I'm writing letters to the dark-side of the moon, tonight.

I said yes <3

Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:33:24 GMT

Zoe & Kour ; Date: 1 year.
Thank you for saving me, my future husband.

Fractured tibias, weight loss, temptation

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 08:09:08 GMT

Getting CPT Certified is hard.
Especially when I'm in week 2 of calc and already behind for missing two days thanks to being sick as a damn dog. The smoke from the CA wildfires is going to make me vomit. And I've had migraines like nobodies business.

Weight loss sucks. I'm lower than I've been for YEARS. I had shot up really high after getting sick when I came back from Kansas. I'll post how far I'm down later, when I feel better about it. It's a lot, though. Like...almost a whole-other-person, lot.

I'm so tired from that damn headache.

We're moving out of our house soon, I hope. And I want to become a trainer quick so I can make enough money to maybe move out on my own. I do still want to get my degree, of course. I might switch to physiology and nutrition or something, in case I decide to take time off before med school, or not go at all. Because then I can take my training to the next level, you know?

Trying to figure out where I would move. I would like to be near Louisiana, just because I have some awesome friends there, but I just...love Boston so much. Who knows! I may wind up having to stay here so I can help my parents out.

Today, I got propositioned by an owner of a pawn shop to have a threesome with him and his hot wife.
Is it sad that, for a few minutes, while looking at her, I actually reconsidered my vows of celibacy?
Why did I choose abstinence?

It's been...god damn. Like...I don't know? A year? Two years? Since I've been with anybody. Before that it was a while, as well. I can count all my sexual partners on one hand. Three people, if you only count full out, completely naked intercourse, where there's some form of penetration (or for females, they're touching me instead of me just touching them).

Three.

Hm.

I like sex, don't get me wrong. It's pretty awesome. But it clogs up your mind and your logic. It makes you do crazy things. I don't need the added complication. Sex can easily get confused for love, and the last thing I need is another relationship where my libido and my heart are at war. Awesome.

That, and I am magnificently self centered and narcissistic. I really have no compunction over that admittance. I can be a bit dull at times, with no idea how to translate the average female psyche, and tend to see things at their surface. Women are complicated creatures. They speak a language not of words, but innuendos. Yes means no, unless said in a certain tone. Fine means terrible, and a multitude of other things. I hate untangling the web. I would rather fuck a cactus than have to spend time unraveling a web of meanings with a partner who claims to desire communication but refuses to give plain voice to her own inner workings.

Mmm....tired.
Oh well.

My training for the 5k has been delayed, thanks to a stress fracture. It still hurts to walk on sometimes, but it's healing. So long as I don't push myself too hard, I can run a little bit. My stamina allows me to run almost a full 3 miles, but the pain in my leg allows me to perhaps jog one before being forced off to stretch. I may stay off the track until the end of September in an attempt to allow it to heal properly. Otherwise, I might wind up having to run the 5k with only a partially healed tibia, which would not make for a fun first experience. I guess if I'm going to do this, I need to do this right.

Not sure what else to write. I just thought perhaps it would be good to provide something of a loose update. Now back to trying to make myself study without falling asleep over my textbook.

This is Brutally Beautiful, and So Are We.

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 05:09:11 GMT

I've always wanted to say this to someone, but I've never known how. It's been years since the last time we spoke, but every now and then when I lay in bed, and think about my own life, I think about them for some reason.
And I was listening to my itunes, and I finally heard the words I've wanted to say.
So even though it'll never reach them?

Well...whatever.
Excerpt from Bright Eyes Lua

You're looking skinny like a model with your eyes all painted black
Just keep going to the bathroom, always say you'll be right back
Well, it takes one to know one, kid, I think you've got it bad
But what's so easy in the evening by the morning's such a drag

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 06:18:01 GMT

	Flogging Molly - Black Friday Rule

	Found at skreemr.com

I want to believe in myself once again
So I dream of a man whose hopes never end
To kiss with a girl who's as lovely as you
I'd give you my heart, if you gave me the truth

And for every tear that is lost from an eye
I'd dig me a well where no man could destroy
I want to believe in a freedom that's bold
But all I remember is the freedom of old

Well I lost me a wife, so I found me a plane
Flew all the way to California
This mess in my head is a mess getting out
Ya drink too much coffee, I drink too much stout

But after a while, when my mouth's not so dry
I'll dance up a storm, sure life's looking fine
But as darkness falls, I return to my bed
Don't ask me more questions, don't fuck with my head

I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
Like thousands of people, left standing in their shoe
I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule

As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule

The buildings they shake but my heart it beats still
Oh mother of Jesus, I feel pretty ill
I want to go home where my feet both feel safe
But there ain't no jobs in the old free state

So I must remain in my new adopted land
I'm doing the best, Hell I'm doin' all I can
So next time you see me, don't ask for my name
For I am the King and shall long may I reign

I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
Like thousands of people, left standing in their shoe
I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule

I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
Like thousands of people, left standing in their shoe
I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule

For those of you who read my fics/miss me/whatever...

Sun, 26 Apr 2009 08:54:25 GMT

...the next chapter of my current project WTD will be up sometime after classes end.

I've had some personal problems that have required complete focus, plus finals, as well as a sudden bad swing of my ADD has made writing impossible. The next two chapters are finished, but it's a matter of fixing them, and having the time to do it.

I hope you guys can forgive me.

For everyone else wondering where the fuck I've gone--like I said, personal problems have cropped up. It's been a rough past few weeks, but I'm getting back on the right track.

ILU all.

I'll see you when classes end. Then both icon journal, and fics, will all be updated ♥

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 12:29:14 GMT

So...tonight, I discovered this AWESOME new feature to storebrand wax paper.
You know the stuff, right?
You use it for baking.

It has this awesome thing where when you put it in the oven...
...it lights on fire.

My dessert was v. exciting.

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 10:59:03 GMT

Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Chapter Warnings: Memories of Lucius cosplaying Sephiroth. Past character betrayal, drug use.
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Cover up that's made victims of not just the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!

Authors Note: This is the hardest chapter I have ever had to write. I just need it to be known that there is more to Fred's story than the ending of this says, because I have very angry muses in my head. Also, Lucius is not pleased with me.

I'm also just not sure how I feel about this, because it was incredibly long, so I had to cut off the second half of it for the next chapter ^^ So Fred's reputation winds up getting stiffed in this one.
I know this is not a normal characterization of him. But don't worry. All will be explained on the why's and the hows. There is a method to this madness with Freddie

Chapter 5
So Many Lies

”I fought the war,
I fought the war,
but the war won’t stop, for the love of god.

I fought the war,
I fought the war,
but the war won.”
~Metric, “Monster Hospital”

”I've lived so many lives each death has left my face scarred
Hid so many lies under my breath that I can't face God
Dig into my mind deep enough you'll find a graveyard”
~Sage Francis, “Mourning Aftermath”

It had been days. Pacing the length of his hotel room, Harry hitched the towel up on wet hips, glowering down to the glowing face of his phone and slamming the touch screen with a calloused thumb to once again scroll through his recent calls. At least twelve from one he pretended he didn’t know was a ministry sanctioned cell number, and even more outbound to Fred. He didn’t bother counting, just clicked the green button for what felt like the millionth time in the past hour, brushing back his wet hair to hold it up to his ear. A moment’s delay, and then ringback tone of Metric’s “Monster Hospital” blasted out like he knew he would. He hated that song. Fucking hated that song after listening to it so much, and had made as many mental notes as he had calls to delete it off of his Archos when he got home. Waiting until he reached voice mail, he hung up and tossed the blasted G1 off to the side, watching it bounce uselessly on the bed.

He also needed to demand what the hell Kingsley was doing letting unauthorized Ministry officials call him, he thought distastefully. How many times had he gotten his hopes up when it rang, only to find that it was that strange number, which he ignored as often as possible. Once he had dared to pick it up, and a frighteningly familiar voice had said the words, “Harry?—“ before Harry hung up without letting them continue. Whoever it was that was calling, Harry didn’t need to talk to them. No matter how much he wanted to—no matter how much his heart wept when he heard a voice that he could not let himself believe was Ron. It wasn’t worth the trouble he would get everyone involved in. Much less the pain of having to keep it secret anymore that they didn’t have to suffer.

That Fred was still alive.

No. No. There was no reason for Ron to get a hold of him. If Kingsley had condoned the call, Harry would have gotten word long before the redhead made the first attempt at communicating.

Sitting down on the bed, he splayed out long legs, brushing drops of water off of a bruise on his thigh. If Fred didn’t call him back, he had no idea where to go from here. There had been four other occurrences similar to Ophelia, but each in separate clans since the summer of 1998. He supposed he could attempt to investigate those, but his contacts were limited and the Cursed were such a cliquish species that he doubted he would get any farther than he could with Fred. It was only their friendship in life that had allowed the now younger looking of the twins to trust him in the first place.

There were other avenues he could pursue—try to find out what had been so different about that year. He knew that it had to be significant, and something told him it might have to do with the Final Battle. Perhaps someone had died that had made a wrong transition? But even the Department of Mysteries was starting to block him off, purposefully excluding information on the full details of the Cursed, giving him the same run around they had for so many years. At the rate that things were going, he was going to have to resort to breaking in once again to the Department and trying to find out for himself, much like he had in Hogwarts. Or else attempt to infiltrate one of the Clans. It was dangerous, and most of it could be bypassed, Harry thought, if only Fred would answer his damned phone.

Disarm you with a smile, and leave you like they left me here to wither in denial, the bitterness of one who’s left alone...

The loudness of his own ring was shocking, the vibrating piece of plastic on the bed rattling against his back and making the already paranoid male’s inside’s leap with shock. Fumbling it up in shaking fingers, he swore under his breath that if it was that same unknown, he was going to kill someone. Instead he felt a moment of disbelief when Fred’s name popped up on the screen. Finally.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he snapped, which probably came out as more of “—fuck you been?” to Fred, the green eyed boy starting before he had even fully clicked answer. Fred chuckled on the other side.

“Missed me, sunshine? I missed you too.”

“Fuck you,” Harry answered, giving out a deep breath of relief. “I need to see you. I got some questions to ask.”

“Yeah, the flood of calls was indicative of that.” There was a slight clacking of the cane, followed by Fred’s muffled voice saying something in a far too cheerful tone to his guard away from the speaker. It was easy to tell, from the past years of interaction, that Fred was high. It was in the tremor to his words and the shakiness of his laughter—like he had been stitched together with Elmer’s glue and was ready to fall apart at any moment. It was obvious that the anniversary of the war and of Fred’s Death Day had done more harm than Harry had initially thought it would. Probably just being back in England set all of them off kilter. It would certainly explain a lot of Harry’s own sudden obsession with solving everything in five minutes.

