She had her books and her father. She always had her father. Here she was, months and miles away from him, without a single friend. Sure, she was polite with Sam, but they didn’t seem to have much in common except their studies. Lisa was a sweet girl, but even more quiet than Padma was.

In the center of the group was Roger Davies, smiling broadly. His dimples grew deeper as he laughed. Padma felt her lips curl up in a small smile. It appeared that he had made some kind of joke. He waved his hand to gain their attention. After a few moments, he gained their attention once more.

Padma watched with increasing interest. She remembered his words, “Hope to see you in Ravenclaw” on the train to Hogwarts, but he didn’t seem to recall it or her. Not that she could blame him, she was an ickle first year who never talked. She hadn’t the courage to go up to him, seeing as he was two years her senior. She was at the bottom of the totem pole. She certainly couldn’t blame him for not talking to her. What would she say to him, even if she could form sentences around him?

Roger leaned over the table, talking in a manner that suggested he was talking about something more serious this time. His eyebrow rose. His hand movements were small, but she liked them. He would emphasize a point with a motion of his hand. Padma watched the other’s reacting to him. Marietta was positively glowing as she watched Roger. Her eyes never let him. Padma thought that Marietta might have a crush on him, and why not? He was good looking, smart, funny, charming, polite, generous…

Breaking out of her reverie, she sighed, looking down at her plate again. Suddenly, she just wasn’t hungry. She pushed her plate out in front of her. As she did so, the food on it disappeared. The charms placed on the castle seemed to know what she was thinking. She imagined that the plate knew how she felt. She stared down at the empty place, taking a deep breath, putting her fist under her chin. She started to daydream when -

“Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know!”

Padma twisted around in her seat to see who had interrupted dinner. She looked up Professor Quirrell who was breathless and looking very much as thought he was going to faint. A bit of irritation showed on her face. For Merlin’s Sake, you’re the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and you can’t seem to handle ANY of it!

Then he did faint. Professor Quirrell sank to the floor in a most unattractive manner. The Ravenclaw table was in the center of the Great Hall, and the professor had stopped right next to her. She winced as the words he’d spoken sank in. There’s… a troll.. inside the castle?

Her eyes went wide. The rest of her classmates had apparently realized the repercussions of what the professor had just said as well. There was an uproar as everyone tossed silverware onto their plates before leaping to their feet. Many students began shoving other students in the race to get out of the Great Hall. Padma was no exception. She’d read about trolls, of course, but the thought of coming up against one was overwhelming. What on earth would she do if she encountered one? Her brow furrowed.

She’d only just swung her legs out from under the table when one of her own Housemates nearly pushed her over. Padma caught herself before she fell, though. She winced, realizing she’d bent her finger back in the scuttle. She put her finger to her lip, as if it would help any. Dumbledore’s voice rang clearly in the Hall. She stopped instantly and looked to him.

“Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately.”

Padma didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed her books and parchments, leaving behind her inkwell. If she took the time to retrieve it, she’d waste too much time. She tried to walk as calmly as she could, but some of the students were still rushing, talking animatedly about what a troll could do to a wizard. She tried very hard not to think about that.

A hurried Gryffindor pushed her hard, though, sending her books flying out of her arms. She frowned deeply, fully intending to scold Seamus Finnegan for assaulting her, but as she opened her mouth, she noticed loads of other classmates stepping all over her books.

“Oh, NO! My books!” She cried. Her shoulders slumped. She bent over to pick them up. One of the pages ripped out of her Transfiguration book. She groaned loudly, but it was not heard over the din in the Hall. Every time she reached out to take a book, someone nearly stepped on her hand. Nearly crying with frustration, she ran her hand through her hair. There was a hand on her back. Startled, she jumped and turned to look at whoever touched her, ready to scream her head off.

But it was Roger.

Her anger ebbed away quickly, but it translated into poorly concealed fear. She was shaking, she realized. Stammering, she said, “M-m-my books. Seamus knocked them out of my hands.”