“You want to meet up tomorrow?” Harry wondered slowly, hoping to give Fred a chance to come down.

“How about now?”

“What?”

“I’m downstairs,” Fred said simply, then the connection was cut. Harry cursed, rising from the bed, swiping a hand through his hair again. He loved Fred, he did, but when the man got into his drugs it was impossible to really tell how he was going to be or what he was going to do. He had barely pulled a pair of worn jeans on over his still damp hips before a knock on the door signaled the redhead’s arrival. He frowned in discomfort as the denim rubbed awkwardly against the moisture laden thighs, pausing to adjust them momentarily before letting his old friend in.

“Mm, naked,” Fred assessed brilliantly, and Harry blushed as he felt the half blind eyes sweeping over him from under brass and glass goggles that obscured them. Tugging on a gas mask strapped around his face, Fred swaggered past the green eyed savior, leaning heavily on a new cane and dressed from head to toe in every inch the Steampunk costume. A pair of clockwork wings were on his back, over a brown leather duster that tickled that backs of his calves, boots covered by military style leggings that held the trousers firm. Copper hair was out of its normal wild poof he kept it in for the sake of the club, and instead was held firm at the back of his head in a comfortable ponytail. Had Harry no intention to find him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell under all the disguise with a simple glance.

For that’s what it was. While the style was something that he knew his friend liked to look at, there was only reason Fred Weasley wore it; it was a way of staying hidden. A cover up that would be seen more as a strange manner of dress than a way of stopping people from recognizing him. Harry knew as well as Fred that it was much a way of hiding himself as Vincent's own covering, and was just as tiring to keep up.

Still, it was a little much, especially as Vince lumbered in after him, carrying a bag in the crook of his arm, looking as irritated as a man in a mask could be. He too was over the top, dressed in an almost Western attire, a white ruffled shirt under the normal black vest, and, of all things, a razor edged bowler hat resting on his head and casting shadows across his Kabuki mask. He paused to look to Harry, and Harry had the impression that Crabbe was begging silently for help, to which the black haired auror shrugged helplessly.

“Shopping?” Harry asked, locking the door behind them. Vincent tossed the bags onto the extra bed, making a wheezing noise in place of a relieved grunt. Fred slipped off the wings and threw his own face covering to the side, goggles resting up on his head.

“Convention,” Fred replied, smooth and a little loopy, pupils blown, whites of his eyes bloodshot and glassy. “Like my wings?”

“Fantastic...I can’t believe you ignored me all this time for a convention.”

“Well, I was planning to call you back on the first night, but then you kept ringing me. I wanted to see how long it took you to stop,” Fred stated easily, grin lighting up his face, tugging at the spider web of scars around his cheek. He pulled out a cigarette, lowering himself down onto Harry’s bed and gathering the blankets behind him to be able to lean back comfortably. “You left me 42 voicemails. I mean 42? Really? How very Deep Thought of you.”

“It wasn’t 42,” Harry sighed, only to be corrected when Fred dragged out a brass plated Blackberry, scanning through the Visual Voicemail and holding it up.

“All of those from you,” Fred replied, flipping open his Zippo with his free hand, the sweet scent of dark mint and tobacco filling the room as the male inhaled deeply. Harry’s lips turned down in an irritable frown.

“And it didn’t occur to you that it was important?” Harry ground out, crossing his arms. Fred shrugged, staring up to him, muscles twitching as he tucked both lighter and phone back into their respective pockets on the coat.

“Well, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Harry took a deep breath, glancing over to Vince, needing to know the other was close enough to handle the drugged up immortal in case the line of questioning caused him to turn unruly. The redhead’s hired guard was leaning against the side of the bed, close enough to Fred to be able to grab him should the immortal Weasley try something stupid, as he was known to do while on a binge. How Vincent managed to tolerate him, Harry would never know, but he suspected it had everything to do with how the man had been friends with spoiled Draco Malfoy all throughout the blond’s tempestuous Hogwarts years. Comforted by this, as well as the small nod the masked giant gave him, Harry turned his attention back to Fred.

“I need you to tell me about Ophelia Bones.”

At once, the look of mirth faltered, the jovial mood shattering with the speed afforded only by strong emotions and stronger drugs. Fred’s muscles jerked harder, lashes fluttering, ashing his cigarette into a glass of flat Coca Cola on the nightstand. Fred shifted his weight and propped his cane up across his thighs, the comforter rustling underneath him to give voice to the incessant squirming.

“Well, Harry, that doesn’t seem quite like an emergency since it happened so long ago. Read your own people’s records. She was eliminated.” Fred snorted. “Can’t believe that earned me 42 voicemails.”

“It’s more than just her being eliminated, and you know that,” Harry pressed, voice dropping, trying to take on a gentler tone than he felt. “It’s before she was eliminated. I need to know what happened to her when she disappeared.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Fred lied as he looked away, giving a half languid shrug interrupted only by the spasms of a soon-to-be-overdose. How many times the redhead had done enough to kill a normal human, Harry would never know, but just from watching the redhead, he gathered that only the damage done before death lingered. No matter how many times Fred seemed to snort his weight, he wound up right as rain the next day, right back at trying to liquefy his brains long enough to stop himself from existing. Harry felt the beginnings of disgust but pushed it back. He had no right to judge Fred. Not when he had gone through so much.

Instead, he went over to his laptop case, retrieving the Bones file and flipping it open to the image of her burning body and the bag of ashes, throwing it down onto the bed, taking up the spot on the fabric that Fred had seemed to find suddenly so interesting.

“You two were friends,” Harry prodded. “She designed clothing for you, and you were often seen together taking dinner at your home in Constanta. You went with her and Alphard Black to the Great Wall for a meeting in 2003 with some business men. Then she disappeared. Just...out of existence, Fred, like that.” Harry snapped his fingers, then pulled over one of the chairs from the breakfast table, settling down across from the blue eyed male. Fred seemed frozen, staring at the gruesome image of the Cursed witch’s execution, cigarette dangling forgotten between trembling digits that hovered inches above the last ashes of her remains. “You know what happened to her, Fred. And what happened to her is what you’re all afraid of happening to you. Four other times.” Harry pulled out other bits of paper, each with names of similar events and dates. “Four other times someone has disappeared, and each time they reappear, a mass migration happens. This time, you came to England. This was your friend, Fred. You know what happened to her. You know what happened to these people. Now I need to know too.”

For long moments, all Fred could do was sit in silence, staring, thumb petting over a bone shard in the baggy, agony written across his features as dark as a moonless night. A slow, whimpering breath escaped his lips, and then he was moving, dropping the cigarette into the cup, grabbing up the case file and clutching it to his chest in a desperate hug, cheeks stained with the dampness of his own tears.

“She reminded me of mum,” Fred choked out, body rocking back into Vincent’s large hand as the guard gently gripped his shoulder. “I told her I’d protect her from it and I didn’t.”

“From what, Fred? What didn’t you protect her from?”

“I can’t...” Fred took a deep breath, swiping at his eyes. “I can’t explain it, Harry. What we are...we’re Cursed. We’re the dead, but we’re all...” He turned his head up, tilting it back to look into the face of Vincent for help. A silent communication passed between them, and Vincent nodded, releasing Fred and clapping his palms together to get Harry’s attention.

“We are all sinners,” Vincent signed. “None of us are good people. There are no Dumbledore’s. No Mother Theresa’s. Something we have done has prevented us from entering heaven. But none of us are bad enough to so fully deserve hell. We have been locked out of both versions of the afterlife, and placed back here for whatever reason. Our magic binds us to our bodies, and our curse of immortality prevents us from damaging them. But our magic is so intent on keeping us from decaying, that we cannot use it any longer. We cannot heal ourselves. That is where we become predators. We feed off of magic of other people. Normally, people don’t feel it. It gives us enough to no longer be hungry to keep our own bodies sustained, and whatever we take, a person typically gets back in a few days time. Like a human can make more blood after the bite of a vampire, a magical being can make more magic after we feed. But to heal our bodies and make us young again...we drain them completely. We eat their very essence of their power, and then we eat their souls. It’s why some of us are healed, and the rest of us...” Vincent stumbled in his speech, looking down to Fred’s own injuries, clearly recalling his own as well. He took a moment to rub over his fingers, popping them to remove a bit of the stiffening caused by the severe burns beneath. “But there is something that wants us. Something that feeds even off of us. There is no such thing as immortality. Even we die, but our death is permanent. We are a soul, and this thing eats our souls. It is from the bowels of hell itself, come to reclaim us, even if we seem to have at first avoided that terrible place.

“When Ophelia came back, she had seen it. She knew what happened. Her body was withered and tortured, her flesh nearly gone from her being. She screamed for days, and Fred could only hold her as she described horrors so intense that it could only be hell that was coming for us. When the Exterminator came, she begged to be burned. They say when you burn us, you destroy our souls. She said to burn her, and to cast her ashes in bleach, to eliminate every trace of her being. It was better than what awaited her. Fred was determined to watch, as was I. It is good to know what waits people like us in the world beyond.”

Harry was quiet for a time, head reeling from the knowledge. It was more than he had ever learned in all his years from the Ministry, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much they had withheld from him, and how much of what Vincent said was actual truth versus learned superstition.

Vincent dropped arthritic fingers onto Fred’s shoulder, shifting onto the bed behind and wrapping heavily clothed limbs about a whipcord torso, shoving the wings out of the way with his knee. Leaning back gratefully, Fred tucked his chin against Crabbe’s wrist, petting the bone shard still and staring blankly across from them at the wall.

“Can you tell me what It is?” Harry finally asked, voice breathy, feeling as shaky as the cocaine made Fred look. Every time he spoke to the two, he had no doubt about just why Fred partook of his particular vice. It was such an uncertain and miserable life that it reminded Harry of how lucky he was to have nothing left. Reminded Harry that sometimes an absence of friends and stressors was more valuable than the overabundance of loss that Fred and Vincent had suffered and would continue to suffer so long as they were afflicted and alone.

“I can’t,” Fred mumbled. “It’s part of our very foundation and how we were made, or at least Alphard says. He thinks it’s made out of the same Dark Magic that we were.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You need to go to someone who understands Dark Magic. Someone who’s been immersed in it, and who can tell you all about Dark Creatures and their powers.”

Immediately, Harry tensed, eyes widening as his mood shifted from morose to remembered embarrassment. Fred caught on to it, the young joker that was still present behind the intoxication laden Cursed rearing it's head and sitting up painfully from Vincent’s hold, sensing the blush before it formed like a shark sensing blood on the water. “What? What about that got you all school girl like?”

“I’m not going to Lucius!” Harry suddenly burst out, hands clenching into fists. No, no Lucius. Harry preferred to avoid him as much as possible. Last check he had done shortly after Lucius had become one of the Cursed, the man had been in Japan, and dressed in a costume Lucius explained was a character named Sephiroth. He had spoken to Harry through clenched teeth and with a face the color of a tomato, before promptly going on a rage filled tangent about Japanese girls and their strange sexual fetishes, and the unfairness of card games that landed him at the service of said girls for a night.

Harry had wanted to tell him he didn't need the elaboration—would Lucius please just answer the Ministry questionnaire?—when they had been interrupted by the bedroom door slamming open. A female had stood on the other side, which Harry could tell she was a female by the outfit designed to not cover her breasts, wearing a spiky blond wig and carrying a massive, fake sword, declaring she and Lucius—er, Sephiroth—needed to have their final showdown. Harry, baffled by the experience, quickly made his leave. He hadn't gone back since. Not even after receiving an owl, carefully pinned in Lucius most delicate script, inviting him to come and play someone he called Reno in his next encounter, as he had once again lost a game of cards.

No...Harry preferred not to even remember that Lucius existed.

“What the hell, mate!” Fred pressed, using his cane to span the distance between them and shove Harry by his chest. “What is it? You’re beet red and look ready to explode! What’d old Fairy Hair do to you?”

“Nothing!” Harry quickly denied, waving his hands helplessly and shoving away the stick. “We need to get back on topic!”

“You have to at least tell me what happened with Lucius, then.” Harry opened his mouth but Fred waved him off before he could protest. “Later. I understand. It’s best to get this over with, but you owe me a bloody good story, apparently.”

“Right,” Harry answered tersely, mentally crossing his fingers. He was never recounting that tale. It made him feel dirty just thinking about it.

“Lucius isn’t the only person you can go to regarding those things. There are more Cursed in the world that are proficient with Dark Arts.” The news relieved Harry, even while confusing him. Brushing a hand through his still damp hair, he tugged at the unruly locks and peered up through thin silver rimmed glasses to Fred and Vincent.

“But those who would know about this level of dark arts...they don’t tend to be good people. Frankly, I’m a little surprised that with that criteria, that Lucius came back,” Harry admitted honestly, though he knew that it had to be, no matter how many strange encounters the blond got in thanks to bets and pride, mostly due to the love the man had for his wife and child and the sacrifices he had made at the trials. It was that same sacrifice—as well as seeing the proud patriarch get to his knees and beg the judges to release spare his child—that had made Harry step forward and take pity on him. What else could he do when someone that had seemed so selfish for so long willingly took the blame for any crime they asked, for the sake of keeping his wife and child out of Azkaban and away from the kiss?

While Harry hadn’t been willing to say anything on Lucius’ behalf, he had spoken on behalf of Draco and Narcissa. It was purely an act of pity on Lucius' part, who had looked ready to weep when he learned Draco and his wife would be spared the fate of the father. Harry truly didn't care what happened to Draco, and certainly, most certainly, had been terrified at the thought of a world without the blond git in it.

“They don’t have to be particularly good people,” Fred corrected, breaking Harry's train of thought, squeezing Vincent’s fingers and stretching out his legs slowly in front of him. “They have to have redeeming qualities. Something good that's stayed in them despite it all.”

“I’m...I can’t think of anyone I know that came back,” Harry admitted, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Fred quirked a brow even as Vincent’s head tilted to the side, and Harry suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that he was on the outside of something important. “What is it?”

“You really don’t know?” the redhead wondered, frowning deeply, flesh around his blind eye distorting slightly. The masked male shook his head and signed something against Fred’s chest, mostly out of Harry’s eyesight. “I know, Vincent,” Fred said in response to the private statement. The to Harry, “Harry...we’re not the only cursed. There’s more of us. A lot more than you probably know of. Just like you don’t know who the Exterminator is, or if there’s even any other ministry officials that are authorized. I just didn’t think they’d be keeping this a secret from you.”

Harry stared at them, and when it was clear by his blank gaze he had no idea where they were going, Fred bit his lower lip and reluctantly continued.

“Snape, Harry. Professor Snape. He’s been living under a special allowance in England since the war ended. You need to go talk to Professor Snape.”

It occurred only later, as Harry was sitting on the balcony, the full extent of what Vincent had said. Shoving up the screen to expose his keyboard, he made short work of the text to be sent to Fred, hoping the other wasn’t so blitzed out of his mind that he wouldn’t be able to answer. Those fears were quickly allayed when his phone pinged in reply. Looking at Fred’s response, Harry could only blink as cold shock washed through him.

There, glowing brightly on the screen, Harry’s own question of What did you do to get you blocked from heaven?

And Fred’s reply, surreal and painful as a knife to his gut.

I was a spy for Voldemort.

Start at the Beginning
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Night Without Day Not-Upadate--Update soon to come XD

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 07:33:43 GMT

Okay, this isn't precisely an update, but I need to write this down so I do not change it again, and I figured I might as well pretend people care by putting it here XD

These are songs that are going to applied to the characters at some point, and this is what's holding up Chapter 5 currently (and holding up the whole fic is trying to find a good way to explain the full breadth of the Cursed and what's chasing them).

So here it is.

Playlist of characters--only putting this down so I do not change it again.

Draco: "King of the World" by Porcelain and the Tramps
Fred: "Monster Hospital" by Metric
Harry: "Disarm" by Smashing Pumpkins (who didn't see that one coming?)
George: "Sunrise, Sunset" or "I Won't Ever Be Happy Again" OR "Easy/Lucky/Free" by Bright Eyes. Yeah, see my problem here? I keep going "I DON'T KNOW!!!!" Thank GOD George isn't required for Chapter 5 *falls off chair*

Really, all I needed to complete was Draco, Fred, and Harry. So now it's permanently affixed. George may change later on, but I don't think he'll have a ring tone for a phone XD
So now that's done, Chapter 5 should up in the next day or so XD. I'm going to try to finish it off tonight.

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 16:35:23 GMT

Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Chapter Warnings: Hints at Weasley-Cest ♥
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Cover up that's made victims of not just the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!

Authors Notes: So, you know what's conducive to writing a fic? Having over 2/3 of it outlined already and ready to be typed up at a moments notice.
Wanna know what's not? A 22 page essay due about psychological testing in a non-clinical setting. Guess what I did instead of that 22 page paper :D
YOU GOT IT RIGHT! CHAPTER 4 YAY!!!!

Dedicated to noeon who makes me wiggle with her comments! *Rolls on* *Noms*

Chapter 4
Put Him In the Ground

Sometimes I worry that I've lost the plot
My twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
I never really dreamed of heaven much
Until we put him in the ground
But it's all I'm doing now
~Bright Eyes, Easy/Lucky/Free

“His whole face was melted off?”

Ron nodded, swallowing down the bit of pasta soaked noodles as quickly as he could, anxious to continue sharing the oddity of the day’s events. Ginny’s question still resonated in the relative quiet of the table, the Weasley family gathered for their normal meals. It had become a tradition to get the family together at least once a week, at first to support each other over the loss of a loved one, and then more out of habit than anything else. After Fred’s death, it hit home how quickly the tight knit clan could fall apart, and their bonds had become more firm to compensate for the emptiness left behind from the passing of such an integral member.

Currently scattered in a tight pack around the enlarged table was Ron and Hermione, sitting side by side. On the other side of her was Percy, his two daughters, infant Lucy and older sister Molly—but don’t call her Molly, because it’s Mols, or so she the five year old would haughtily claim. Beside Mols was Charlie, then Arthur, Molly, George, and Ginny. Fleur, Bill, and their offspring had gone to visit family in France, leaving it more quiet than normal without the usual squalling of one year old Louis and the seven year old Victoire’s traditional tantrums.

“Gone,” Ron continued, reaching up to brush his fingers over his face, almost as if he were afraid he would feel them on his own flesh like a contagious disease. “It was horrifying. He didn’t even have a nose left.”

Charlie made a tsk'ing noise, shaking his head as he brushed off Mols’ small hands, the young child smiling adoringly up to her favorite uncle. “This is why I left Romania,” the older redhead stated, tapping the little girl on the nose before turning his attention to the Auror. “Even the government was doing terrible things. It became way too dangerous to stay. It doesn’t surprise me that something like that happened.”

“You say that hearing it, but it’d surprise you if you saw it,” Ron grumbled. He dropped his fork, stomach flipping as the sound of the wheezing suddenly echoed through his mind, and he had to swallow back a lurching nausea that came with the memory. He grit his teeth tightly, Hermione’s cool hand the only thing registering for a moment as it slipped into his own, and he gave his wife a grateful smile which she readily returned. A few light curls escaped from a Romanesque bun, tickling her cheeks and eyelashes, and he paused a moment to clear them away. Her eyes, her smile, made the sickness in him subside, feeling like a beacon of sunlight on the darkness the day had brought, warming him to his core. “Anyway,” he finally said, turning back to the table, ignoring his mother’s adoring and sappy look aimed at them both. “He gave me a number to this person he claimed was Harry. He said it was the only place I could reach him, because Harry doesn’t use traditional means to communicate.”

“It would make sense,” Hermione mused, thumb dancing over Ron’s knuckles. At the strange look he gave her, she rolled her eyes. “Really, Ronald, when was the last time we got anything more than an owl from him?”

Ron frowned, nose scrunching in displeasure, cheeks coloring a slight tone of red that made his freckles almost blend in with his face. It was true. Ever since Harry had left England, their relationship had gone down to nothing more than a few passing notes, and it sat wrong with the redhead. He loved Harry as much as if he were a brother, and when the green eyed wizard put himself into exile, acting like some sort of social recluse and cutting off even his friends, it bloody well hurt. And to think that Harry was now going around saving the world? Ron didn’t know if he was more irritated that Harry refused to relax, or with the idea that Harry simply hadn’t brought along his two friends. They were a trio. Like the Three Muskateers. There should have been no world saving without them, damn it!

“Maybe it’s not really him,” Percy chirped in, his soft voice barely audible above Lucy's nonsensical babbling.

“We have no proof one way or the other,” Ron conceded. “We’re going to try to arrange a meeting with this bloke and see what’s going on.”

Hermione nodded, dragging Ron’s hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Do you need a cell? I have the one my parents got me.”

“No, we’re getting one from the office. Unlisted. Jonas thinks it would be best to keep it all official. Or at least as official as an under the table op can be. This place reeks of corruption, and more than a few of us think someone at the Ministry is keeping something a secret.” Hermione hummed in thought, nipping at the back of his hand.