Roger smiled sympathetically, bending over and grabbing them. He gave a dirty look as Harry Potter nearly ran into them both. He was talking to the youngest Weasley without any regard to anyone else around them. She only overheard them talking about that Granger girl crying in a bathroom.

Granger, she rolled her eyes. That girl has a serious Know It All complex. Every time she’d raised her hand in class, Padma wanted to smack it down. Most of the teachers seemed to like her, though, which made her dislike the girl even more. When test results came back, Padma was always one point lower than Granger. It was enough to make her seethe with anger. She was used to being the one dotted on and commended for her smarts. At Hogwarts, she always seemed to be overlooked for Granger.

Roger handed her books back to her, putting his hand on her back to lead her out of the Hall. Padma swallowed hard. His. Hand. Is. On. My. Back. If the situation hadn’t been so ridiculous, Padma would not have believed it happened.

As soon as they started up the Grand Staircase, though, Roger’s hand left her back. She felt a sudden chill where his hand had been. Why couldn’t he have kept it there? He hadn’t even said anything to her. Was she completely revolting? Why? Why? Why?

Up the staircases, they went. Roger was still walking beside her, but he hadn’t seemed to notice that she was even there. It was the only thing worse than a troll being loose in the castle, she was sure. Well, troll and failing her end of term exams.

Maybe she should join the Quidditch team? Or play chess, as she’d seen him do with Kevin so many times? Maybe she should curl her hair like Marietta? Or giggle a lot like Cho? Or be more serious like Penelope? Or –

Or maybe you should stop obsessing about this, Padma! Really, you’re as bad as Parvati! She scoffed. She was not like Parvati, not in the least. Parvati was obsessed with boys. Plural. Padma was infatuated with one boy. Singular.

Then the herd of students suddenly stopped. Quizzical, she looked around. People were whispering. The Boy Who Lived had apparently outsmarted a troll in his first year. Padma stomped her foot. Why couldn’t she have done that? She could have saved the day, and then Roger was sure to notice her then!

Oh well, she thought to herself. At least I won’t have to go back to the Great Hall and pretend to be festive. She trudged the rest of the way back to the Ravenclaw Tower, heading straight for her dormitory to figure out where she was going wrong in Transfiguration class. At least, she would get one thing right at Hogwarts.

nowhiteflag @ 2004-02-27T17:22:00

2004-02-27T23:22:25Z

Title: Return
House: Gryffindor
Word Count: 100
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black
Author's Notes & Ramblings: As of the beginning of Order of the Phoenix
----------------------

Most days, he just looked out the window. He would watch as muggles made their way to work. At daybreak, they tended to be much more rushed. They dropped briefcases and purses, sipped from mugs, and checked their watches. Every sunset, they would loosen their ties or pull off their heels before they had even reached their doors.

12 Grimmauld Place seemed too isolated. Locked away, on Dumbledore's orders. He sniffed, jerking his head, as if he hadn't spent years bouncing locations to resist being caught. Azkaban was not a place he'd like to return. He would rather die than go back.

Damaged, Dirty, & Drained

2004-02-27T23:15:18Z

Title: Damaged, Dirty, & Drained
Challenge: Three people are sitting on the steps.
Word Count: 100
Characters/Pairings: Mostly Buffy - thinking of Spike
Author's Notes & Ramblings: First Starbuck's after the Hellmouth's destruction
__________

She stopped before opening the door. Willow, Xander, and Dawn were sitting on the stairs, sipping coffee, looking exhausted. She could make out other slayers: damaged, dirty, and drained.

She’d never tell anyone what she told Spike down in the Hellmouth. That was between them. For what it was worth, she meant it; he’d never know. Buffy looked down at her frappucino, suddenly not feeling like talking. She sank into the nearest chair.

Instinctively, her hands fumbled in her pockets, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he’d asked her to hold. Then it hit her: he’d never smoke these again.