"Well, whatever it is, you'll figure it out. You're the best they have there," she stated with a firm resolve. Ron couldn't hide his blush, squeezing her hand and almost ashamed that her compliments still made him feel as happy as they did when they were school children. Reluctantly he released her to go back to his dinner, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't clean his plate.

“I wonder what he looks like after all these years?” Ginny mused dreamily, brown eyes lighting up as the same goofy smile that she always wore at Harry’s name lit up her face. This time it was Percy who tsk’ed, Arthur and Molly sharing a look as Charlie snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Probably still gay,” the oldest gathered brother stated, earning a choked laughter from Ron and a resounding “CHARLES!” from Mrs. Weasley. Hermione laughed as Ginny cast her best glare to her brother, livid with denial.

“Harry Potter is not gay!”

“GAY!” Mols suddenly cried out, causing Percy to pale. Hermione laughed harder, Arthur covering his mouth, Molly fanning herself in exaggerated shock. “What’s gay, Papa?”

“Well, whatever he is, it’s his own business!” Arthur declared loudly.

“And what he is, is gay,” Charlie persisted, quirking a brow as Ginny nearly vibrated in anger.

“No! He kissed me!”

“So did Dean!” Charlie shot back.

“And look at how that ended up,” Ron prodded, unable to help but to join in at his sisters unfortunate choices in partners. That Dean had wound up recently taking bonding vows with Seamus only underscored Ginny’s habit of choosing men of the most questionable sexuality. Harry had never been overt in his preferences, but they had once caught him ogling Charlie a little too closely for simple brotherly affections.

Ginny was not as amused as everyone else, crossing her arms over her chest and looking pitifully to her mother. “Tell them I don’t turn men gay!”

“I never said that. I just think you’re the last step to the exit door in the closet,” Charlie stated benignly. Even Arthur’s head was tilted down, shoulders shaking, trying to hide his mirth.

“Daddy!” Mols whined, the warning sound of an impending tantrum. “What’s gay?”

Percy, lost for words, looked pleadingly around the table. And Arthur, desperate for an escape route from the conversation, took it, swooping up the five year old into his arms as he rose from the table.

“I do believe it’s time me and you had a talk, Ducky,” Arthur cooed, causing the five year old to kick her feet in joy and throw her arms around the gray haired man’s shoulders. “Now, when men and women love each other...”

His voice trailed off as he left the room with his enraptured single person audience.

Giggles still echoing, Ginny huffed and brushed her hair behind her ear, looking irritably down to her sadly empty ring finger. She had hoped by this point to at least be engaged. Nearly 26 and not a real relationship to speak of. It was enough to drive a girl mad.

Soon, the amusement at her expense faded, leaving a strange silence, interrupted only by the sound of metal on glass and the steady babbling of an oblivious Lucy. From another room, a loud laugh wafted in as Arthur did something or another to delight his other granddaughter.

George gave out a sigh, slowly lifting his head, expression as blank as it had remained since they sat down to eat. Clearing his throat, he garnered their attention. Talking wasn’t his strong suit—hadn’t been since Fred had died—and calloused, work worn hands settled down flat over the plaid print tablecloth.

“Ten years.”

The words were like a bell tolling. The loud gonging of a clock that everyone tried to ignore. A weight settled heavily into Percy’s stomach, Mrs. Weasley pressing her fingers over her lips. Of course the day hadn’t been forgotten, but it was easier, at times, to just ignore it. “We buried him ten years ago today.”

Ginny made an odd noise, halfway between a whimper and a cough, reaching across the table to try and grab George’s hand. He made no move to hold her back, just staring where her painted nails rested over his.

“George—“ Charlie started, but he was cut off when the once-twin spoke again.

“I...I don’t want to be okay today. I don't want to hear any of it right now. I just...” His mouth worked uselessly for words, then he stood suddenly, staring at the plate, red hair lank around a haggard face. “Excuse me.”

With that he was gone, a bustle of clothing that was a little too big on his too skinny of form, door slamming moments later as he made his way out the front of the house. Charlie sighed.

“I’ll go,” he mumbled. Percy shook his head, rising to his feet before the other could.

“No.” He patted Charlie’s shoulder soothingly, smiling comfortingly to the other. “I know George. Let me talk to him. Just watch Lucy.”

No one protested as the waif of a Weasley followed his brother, slipping out the door with as much silence as George had with noise.

If you burned your wings and fell into my arms
you know I wouldn't mind being
All the way down
I can't believe in Hell
but I've got to believe in Heaven
I wouldn't sleep at night not knowing
that you were somewhere better.
~Voltaire, All the Way Down

We shouldn’t be here. The words echoed through Fred’s mind, much in the way of his own thoughts. The tenor of the voice told him it belonged to another, and he waved away Vincent’s concerns with one hand, the other plastered firmly to the tinted glass as he stared out hopefully at the house that was once his home.

The Burrow stood as ramshackle as it always had, as if they hadn’t inherited a good amount of reparations from the war and had their fair share of successful youth to pay to clean it up. Fred knew from his own childhood that the inside would be pristine, filled with the smell of food and laughter and home. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was they were eating, what jokes they were laughing at. Couldn’t help the agonizing twist to his gut as he swallowed back his emotions, wanting to curse the ministry and go running up the steps. What he wouldn’t do to see them again, or to hug his mother.

What he wouldn’t give to press his face into his brother’s neck. To stroke his hair and tell him that he was alive. They didn’t have to be alone. They didn’t have to be apart, did they? The only thing keeping them apart was the layer of dark glass and the heavy door of the limo and a few pesky ministry restrictions.

They’ll kill them all if you go, Vincent whispered, through the bond of their minds. It was a comforting presence in Fred’s head, and he found himself reaching out blindly for the other. Knowing what he wanted, Crabbe held out his arm and allowed the soft digits of his boss to press under his sleeve, grasping the burned and mangled flesh that lay underneath. The pressure registered, even if the sensation didn’t thanks to the destroyed nerve endings, but it was a comforting gesture all the same to them both.

“Ten years, you know? I was officially buried ten years ago.”

I know.

“In a week, I’ll have been...like this...for ten years.” Fred winced, remembering what it had been like to wake up, alone and terrified, barely able to breathe. How he had struggled and clawed at the wooden encasement, screaming until his voice was hoarse, hungry, thirsty, and in desperate tears. When he heard the scratching above him and the noise of people prying open the lid to his grave, he had felt pure relief at the idea of being saved, crying for his family and begging for help until the purple robed agents from the Department of Mysteries had brought down something hard across the side of his head, pitching his world into darkness.

When he woke up again, he had been in a cage, like an animal, a bright light shining on his face. He would never forget that moment, blood soaking the front of his face and his burial robes, body still mangled from the collapse of rock and nails torn off, lodged somewhere in the lid of the coffin. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe; could only sit in horror as people behind him whispered. A sound of metal banging on metal, and then there was a press of something ungodly hot against his neck, behind his ear, burning and searing his flesh as he screamed. He had cried, unabashedly cried through the haze of his headache and broken bones and the fire radiating from that spot where branding iron permanently marred his flesh.

When it was over, they had ground crushed sea salt against the fresh wound to ensure scarring. The letter “C”, boiled into his body with cruel iron, marking him forever as different.

If you return to England, we will not only kill you, we will kill your family. We will torture them slowly and burn their bodies to make sure they don’t become like you...

Large hands were suddenly grabbing him, milky leather dragging him by the side of his head against his chest as Fred gave out an agonized breath. He had started hyperventilating at some point, though he wasn't sure when, and Vincent clutched the shivering redhead to his chest in a comforting, protective grasp. It had been such a lonely road for them both, and Fred wouldn’t turn away the only friend he had left and the last tie to a life he had been forced to leave behind.

Collapsing into his arms, Fred moved a little to be able to stare out of the window, vision swimming for lack of air. Trembling digits pulled out a pendant filled with powdered cocaine, and he popped open the top, pulling out a mini spoonful and dragging the sweet relief into his nose. It was the only thing that kept him going--kept him from turning dark like their clan leaders that guided them to England. The only thing that would numb him enough to stop him from running out of the car and to the family he so desperately wanted to rejoin.

“Do you think they still miss me?” the Weasley asked, voice rough with tears and the drug that burned its way down his throat. Still shaking, he struggled to recap the vial, but Crabbe got to it before him, gently taking it from his hold and snapping it back together again. Replacing the necklace under Fred’s shirt again, he patted it through the fabric and then hooked his wrists together again, settling them around his midsection and holding him in a way that, Fred knew from past conversations, was just how he had held Draco during the blonds breakdown in fifth year.

Of course they do, Vincent replied, the cool porcelain mask soothing him as the Slytherin placed his cheek on the Gryffindor’s head.

“Do you miss your family?” Fred wondered, slipping his grip back under the sleeves, dancing over scars as familiar as the lines of his own palms. Vincent stilled, his breath hitching before expelling in a large gust of air, muscles twitching under the more whipcord mass of his boss.

We should leave, the masked male said instead of answering the question, mind-voice little more than a displeased murmur.

“Do you?” Fred pressed, pushing harder onto the charred flesh, massaging along the crevices and ridges in an attempt to return the comfort his friend offered. Vincent made a mental noise that seemed like it would be a grunt had the other possessed intact vocal chords, and finally, a feeling of affirmation washed through their shared bond, the implied yes heavy with loss and longing. “I do too,” Fred whispered.

Any further questions were suddenly quieted when the outside light flared to life. Freezing where he sat, Fred watched with an almost morbid fascination as the screen door pushed open, a long missed and terribly familiar frame stepping out from the haven of the Burrow.

Transfixed by his brother, Fred never noticed when his grip on Vincent turned from comforting to painful and desperate, unable to breathe as his throat tightened. George looked like a shadow of the young man Fred had last seen, his wild, shoulder length hair tangled and streaked with chunks of gray. His body, once lean and beautiful and perfect under Fred’s fingertips, had decayed down to a sad, scrawny size, robes hanging on him forlornly. Even from a distance, Fred could see the hunched shoulders and the exhausted frame as George slumped against the wall, rubbing his hand down his face and skimming the land around them. Barely thirty, he carried himself like an old man, ready to break under the sorrows and pressures of the world that had long ago forgotten him.

Fred wanted to scream. To cry. To run to his brother and shake him and tell him that he should not look like the ghost, because Fred was supposed to be the one dead, not George. George was supposed to go on, to be happy, to have children and live for both of them.

And it was in that moment, staring at the withering body of the boy he had once been identical to, that Fred realized a horrifying truth.

George was going to die. Fred was dead but cursed to walk eternally as a monster, and George was mortal. George would die and go on, and Fred would forever be left in a world without his brother. Even if they couldn’t talk, knowing that George was walking and breathing and laughing somewhere had been the pillar needed for his sanity—the foundation of his existence. It soothed him to look up at the sky and think of all the pranks George was designing in their shop, or imagine what his brother would look like then. To know that they were both under the same heavens, even if George didn't know it.

But Fred had never realized he would age. His whole family would age. His whole family would die.

And Fred would never see them again.

Fred would be alone.

Pale blue eyes settled on the limo as George took notice of it, and Fred couldn’t hold back his agonized wail as his brother slowly rose from the wall. The aged twin’s back drew up straight, lips parting, mouthing Fred's name, distinguishable even at such a distance. Had Vincent’s arms not been clasped around him, Fred would have leaped from the car then, so impossible was the urge to resist the draw of his family, his lover, and his best friend within such a short distance. He thrashed violently against the masked male’s hold, sobbing George’s name. Vincent cursed—or tried—hissing past charred vocal chords and kicking the partition that separated the driver from his passengers, signaling him to move. The engine roared to life, and the redhead shouted in rage as the car began to drive away. The front door swung open again, Percy stepping out to join the other.

The long car rumbled down the dirt path and away from the burrow.

Fred watched as his brother got smaller, before flickering away completely behind the crest of a hill.

Percy watched the strange vehicle trail away, the cloud of dust it kicked up barely visible in the full moon that lit the land almost as bright as day. George stood stock still, wide eyed and pale, chewing violently on his lower lip.

“What in the world was that?” Percy wondered, gently grasping his brother’s elbow. George shook his head.

“My sanity.”

Start at the Beginning
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Writer's Block: Cookies

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:33:28 GMT

What is the strangest advice you've ever received from a fortune cookie?

First question listed was submitted by merrytook92. (Follow-up questions, if any, may have been added by LiveJournal.)

View 503 Answers

"You could prosper in the field of medicine."

It's still in my wallet. Taped a few times over so it's almost laminated. It was the same day I made the decision to pursue my education to become a doctor.

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 12:52:09 GMT

Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Coverup that's made victims of not the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!

Authors Note: Sorry this has been so long in coming! My computer broke, and school has started again. I've been writing this long hand, and decided to try to get a chapter up before classes start. Yes, this is going to be a finished fic. I'm just having trouble finding the time to actually get to it at the moment XD Thank you to everyone who poked me. Especially nelehug :D ♥

Chapter 3: Lysol

When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I've never tried before.
Mae West

Harry barely managed to avoid bumping into Draco when the blond stepped into the lift. Pulling his invisibility cloak tighter around himself, he cursed his lack of attention and stared at the back of the blonde’s head. He really needed to stop letting his mind drift. Just because he was invisible did not mean he was not solid, and the last thing he needed was an old rival finding him creeping around the ministry when he was technically not even supposed to be back in London. The dark haired boy had no desire to interact with the stupid git—not when he couldn’t even escape him in Montreal. His face was everywhere. The new leader of pureblood society. The epitome of the innovative youth. The world’s most eligible bachelor.

Yeah. Eligible because no witch in her right mind would tolerate him and his smelly face long enough to even get his money in a divorce. Ugly...stupid bugger with his ugly stupid...face.

Though he had grown up, Harry reluctantly conceded. It seemed the magazines had most assuredly not done the male justice. Cloud colored hair had been trimmed to the en vogue length of just-short-enough-to-always-appear-in-need-of-a-trim-and-freshly-shagged, or whatever the name of it was. His skin was tanned, body the epitome of masculine health dressed in a suit that probably cost twice as much as the modest flat Harry rented in Canada. Blue eyes, glittering and heavy with thought, were shrouded by lashes that Harry had never quite remembered being so thick or long, and pearly white teeth chewed a full lower lip in thought. He seemed oblivious to the not-empty elevator, and a long, bony digit hesitated a moment over the button as he noticed the glowing dot for the third floor. Harry held his breath. He had forgotten to use his privacy code to put it out of service—he himself had been too caught up in mulling over his lot in life like some dramatic child.

Draco glanced around himself, and Harry felt a moment’s pause as a gaze the color of a perfect dawning sky slid over him, warming him like a tangible touch. It was a curious reaction to have, and one that he easily brushed off as being directly linked back to the fact that Harry was, on the best of days, sex deprived. It was a sad day when a male that was near thirty and could count with one hand the number of times he had sex. Dating one’s own palm tended to do strange things to the mind. Like make a Malfoy look attractive.

Though Harry had always had a fondness for tanned, blond things...probably the reason he hadn’t moved to L.A. Too much eye candy on surfboards, or riding brooms, their hard thighs clinched around them, sometimes dressed in the current team colors for the Foul Mouth Falcons of Silver and Green, suddenly reminding him of the way those colors looked on Draco’s body...

Bad thoughts bad thoughts bad thoughts!

Seeming to dismiss the pushed button as the work of a mischievous visiting child or a mistake, Harry watched blond shoulders shrug as full lips turned down in a pout and Draco slapped the nob for the ground floor. Relaxing as he seemed free and clear from being detected, Harry bit his cheek and shifted carefully closer to the door, readying to make an escape as the lift began to move.

“...bleeding stupid Weasley,” Malfoy groused, tugging at mused strands and glowering at the closed doors as if it held the answers to the universe. The words piqued Harry’s interest, but was unable to listen to anymore personal diatribe as the item creaked to a halt. Using the announcement of the floor as means of covering up the sound of his movements, he made his exit quickly as he could, hoping to go unnoticed. He was oblivious as the invisibility cloak brushed against Draco’s legs, causing the other man to jump and look around suspiciously before the doors clattered to a close, shutting off the two old rivals from each other once again.

Harry sighed with clear relief, breath lost amidst the shouting and talking in the crowded hallway. He was getting careless, and that was something no one could afford. Holding the sandwich bag from the cafeteria in a death grip, he quickly made tracks back through the Hallway and into the Department of Mysteries. He chose his door from the circular room, and soon was descending down a flight of rotating steps to a glowing space lit only by eternal wizarding flames, the tables covered in a seemingly endless film of dust. The Record Room for the Cursed. The place he had spent most of the night and all of the day, having been unable to sleep after his cryptic meeting with Fred. Settling down onto the table that had become his veritable prison, he pulled out the tuna sandwich and looked irritably down at the paperwork.

If they had told him, when Kingsley approached him for this position, that he would be spending a majority of his time reading through crumpling old files and researching in a library that was more mites than magic, he would have passed up the job, no matter how tempting the idea of complete anonymity and being removed from the public eye was. This was the sort of work more suited for someone like Herm—

No. No. Best not to think on his friends. Not when he couldn’t see them again.

Instead, he sipped at his bottled water, feet tucking under himself, scuffed trainers settling under his thighs as he got back to work. No lunch breaks were allowed; not with Kingsley breathing down his neck demanding an answer as to the migration of cursed, and the ministry heads in a tizzy over what they perceived to be the biggest threat since Voldemort. So a few species classified as “predators” had moved back to the wizarding world. Vampires did it all the time, Harry thought. But vampires took blood. Cursed? Cursed survived off of the one thing that all magical beings feared being taken. Magic. The extent of their ability wasn’t known, but it was believed that a cursed being lived off of the powers of normal magical folk, and that if they drained them completely, they would take not only the source of their abilities, but their soul. It was why they were so closely monitored, and why the ministry acted as they did.

When a cursed rose from the dead, they were taken at once to the Department of Mysteries. From there, they were branded, informed of what they were, and sent out of country after signing a contract to not return for an extended period of time. It was designed to protect the families of the cursed ones, as well as to prevent them from trying to turn family members, as they had apparently tried to do in the early 1700’s.

If they ever acted up, their brand would inform the ministry as to where they were, and Harry would go assess the situation. He was a Regulator—a person who went out and performed checks on the living dead, ensuring that they were behaving according to their contracts. If he determined they weren’t, another person was sent out, simply with the title of Exterminator, who killed the person the only way they knew how. With fire.

It was typically something that put Harry on the outs. No one amongst the Cursed was openly willing to communicate with him, and because of his knowledge on who actually lived and who actually was dead, he was excommunicated from the wizarding world to prevent him from ever the careful treaties between the Ministry and these creatures and opening up the possibility to a war. He had gone from being different by being a savior to being different by holding the knowledge that his friends didn’t need to suffer, but that he couldn’t help them. Any of them. It was miserable. It wasn’t...it wasn’t what he had fought for.

Lost in his own self pity, almost tossed aside a file before an oddity registered. Sitting up straighter, sandwich being shoved off to the side, he flipped it back to the first page and squinted at the careful print in the dull light to make out the name and details. Ophelia Bones. Killed in the early 1970’s by Death Eaters, she had risen a short time after. Her husband, Edgar Bones, had remained deceased, and she, alone, had been sent out of England in exile with nothing more than a brand on her body and the clothing she had been buried with. Things had gone normally for her—she had fallen in with the Romanians, who claimed most of Eastern Europe despite their name, and who Fred himself had run with. She worked with them as a seamstress and teacher and seemed to cause no trouble.

Until early 2004. Without any explanation, beyond all ability for reason, she had fallen off of the radar. The intensity of the spells, Harry knew himself, made it impossible to remove the brand and the tracking charms, which in itself would have caused a tiny panic amidst the Ministry Officials. Her whereabouts remained unknown into the mid part of 2007, where she reappeared in Nepal. There was no notes on how it happened or what had occurred between those times, or how her demeanor had been. There was no information on who had gone to her, or what they had seen, only a simple word that ended the file. Exterminated. It was accompanied by a gruesome image of a burned body writhing under a fiend fire, as well as a small taped baggy of ashes for proof. There was no information under the “Reason” heading for her death. Simply the one word.

While the ministry did many things Harry couldn’t bring himself to ever approve of, they had never, in all of his knowledge, killed a Cursed without reason. And the timing, he knew, fit with the beginning of the migrations. Perhaps not to England, no, those didn’t come for a few years after, but at least out of the Romanian area. The Romanian Clan had been far reaching, over most of Eastern Europe, into the Eurasian borders why they conducted business with the Lotus Clan of China. But in 2007, they had begun to gather together like prey being circled by a predator, a mass number huddling in the small country of Croatia, and then they fled.

There were nearly four thousand in the Romanian Clan. And if they were sticking together, then they had just seen the beginning influx of cursed, and Harry knew the Ministry would never tolerate it.