Empty Form

2004-02-26T08:23:15Z

Title: Empty Form
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter
Words: 295
A/N: Originally, I wrote this as an action entry of something that Harry went through on an RPG. It's 6th Year Harry. No serious spoilers in here, save something about another Pensieve. However, it doesn't give any details of what went on in it... so it doesn't spoil it.

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Harry sat in the empty common room looking into the warm fire. In his lap, he held what could be the keys to his animagus transformation. He had locked it away in his truck so no one could find it.

Now, he was sure everyone was in class. In fact, he should be in class, but was skipping out to read in private. He hadn't told anyone but Remus what he was doing. The truth was that he was going to do this whether McGonagall had suggested it or not. He was sure Dumbledore had put it into McGonagall's hands to send him down the right path. There was nothing going on in this building that Dumbledore didn't know. Especially not in his deputy headmistress.

It didn't matter anyway. He had been entertaining that idea for ages. He'd had it in his mind ever since he had heard his father had worked to become one.

So now, he sat, staring at the books. He flipped open to a page and saw writing. He recognized it as his father's. It was accompanied by similar doodles as he saw in Snape's pensieve that day.

His eyes immediately misted over. He suddenly sat up, scanning the pages for more remnants of his father. He had been like this when Hagrid had given him the photograph album at the end of his first year. Voraciously watching every page to find more and more hints about his parents. He found another similar doodle of LE, with a scribbled heart around it. Harry traced it with his finger.

"Mum," he whispered softly.

Suddenly, the portal hole swung open. He swiped his face and closed the book. He jumped up, grabbing his school books and made his way to his next class.

Sort of Fear (HP)

2004-02-24T10:27:14Z

Title: Sort of Fear
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil
Words: 760
A/N: Padma goes through the Sorting Process.

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“Patil, Padma!”

Taking shaky breaths, Padma took the first step up the small stairs to the stool set out in front of the Hall. Every eye was on her. She thought hyperventilation would be the best option. Padma wasn’t used to this kind of attention. She was used to cooing and coaxing by her parent’s customers. She recalled the adults praising her, telling her father what a magnificent child she was. How precocious, how sharp, how quick-witted, they called her.

Another step.

Remember what your father told you, Padma, she reminded herself. ‘It doesn’t matter what House you get sorted into. You’ll still my brilliant daughter.’ Thinking about her father seemed to ease her mind. She turned around, facing the rest of the students. There were hundreds of gawking students. It seemed to Padma that there were thousands.

Yet another step.

She revived the words she’d read about the Sorting Hat: how it came to be and where it might place her. She remembered that Godric Gryffindor, one of the founding members of Hogwarts, had taken the hat off his very head. What had it sang, just moments before?

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folks use any means
To achieve their ends.

Sitting down, she closed her eyes. Think positive, Padma warned herself. Where do you want to be for the next seven years?

Did she want to be in Gryffindor? Was she brave? Did she have nerve? She didn’t feel very daring. What of Hufflepuff, then? She was loyal, almost to a fault. She couldn’t even remember the number of times she had defended her sister to the other children their age when Parvati’s abrasive temper would get out of line. Padma was not afraid of work, either. Ravenclaw? It could be, she thought. She’d always felt quick when it came to books. She loved to read and learn. Or would it be Slytherin? She was clever, but she didn’t think she could possibly cheat off someone else’s parchment to get ahead.

The hat came down on her head. The wide brim opened. It seemed to her that something probed her head, separating her lobes. Padma opened her eyes to darkness. The hat was so enormous it nearly covered her entire head. She was just about to chuckle, when a voice inside her head spoke.

“Do you think you’re daring and bold, my dear?” The voice very nearly scared her to death. It sent a shiver down her spine. She wondered if she was losing her nerve on that very spot. It occurred to her that she had no idea if she would consider herself adventurous. It could be said that being so was reckless and rash. Padma pursed her lips together, without answering.

“You have potential in here to be brave, my dear.” Came the reply. “But, alas, it’s not enough.”

Enough what? Padma mused. Did she hear a chuckle in return?

“Ah. Perhaps you are fair to a fault? Are you afraid of hard work?” Padma scoffed at the voice. She was hardly foolhardy just. There were some things that she couldn’t help. For instance, any time Parvati spent any time with their father, Padma felt a surge of jealousy. They have nothing in common! She’d always tell herself, frowning. She would hold it over her father for days. Everyone knows Mum is Parvati’s favorite. Why does she have to take my time away?

This time, it was a snort. “No, no. Definitely not. Do you prefer books to people? Would you say you’re quick-minded?”

Padma smirked. Books don’t get upset when you don’t talk. Books don’t yell at you, or tell you that you’re a goody-goody. Books don’t-

“Yes, yes. The voice answered. Its tone seemed mocking. “I understand completely. I see that you are crafty. You have a great gift. No one would ever see you coming, would they?”

Padma opened her mouth to vocally reply. She felt insulted by the hat. How dare it call her that! Why, if this wasn’t school property I’d-

“Oh well. Better be –“ Suddenly, there was a movement on top of her head as the brim ripped open before shouting, “RAVENCLAW!”

Before We All Die / Comet

2004-02-20T05:18:22Z

Title: Before We All Die
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 100
Characters/Pairings: Harry, Ron, Hermione

Hermione looked skeptical. "I’m not getting on that thing." She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Her lips pursed together in resolve. She tapped her foot. "You’re going to have to think of another way to get me on that thing."

Harry sighed. "It’s just a thestral. Get on." He reached his hand to rub the scar, making it even redder on his forehead.

"I can’t even see it! How do you expect me to ride it?"

Ron stared between them. "One of us will die of boredom and then we’ll all see them. Just get on it, Hermione."

Title: Comet
Fandom: HP
Word Count: 100
Characters/Pairings: Ron Weasley (George and Fred, somewhat)

George and Fred wanted practice. The volleying and basketing balls didn’t make noise or wriggle in your hands like bludgers. They could really knock you off your broom though, sending you slamming into the house or sliding in the mud.

“Oy! Flint! Don’t look out!” Fred would yell before sending the ball at him, with a horrendous laugh. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t be Flint anymore; he’d be Malfoy.

He was getting so good at dodging, the twins started playing dirtier and dirtier. It wasn’t until he got his new Comet, that he could outrun them though.

Awake

2004-02-10T09:43:50Z

Title: Awake
Fandom: Memento
Words: 557
A/N: Post movie Leonard Shelby.

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Awake.

Nothing in the drawers, but I'll look anyway.

Nothing, except the Gideon Bible.

Well, almost nothing. Leonard cocked his head to get a better glimpse at the Polaroid. A man was obviously faced down. Blood splattered the walls, and it must have come from the man's head. Who was this man?

Leonard leapt from the bed, nearly twisting his ankle on the cheap motel bed. He slammed so forcefully into the wall; he felt a crack in his forehead. His mouth contorted into a twisted visage of pain. He fingered the throb, finding warm liquid. Immediately, Leonard trudged into the small bathroom.

In the mirror, he recognized his face, even if it seemed older than he thought it would be. The lines spoke too loudly to him, though. He stared at himself, lost in his reflection. He swallowed hard. Leonard opened the medicine cabinet. Empty, of course. He took a wash cloth from the top of the toilet, sticking it under the faucet.

It was then that he saw the writing on his hand.

Remember Sammy Jankis.

He tried to wipe it off, but it wouldn't come off. Tattooed, it seemed. His brow furrowed. Though he didn't know it, this was usually when the flashbacks would come.

His wife wasn't in bed. She must have gone to the bathroom. He rolled over; her side was still warm. She hadn't been out of bed for long. He waited quietly, drifting in and out of sleep. Then he realized it had been far too long.

"Honey? Honey, come back to bed. It's late."

No reply.

He rolled over, drowsily. Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, he dragged his feet towards the bathroom. There was some commotion in the bathroom. Multiple sets of feet, his wife's muffled scream. Suddenly wide awake, he burst in the room. She was on the floor.