Grabbing the Bones case file close to himself, food forgotten, he quickly made his way out of the Ministry. He needed to contact Fred. He needed to find out what happened to Ophelia; he needed to find out what had the predators of wizards running like they were the prey.

Ashing his cigarette, Theodore took one last, long drag, inhaling until he tasted filter through the nicotine as the cherry burnt the cotton. Making a face, he flicked it to the ground and let the smoke pour from his nostrils like a dragon breathing out, his partner’s presence beside him a warming presence in the uncannily brisk night. Picadilly Circus was quite a sight to behold after hours. It was condemned amongst the wizarding world as offering too many cruel delights for the magical youth to refrain from. Drugs, sex, and rent boys, all hidden in the shadows, all pretty beyond belief. It was a place where many disenfranchised Death Eater offspring had found their way after the war had ended, carrying the shame of their parents and with nowhere else to go.

Glancing down a familiar alley, he felt goose bumps rise on his flesh as he recalled the last time he himself had been there. Running a Narc bust with four other aurors before he switched to Dark Crimes to take over Potter’s spot. He could still remember facing off with Parkinson in that house, smelling of drugs and sex and urine, and how skinny she had looked with the rubber band still tied tight around her bony upper arm...

“You good with this?” Ron’s voice wrapped around him with the comforting familiarity of present times, shaking off the memories like drops of chilled rain, and he found himself nodding without a thought.

“Yeah. Just hate the muggle side,” Nott stated, lips tilting down in a frown, attractive features morphing into an expression of displeasure. Blue eyes rolled as the redhead bumped their hips together.

“Then let’s get this over with. I’m about as comfortable as you are right now.”

The line to get into Steam and Whistle was long and disgustingly strange. The outfits ranged from modern muggle, to fashionable wizard, to a strange take on western wear combined with technology. Stalking past the group, Theo’s fingers itched to grab his wand or light another smoke, but instead he reached for badge, flipping it open to the doorman in tandem with Ron’s revealing of his own.

At the flash of the metal, the large doorman had no choice but to step aside, allowing the aurors in past the groans of the patrons. Inside, a thick smell of clove cigarettes and strong liquor assaulted the nose while a blaring cello and electric violin accompanied the voice of a wailing female with pink dreadlocks on stage. The entire place was donned with brass and glass—an antique feel mingled heavily with modern. It at once made Ron feel dizzy, but he grit his teeth and followed his red robed companion through the throngs of people toward the bar.

Before they could reach it to begin interrogating the tender, a meaty hand settled onto Ron’s arm, the owner from the commercials studying the two men as he placed himself sturdily in front of them.

“Can I help you?” he asked above the noise, pointed nose wrinkled in thought and displeasure.

“Yeah,” Nott replied. “We understand you had a meeting here.”

“We have many,” came the easy answer, the rotund face slipping into a placating smile. “I’m afraid you gentleman will need to be a bit more specific.”

“How about a meeting with a certain wizard by the name of Harry Potter?” Ron pressed, lips tilting down into a frown.

Dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief, the owner flickered his tongue in an almost serpentine manner, gaze skittering about the club.

“Forgive me. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Theodore drawled, unimpressed, quirking a brow. “Because we have a very reliable source that claims you do.”

“In fact,” Ron continued, “that same source told us he was here last night, and you took him personally into a backroom.”

“That’s a crime, you know. And grounds to search this place.” Theo rested a hand onto a full shoulder, squeezing the flesh under the suit. “Impersonating someone of such regard as the illustrious Mr. Potter—“

“—plus all the reports of suspicious packages coming in? One call and we could have both muggle and magical Narco units all—“

“Please, sirs,” the man quickly interrupted Ron as he spoke, pressing his palms together in a motion of supplication before his face. “I believe this would be discussed best in private.” Pulling away from Theodore’s hold on him, he reached out to seize the elbow of a passing waitress, lips moving against her ear as he whispered instructions to her. She gave a strange look to Nott and Weasley before skittering away, and the two Aurors followed the owner as he waved for them to come along, leading them to a room marked Employee’s Only.

It reeked of a smell that Theo knew right off was some high quality grass and a strong cleaning agent. It made his eyes water and his throat feel dry from memory of what it had been like to smoke it in school. A large, hand carved desk was freshly polished and reeking of lemon scented cleaner, and around them, paintings of daylight scenarios hung heavy on the wall. One drew Ron’s attention, reminding him eerily of the way Bill and Fleur’s cabin did in the early dawn hours, putting him immediately on edge.

“Please, wait right here,” the owner urged, looking uneasy. Before either could respond, he was gone, bustling out through a door spelled to blend in with the wall.

“Do you smell that?” Theo murmured, nostrils flaring as he touched his fingers along a gilt edged frame. Nodding, Ron brushed a hand through close trimmed red hair and moved closer to the painting that so resembled his brother’s home.

“Yeah...pot and the Lysol lady. Hey—doesn’t this remind you of Bill’s place?”

“I guess. Been years since I’ve been there.” Theodore waved it off, hands tucked behind his back as he walked the perimeter of the room, reminding Ron of a lion stalking its cage. “This place reeks of dark magic more than Voldemort’s discarded tampons. It’s giving me the jeebies.”

“If the magic wasn’t giving me the jeebies, your metaphor did,” Ron stated dryly, face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “Really, Voldemort’s tampons? Did you have to bring it to the level of used tampons?”

“Yup. Just to see that face you’re making right now. It’s so precious, Ronnie-kins. Makes my insides all a-fluttery.”

The hidden door burst open, a surprising whoosh of air and noise signaling the arrival of the large owner again. This time, he was followed closely by two others who appeared even more interesting than the occupants of the club. One possessed lank red hair that hung around his face in heavy clumps, as if it had been styled into some intricate design before he fell asleep on it and sent the strands eschew. A pair of dark goggles rested over his eyes, his face hidden in the collar of a feathered ankle length jacket and a cloth dust mask over his mouth, obscuring him from view as he dropped heavily into a couch at the side of the room. Tucking long legs up to himself, clutching a cane in a desperate gloved hold, Ron found himself unable to fully look at him, his own gaze slipping off of the male like hands trying to find purchase on an oiled bit of metal.

But if the rag tag copper was someone that was impossible to focus on, the even stranger figure whom followed was a magnet. A black turtle neck and black dress slacks hung on a wide form, arms tucked into elbow length laced up gloves that rested pleasantly on the polished desk and legs that were encased on knee high lace up boots. Staring at them from the spot where his face should be was a kabuki mask tilted into an expression of peaceful neutrality with blue paint around the blackened eyeholes. A skintight, ebon hood hugged the shape of his skull, assisting in keeping every inch of his body covered, revealing not even a hint of race or age. Settling down into the full backed leather chair behind the table, he made a motion through the air, obscure and confusing.

“He asks that you please be seated,” the owner urged, moving to stand at the back left of the masked man. Ron and Theo exchanged a curious look before complying.

“Could you take off the mask, mate?” Ron urged, not enjoying the anonymity of the scenario one bit. Just as the owner opened his mouth to speak, one glove covered hand lifted to silence him, the silent male giving a small shake of his head to still any arguments. He carefully took hold of the latches under the hood, slipping the protective covering off to reveal the mess beneath.

It took all the careful training the two Aurors had to hold back their reactions at the site that was revealed. Completely mangled by scar tissue, the man looked more monster than human. His nose had melted closed, his lips completely gone, mouth nothing more than a gaping slit in a sea of gnarled flesh. Eyes, an amazingly clear and beautiful brown, were the only humanoid items that remained, peering out from under hairless, thick, and withered red lids that twitched and stretched the flesh of his forehead painfully with each stuttering attempt at a blink. What may have once been attractive features were nothing more than a mound of white and pink burned scar tissue.

Theo pursed his lips to hold back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, and Ron gripped the arms of the chair, neither able nor wanting to protest as the male seemed satisfied that they had taken their fill of his terrible visage and reapplied the hand crafted disguise. Still, what had been seen could not be unseen, and with each blink, Ron swore he could make out the horrible, painful image on the backs of his eyes.

Seeming to recover first, Theo cleared his throat and spoke in a tone rife with control from his pureblood heritage, “What happened?”

“I come from Romania,” the large man said, translating as the masked figure began to speak in what they had deduced must have been sign language. “There is a civil war there between the wizards. I happened to have been a supporter for the current losing side. They captured my village and they doused my body in flame many times over to try to make speak and turn over my comrades for their tortures.”

“Dear Circe,” Nott breathed, looking to the black covered eyeholes of the mask and then to the owner translating for them, back once more to the tortured frame. “And you lived?”

“If you can call this living. I cannot speak, I cannot eat, I cannot have sex. I have nothing left on me to distinguish what I was. I live in constant pain...” The fingers trailed off, frozen, before slowly folding, shoulders heaving in a slow and soundless sigh. Ron licked dry lips, trying to force his mind back on track, the heady scent of lemons seeming to get stronger, causing his pulse to pound painfully between his eyes. Nodding over toward the quiet male off to the side, he glanced over to him, his headache only increasing when he moved his gaze and tried in vain to focus on him. He fucking hated the smell of lemons.

“What’s his story?” Weasley asked.

“My son,” the masked one replied, fingers weak as they moved. “He cares for me.”

“And his get up?”

Hesitating, the scarred figure turned to face the quiet redhead, a silent message seeming to pass between them both. Finally, another heave of shoulders.

“They pulled off his jaw and cut out his tongue for speaking up against what they did to me. He is ashamed by his appearance.”

As if on cue, Fred shifted, sinking in to himself and turning his gaze to Vincent. The male was handling it splendidly, as was the front-man they used as “owner” of the club. He just needed to keep quiet...just...keep quiet...

He turned his stare back to Ron, glued onto his brother in desperation, willing him to look over and recognize him despite knowing that he could not. It would put all of them at danger if Ron did, but he couldn’t help but wish. Wish that the spell they had put up on him would break and Ron would take him in and recognize who he was. Wish that his stupid little brother would throw his arms around him and drag him back home before he could protest, letting him see his mother and brother again...wish that he could go home, just one more time, and see his mother smile at him as she fixed a homemade hat on his head and cupped his cheek...

The pain of the memories of his loved ones echoed through him hollowly. He let his lashes flutter closed and gripped his own elbows hard enough to bruise. He wasn’t high enough for this. He couldn’t handle this pain by himself. Temperance had always been George’s strong suit. Fred was terrible on his own.

“Why was Harry Potter here last night?” Theodore’s question was blessedly back on topic, away from conversations involving fake torture or lies to keep the two from figuring out what they shouldn’t have. And just like the perfectly trained liar the ex Slytherin was, Vincent lightly and with a mock exhaustion waved their worries away, slumping back heavily into the seat with all the weight of an old man crumpling under a lifetime of pain. While not terribly far off track, it was normally Fred’s place to look so weary and animated. Vincent, his strange friend and hired guard, was always the one to stand in silent support from the sidelines. Always the one to carry him back to his room when his memories of his brother, alive and suffering without him, became too much, and he snorted until his body convulsed and his immortal body was forced into shut down to repair the damage he inflicted on it.

“Harry is a good man, but he could take lessons in discretion,” Vincent signed, words given voice by their translator. Brushing something off of his gloves, Vincent paused to dramatically touch over his heart, shifting with clear discomfort. “Harry has many contacts, as do I. We work together to pass on messages between refugees, and assure that they are kept safe. Sometimes, we hire Mr. Potter to work as an escort for our groups, or to deliver important items or notices of death to loved ones. He is very good at what he does, and has a very good heart.” Fred was proud of Vincent for the lie—of course the tales of Civil War were true. The chaos of the country had provided Fred and others like him a good opportunity to sneak in and remain unnoticed, as the local authorities would be too busy worrying about their own species than to notice another. And for coming up with this on a whim, well, even Fred in his accomplished lies was impressed. Despite having come off as always painfully dull in school, the old lackey of Draco Malfoy proved more and more to have a brilliance to him to rival most.

“How long has this been going on?” Ron pressed, sounding suspicious, rubbing at the bridge of his nose between his eyes. It made Fred a little worried. The spells around the place could have a terrible effect, and Ron had always been a pussy when it came to magic being used against him. How he had managed to save the wizarding world, Fred would never know.

“A very long time,” Vincent replied cryptically, once again waving away their question with the arrogance of an old and esteemed businessman. Theodore appeared ready to press, but with a sudden swell of his chest, Vincent began to wheeze, a terrible, horrifying, animalistic noise emitting from the burned and melted vocal chords. It was a terrifying, wailing cough that shook the large form like a leaf, and the two aurors, caught by surprise, leapt to their feet, wide eyed and pale, and Fred knew from his own experience that they were imagining the monstrous visage that lay beneath the clothing and the expression his twisted face would be making to accompany it.

“Please!” their front man exclaimed, the heavy roll under his chin rippling as he spoke, rushing forward to press a hand to Vincent’s back. “Our Lord is very old and his health is not well. This is all too much for him. You should go, please. He needs his rest!”

To elaborate the point, Vincent hacked again, rasping and snarling, wet and nauseating. It was, as Fred liked to call it, his secret weapon. It was the only noise the burned man could still make, and it sounded every inch the dying creature.

“O-of course,” Theodore whispered, swallowing hard and clasping at the back of his chair.

“Just—first,” Ron demanded, chin up, lips tilted in a determined expression. Fred couldn’t help but feel proud at his little brother’s strength. “First, I just need one thing. I need you to tell me how we can reach Harry Potter.”

Start at the Beginning
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Night Without Day Chapter 2

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 13:50:44 GMT

Choose me to be your champion, I am possessing of a very righteous style. I understand what’s happening. I have charisma, and of course, a winning smile.
Rasputina

~ ~ ~

“Black. Richard Black.”

The hotel clerk looked up at the abrupt greeting, followed by the curious eyes of Hermione as she waited patiently by the elevator. The way the boy spoke was old and rich, but slightly giggling—a giddy teenager just turning old enough to check himself into his first hotel room, if she judged him right. As she caught sight of him, she was struck at once by how strangely familiar he looked, a strong sense of déjà vu shaking her to her core. He was beautiful, effeminate in the way of only young men, his black hair in thick, loose curls around his face, as if his hair had tried to form of a spiral but had become lazy and given up halfway through the twist. Pale flesh sported the hint of freckles, and eyes, so pale and icy blue they looked almost blind, chilled like arctic water, peered out from the thickest lashes she had ever seen in the whole of her life. He was breathtaking, in a way of only models or angels, or perhaps even better than that, she thought, as he flashed a dimpled smile to the clerk, oblivious to the way the guests around him seemed to ogle and pant.

“Ah,” the clerk finally said, voice a high pitched squeak before clearing her throat. Then she tried for speaking again, bumbling as she typed away on the computer behind the desk. “Yes, Mr. Black. We uh—your rooms were actually—well—there was water damage to yours,” she stated, looking up, a blush turning pale cheeks crimson.

“Oh. That’s too bad,” he stated, at once crestfallen, shoulders slumping under the weight of a black zip up jumper with some sort of robot character emblazoned over the front. “I really wanted those rooms.” As if those rooms were special. He turned, casting a pout to the man beside him, a complete antithesis to the simple and pure beauty.

The other was bleach blond at the roots, all of it cut short except at the very top, where it was only a few inches longer, sticking up in the very front much like a style out of the movie Westside Story that Ron had taken her to for her birthday last year. Wearing an open bomber jacket and a pair of army print trousers tucked into knee high Doc Martins, he was older, and looked like the type of man that she would cross the street to get away from. The exposed neck under his jacket was littered with ink from tattoos, curling behind his delicate ears, and his eyes, the same piercing blue as the boy beside him, as well as the delicate structure of his face, showed that he, perhaps, could have been as beautiful as his comrade, if only he didn’t hide it behind the anarchy patches and piercings. Shrugging at the pout turned to him, he reached up and scrubbed at the back of his head.

“We can always go somewhere else, yeah?”

“Well,” the clerk quickly interrupted, catching their attention, seeming to melt—or at least dampen—under both of their stares. If Hermione wasn’t happily married, she could completely understand. “We have another room. Uhm, it’s not that, but it is...well...it’s a suite. It has a Jacuzzi in it.”

Richard Black perked up, and his companion turned away so neither would see the blond roll his eyes. He glanced at the mirror in the lobby, fixing the bleached tresses, catching Hermione’s stare and giving her a dashing wink. She quickly looked away, surprised when her heart skipped a beat for the scruffy one and looked to the elevator. Oh these stupid Muggle hotels. Why did the ambassadors from the Muggle Ministry always demand to meet her here?

A moment later, where Hermione pretended to ignore the two strange guests, and their voices went thankfully quiet. She hoped they were heading off to the other towers, until she found herself flanked on either side by the tall men, the collective heat from their bodies making the hairs on her arm stand on end. They smelled intoxicating, she thought vaguely. One like a classic scent of Old Spice, the other like tobacco and liquor and sex, and the aftershave that Ron liked to use. Her mouth watered as she imagined going home to her husband, burying her face in his neck and demanding he fuck her until neither could walk. But he had his stupid mission detail, and she had to go deal with the Prime Minister, and it was terribly hard to speak to the stupid man when she was aroused enough to copulate with a plant.

The boy—Richard—snorted, coughed, and covered his mouth to hide a laugh as the elevator dinged open.

She quickly stepped on, removing herself from the sandwich of—no, no, bad thoughts, no Hermione sandwiches, she was not a lunch meat!—from standing between the two strangers, she amended, she shoved herself into the back corner of the elevator, burying her nose into the briefing in her hands, brown curls falling around her face like a protective curtain to completely shut the other two out. Thankfully, they decided they had enough of invading her personal space, and the two crowded together by the buttons, the younger one reaching out to mess with a few of them before the blond smacked his hand away.

“Stop it,” the older male hissed. The brunet, Richard, frowned.

“Kill joy.”

Great, Hermione thought, noticing he had pushed at least four extra ones. She was going to wind up only ten minutes early instead of fifteen. Stupid muggle elevators. Stupid muggle boys.

“Richard Black,” the blond suddenly mused, tilting his head back, popping his neck. “You realize if you wrote it proper with a nickname, you’d be Black Dick.” The words made Hermione want to blush, her already dirty mind conjuring up images of just that, trailing back to Blaise as she had accidentally seen him a few nights prior at the ministry. Some witch had decided to play a joke on him and hexed his clothing off. A vindictive ex, she had heard. And he had just strutted through as if he and his...his...thing weren’t dangling as bare as the day he was born. But quite a bit larger than when he was born. She swallowed hard, shoving these thoughts down. Plants. Think of plants.

She missed the shared wide eyed look the two gave her.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. No one moved as one of the lights that the younger of the two males had pushed went out.

“I could have said another name,” Richard said, dragging Hermione’s attention back to them as they continued with their conversation. A fake name?

“Like what?” the blond demanded, fingers hooked behind his neck, shirt riding up to show a hint of a tattoo that disappeared with the curve of his hipbones and down to his groin.

“I don’t know. Optimus Jesus, for one. But someone didn’t like that,” Richard quipped, poking the exposed belly. The other male yelped and bent double to protect his side, smacking his hands away.

The elevator dinged. The door slid open. No one got off.

“Who the fuck names their kid Optimus?” he demanded, rising and scooting away, glancing back to Hermione to make sure he didn’t run into her.

“A really fucking cool parent, that’s who!” Richard, or whatever his name was, declared, stomping a foot and shoving his hands into his pockets, showing off the face of the robot on the front of his jacket. “If I have kids, I’m naming one of them Optimus Prime!”

“Please! You wouldn’t touch a poon if it bit you,” the blond groused, and Hermione felt something akin to sorrow. Oh. So the pretty one was gay. Maybe the blo—

--married. Married. Hermione was married. She had a husband. A husband who smelled fantastic. A husband who liked to sometimes tie her up, and oh, he had just bought those handcuffs, hadn’t he? The ones with the fur on the inside that matched the blindfold they had purchased at a Renaissance festival—

“Besides,” the blond continued, still talking, though Hermione was only half listening. “Your mum was nuts, but she wasn’t that nuts to name you something so horrible.”

“And she didn’t watch Transformers,” Rich defended as the blond sidled up beside him again, staring at him untrustingly. Hermione didn’t think about how she know how he looked at him, because she refused to acknowledge that she was still watching them instead of focusing on her very important national document held tightly in her death grip of a hand.

“I don’t watch transformers. Transformers is dumb,” the blond replied with a sneer.

“Your face is dumb!”

The elevator dinged. This time, the two looked up to the lights and grabbed the few bags they had, stepping off and onto the floor. As they made their way out, the blond hesitated, one foot stuck into the pathway of the doors to keep it from closing as he turned back to Hermione. Feeling the weight of his stare, her breath caught in her throat as tattooed fingers reached out. She registered that the word “HURT” was written one letter at a time across each digit. Then he was plucking the folder from her hand, and she made an indignant noise to protest, wanting to claim that it was confidential, and really, did he have no manners?