And then his head slammed against the mirror.

The pain in his head was, mercifully - ha-ha - forgotten with the memories of his dead wife. He stumbled back into the bedroom.

"Now.. What was I doing?" He tapped his mouth with his finger. On the bed was a Polaroid. He picked it up, scrutinizing it. A man was obviously faced down. Blood splattered the walls, and it must have come from the man's head. Who was this man?

There was a strange throb in his temple. He fingered the spot, feeling a small lump. He must have hit his head sometime. Or someone else did it.

Still, the photograph in his hand caught his attention. It was old, dirty. He must have taken it a while ago, but for what reason? Had he been witness to a murder? Cold fear washed over him. He scrambled to get to his jacket. Inside, he found his photographs: people he had met along the way. Pictures just to remember their faces. Leonard shifted through them, trying to find anyone who could be this man. There were several men among them.

"Teddy" - Don't Believe His Lies. He is the one - kill him.

He looked up from the photographs to the mirror attached to the dresser. There were more tattoos. They covered his body. One in particular caught his attention. Center on his left peck, the words were larger than the rest.

I DID IT.

Leonard smiled in sick satisfaction at his reflection.

Buffy's Big Surprise

2004-02-10T08:41:35Z

Title: Buffy’s Big Surprise
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Words: 636
A/N: Buffy’s 30th birthday party. Surprise, surprise!

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It's been years since she's had an actual birthday party. Unless you count the time no one could leave her house because Dawn made a tiny little wish. Buffy's anxiety attacks always came around the time her birthday did. These, however, had nothing to do with getting older like most girls in their late twenties. Skirting nervously around the room, she made her way towards Xander who had aged quite gracefully.

She slid her arm through his, beaming up at him. His crooked smile met hers. She pulled him closer, edging onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. He leaned down, planting a small kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"Just like I always daydreamed in high school," Xander grinned.

Buffy smirked in return. "Uh, Xand? Drool." She pointed to her chin.

His high school stupidity returned quickly. He reached up to wipe his mouth when - "Ah! You're not getting me with that one again. Curbed that drooling reflex the day you finally succumbed to my dorky charms!"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Aw, how could I not?" She stuck out her bottom lip.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUFFY!" Willow yelled from the doorway.

Buffy let go of Xander's arm, running over to the red head. She nearly flung herself into Willow's arms.

"Uh, Buffy? Slayer strength and jumping at someone with -you know not-so-Slayer strength? Not such a good idea." Willow breathed as she caught her balance.

"Sorry, Will. Don't know my own strength sometimes." She smiled slightly, before her face fell. "You'd think after ten years, Buffy strength would be all run out!" Buffy winked at Xander, who gave a cocky grin, waggling his eyebrows.

Dawn sprinted into the room, followed by Giles with the birthday cake. Dawn bounded towards Buffy and the gang. "You are so going to love your cake, Buffy. We just picked it up. Ice cream and cake! It's gonna be big!"

Xander looked stricken. "Hey! That's my line! You stole my line!" He grabbed Dawn in a mock headlock and gave her a noogie. Buffy's features broke out in a wide grin, laughter erupting from her throat.

As Giles set the cake on the living room coffee table, everyone gathered around. The candles were lit. All. Thirty. Of. Them. Buffy stared down at them. She felt gratitude. Most slayers didn't make it to twenty one, let alone thirty. Here she was, surrounded by the same people who helped her throughout the years. A slayer isn't always alone, as she'd been led to believe. She made her way back to Xander, entwining her fingers in his. Buffy didn't think she'd ever felt this loved. She only wished her mother were alive to see this.

"Haaaaappy biiirthday to you!" came the resounding singing. Close friends, the slayers Willow had awakened, new friends in Rome – all of them singing for her. For once, maybe her birthday would be something beautiful and special. Not the horror show it used to be. She felt her throat constrict.

"Haaappyyy birhdaaaay! Dear Buffy!" Her life felt complete and whole. What was done was done. There were no skeletons in her closet. Angel? Over. Riley? SO OVER. She'd made a nice, neat, new life here in Rome with Xander.

"Happy birthday -" Suddenly, everything went quiet. Only Xander who was standing next to her was still singing. He ended the song, with a puzzled look on his face. "- to you. What happened?"

Giles's jaw went slack. Willow's eyes were saucers. Dawn's face went rigid. Everyone was staring in her direction. Did she have something on her face? Was her hair horrible? She reached her hand up to smooth it down. Xander had turned around, looking towards the door. He let go of her hand. His face turned red. Confused, Buffy turned around and looked up.

"Spike?"

In the End (Ron/Hermione)

2004-02-07T00:09:57Z

Characters: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger
Type: One Shot - Ron-ficathon entry
Comments: Ron reminisces after the downfall of Voldemort. Hermione is his only salvation.

In The End

Ron took a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. He walked along Diagon Alley not really paying attention to his surroundings. He passed Ollivander's small shop without a glance. His eyes wandered to the Magical Menagerie without noticing the small owl that looked very much like his hyperactive owl, Pigwidgeon. There was a sale on the latest broom. He passed over it completely.

In the earlier days - when Harry was still there - he could remember their excitement every time they made it to the Alley. All the latest Quidditch supplies, the ice cream parlor, Gambol and Japes. Everything felt so shiny and new - even his hand-me-downs.

Now there was nothing, save memories of the Boy Who Lived. The last battle had been won months before. Voldemort had fallen, but not before taking Harry with him. Watching Harry die had done this to Ron. His best friend of so many years veiled in blood. He hadn't taken Voldemort for such a brutal killer. Harry had just enough breath to whisper the killing curse before succumbing to his own wounds. Ron and Hermione had run to him, held his dying body in their arms; crying, begging for anyone to help Harry.

Save him, he remembered yelling. He saved us, it was the least we could do, right?

But the medi-witches were too late. Harry was gone before anyone got there. Ron had looked at Hermione, completely devoid of any emotion. No vibrancy for him anymore, nothing but pain. These days, he couldn't even muster up enough emotion to be numb.

Ron stumbled out of his reverie when he ran into Pansy Parkinson. He mumbled an apology before his usual foul expression for her took it's place. Pansy looked at him sadly. It seems this war took it's toll on her as well. Her eyes were just as dull as his. Her face was yellow. She looked as though she hadn't eaten since the Second War began.

"Sorry." He said again, not really caring anymore to disguise himself.

She nodded in return, not even opening her mouth to make a disparaging remark. He wondered how her life was now that Draco Malfoy was gone as well. He wondered if she even knew he was the one who cut Malfoy down. Ron stepped around her, not even bothering to insult her.

There was one thing Ron could think of that could snap him out of this funk. He opened the door to Flourish & Blott's. The bell overhead rang loudly, forcing him to realize where he was. He glanced over at the dust covered books in the corner: Defensive Magical Theory. He remembered Harry teaching everyone practical defensive skills. He was always trying to help everyone. Everyone, except himself, Ron swallowed hard.

One shuddered breath later, and he found himself standing behind Hermione. She was engrossed in the latest Wizarding history book. Ron reached his arms around her protruding belly. She smelled like peppermint and bubotubor pus. Oddly, he didn't think it was that bad a combination.

Hermione leaned back into him, tears trickling from the corner of her eyes. "Oh, Ron." She turned around and threw her arms around him. "It's already in the books: Harry's death. He's really gone, isn't he?"

It was the first time that either of them had spoken about it since that fateful day. Ron let out a sob as well. "He is. I never thought it would be, but he is." Ron felt Hermione's grip tighten on him. He held onto her as best he could, without hurting her. He exhaled loudly, breaking their embrace.

Ron put his hand on her belly, smiling. His gold band glittered in the small streak of light from the nearby window. He smiled, remembering their wedding day. Harry had been there that day. And maybe, just maybe, when Ron and Hermione's baby was brought into the world, Harry would still be there. After all, he was in their hearts.