But then it was being settled back into her still curled grip, and she realized with a blush that he hadn’t meant to take it. No...she had been reading it upside down, and he had simply righted it for her.

He knew she had been watching!

He leaned forward, lip piercing glinting in the pale light of the elevator, and she noted with a hysterical feeling that her heart had started beating faster than the corny music that filled the square. Hot breath rippled over her ear as he moved in close, and whispered with an amused purr, “I promise, kitten, I’m better than a plant.”

And then he was gone. Quick enough that it could have been dream, leaving the door sliding closed as the mismatched pair wandered down hallway. The elevator moved up. The doors dinged. She gripped her file. She didn’t get off.

She realized, as her insides quaked her mind returned once more to Ron and the many naughty things she wanted to do to his body that night, that she had missed her exit about three stops ago.

“Oh what have they done? There's no fun to a draconian crackdown. And what will you do when they come for you?”
Rasputina

~ ~ ~

There were many things that Draco could have done after the war. Go to Azkaban was the most likely possibility, until a letter from Harry Potter arrived by authorized OWL that had somehow cleared his name. The contents of it were confidential, even to the young Malfoy, but whatever it was, he really didn’t care much. A few teary smiles and some false vows to a few reporters to repay the giving savior in some way and the incident, and Harry’s pity, were behind him. Of course, Draco had no plans to ever give anything back to the idiot Gryffindor, just like he knew Potter had no plans of ever calling him on that vow. Potters and Malfoys just...didn’t interact, ever.

There were other things he could have done. He could have gone to bed and let the world fall apart, sort of like the Goyle family did. He could have completely embarked on a spiritual crusade promoting light magic and completely forsaking his roots, like Crabbe Sr. had done from his prison cell. Hell, he probably could have even started giving head or wanking for money when the Malfoy fortune was seized shortly after his father’s execution, and the small amount they had left went to instituting Narcissa in Mungo’s. Yeah, after a little incident where she decided to stick her hand into a blender to see if she “could still feel anything” as she had put it, what little they had left had gone to shoving her into the deepest bowels of an asylum as possible and away from the prying eyes of the paper. One thing Draco could not afford was to have their name besmirched anymore.

But no. No. All of those things were drab. Sure, the whoring had a ring of excitement to it, and it’s not like the young Malfoy had ever been opposed to sex, but if he were to put his ass on the market for the highest bidder, it meant he might have to spread his legs for mudbloods. Or, Merlin forbid, someone who was fat. It meant he might even need to play nice with people who smelled weird or had deformities or something. No. He was a Malfoy, and thereby, perfect. He only associated with people who were attractive, and only slept with purebloods or powerful magic folk with enough money to cause his cock to ache just by looking at their bank statements. But no amount of money would permit him, in all honesty, to go against his Malfoyian morals and shag anything that was fat, ugly, irritating, pocked, pimpled, deformed, or otherwise unworthy to have his cock up their ass.

So instead of doing any of the above, he had decided, very simply, to fix it all. It had seemed a daunting task at first, especially as he was broke and living in a studio in Muggle London with Goyle. He had no idea how to even go about getting a job, much less fixing the Malfoy empire. Then one day Gregory had discovered an old IBM computer sitting on the curb waiting for the garbage truck. While Draco had been disgusted as his friend lugged the item back to the flat, it took an hour after first turning it on for him to realize there was potential, and less than a week for the piece of rubbish to become a flourishing business idea. In the new world that was forming—so radically different from image Voldemort had perpetuated of the total eradication of muggle influence in Wizarding society—Draco saw clicking and whirring before the two young men the opportunity of a lifetime. It was more than just a computer, it was a pathway and an inspiration. And the two set out to create the first products of integrated technologies to be introduced to Wizarding England.

And thus started the business firm of M&G Wizarding Technologies, The Original, The Best. At first it was tentative, and they received a lukewarm response from the magical world. But then the Twisted Sisters had come out with a DVD release, and it was all easy street from there. Soon they were having to set up assembly lines to perform the charms needed, hiring private consultants to get a magic exclusive internet up, transferring entire libraries onto electronic databases. Charmed, holographic ads were ordered to be placed through Diagon and other Wizarding towns—CDs and then MP3’s became more common place than music orbs. And all of it was under management of M&G or one of its sister corporations. In a single decade, Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle had gone from being disgraced, barely pardoned convicts, to the two richest, most vied after bachelors in the public eye. When their prices reached near 80 galleons a share, they had placed an investment in Boston, Massachusetts, and Gregory had moved to the US to open a branch there. It too had quickly caught on, spreading from east to west across the Northern American continent, from Halifax to Vancouver; Boston to Sacramento. Even down to the small Island of Oahu, where Gregory currently lived.

Their business had gone big, and despite the tumultuous economy the muggles had, and the quickly tumbling stock prices, the wizarding world, and M&G Wizarding Technologies, were stable to the point that he barely needed to do any work any longer—he had people to do that for him. But when it came to the large accounts, he personally liked to check in on them, especially at the Ministry, where Malfoys had held a consistent influence since before Witches were allowed to wear trousers.

Which was what had brought him originally to the large building. A meeting with Kingsley Shackelbolt, Minister of Magic, himself. His firm had been hired to install a new fingerprinting and criminal database to the Aurors office, then expand the availability to the regional offices located in the rural sectors of England. It was going to be a massive undertaking, and quite expensive, and all the bartering had caused a headache to lightly pulse behind his eyes. Or perhaps it was a hangover from the club the night before—Merlin’s snatch, he knew better than to drink any type of cheap beer. His delicate brain cells weren’t designed to cope with such filth corrupting his grey matter.

Speaking of filth...

He grinned as he stepped off the elevator, following behind two red clad aurors carrying a withered hag between them, manhandling the old woman like a piece of meat. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as she bit out curses and little pleas, toes skittering on the tile. He couldn’t bring himself to much care, or really focus on that, because the dirty state of her gnarled hair reminded him of the haggard appearance of Potter the night before, sending his heart soaring and his stomach fluttering. Oh, what a beautiful sight it was. Harry Potter, scrawny and starved, exhausted, delici—er—ugly. Ugly. Incredibly ugly. Right-o. No good thoughts about him. Those put him in a dour mood.

He was horrifying. Horrifying, and mudblooded, and probably smelled like the homeless hag’s poontang, because with his stupid face it was the only pussy Scary Harry could get, and only if the hag was feeling generous that day.

Oh Merlin, oh Merlin that brought up mental images...scrubbing his eyes, he dodged through the busy aurors office, dragging over a chair when he reached his destination and sitting down heavily beside the two desks. Facing each other were the spaces for Theodore Nott and Ronald Weasley, investigative aurors for the Dark Magic unit, partners for the past six years. Theo’s interactions with the redhead were the only reasons why Draco would even breathe in the same vicinity as the freckled freak. Since they had joined teams, the two had become veritable fuck buddies, stuck at the hip, best friends till death, drinking partners, homies, amigos, mates, brohens, braaaaaaaaaahhhhhssssss, etc., etc., etc., and all that. Whatever it was, Theo didn’t come without Ron, and when the stupidly gorg—ugly, ugly, hideous faced Potter wasn’t around, Ron was surprisingly tolerable.

Of course, Draco would never tell him that.

“Fucking hell, Weasley, put your mask back on. Your pasty flesh is making my eyes burn,” Draco whined, kicking long legs out in front of himself, expensive robes splitting up the front and flashing a set of muggle tailored Rag and Bone trousers. Covering his eyes with a light hand, the Malfoy male threw his head back, blond hair tumbling away from his forehead as he cried out dramatically, “The light, the light reflecting off your greasy nose! I think I can see God in i—“ He choked, jerking up, dislodging a paper football that had been expertly chucked into his parted lips as he spoke. Theo cracked up laughing, Ron joining as the two unlikely friends high fived each other across the table.

“I think that wins the fucking game. Least thirty points,” Ron bragged proudly. “Got one right in the yapper.”

“I’d say yeah, but everyone knows it’s not hard to get your balls into Malfoy’s mouth,” Theo shot back, sending both of them into uproarious whoops again, Ron’s hand smacking the desk.

“Ha. Ha,” Draco drawled, eyeing them both suspiciously for anymore origami attacks. “Fuck off, both of you.” He snagged one of the folded sheets of paper, flipping it in his fingers as he studied the oddly shaped item. Theo wiped his eyes as Ron’s chest heaved in mirth, both slumping back in near identical poses in their seats. “Don’t you guys like, work? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be investigating murders or something?”

“Nope!” Theo proudly hooked his feet on the desk, steel toed, military polished boots glinting. It reminded Draco of a time back during the war, when there had been only the feel of burning pain on his back as he shivered on hands and knees, face turned to the floor. An identical set of boots had appeared below his face, splattered with spots Draco knew were blood and tears—but not his own. No. Draco had seen his own on Theo’s father’s boots more than enough when the Dark Lord got mad. What had frightened him was that it was his father’s...his father, who had taken the beating for Draco’s misconduct. His father who had been tortured for hours, until the man had cried like a baby, and Draco had pleaded with the Dark Lord to stop hurting Lucius, please...let Draco have the last of the beating. He would handle it. He would take responsibility. He would never disobey again. Just please stop hurting his father. Please, please stop hurting his dad...

Theo kept talking, though Draco was having a hard time hearing him through the rush of blood in his ears. “—so they took us off the case until Lestrange’s execution.”

“Oh,” Draco said, swallowing hard, blinking and looking away. Ron was eying him curiously, and he suddenly hated the Gryffindor and all his perceptiveness—at least when the bastard tried. Fucking Weasel was oblivious to everything except when it actually counted. “So, when did Potter get back into town?” The quick change in topic probably wasn’t the most well executed he had ever performed, but it was affective. Immediately, the sandy haired Slytherin froze, and Ron’s intense scrutiny fumbled and turned into utter confusion, head tilting to the side in a manner that Draco thought was befittingly animal like with a name like his.

“Where’d you hear that?” Ron demanded, perplexed, lips pressing together as if unsure of his own words. “Harry’s in Montreal, mate.” Rolling his eyes, Draco flicked the paper football into the air, catching it in an open palm before turning to face the other two full on, grabbing Theo by his stupid boots and shoving his legs off the desk. He told himself it was because he wanted to actually see the other male’s face, and that he wasn’t shaken up by the site of his shoes. Draco Malfoy was not a coward when it came to fine leather footwear.

“Please,” the blond scoffed, carding his fingers through his own hair and tilting his lips down in a frown. “I’m not that much of a gossip monger. Sightings of Potter are as valid as sightings of Elvis or Dumbledore in drag.” Waving their words away, enjoying the attention, he gave out a little sigh and started picking at his cuticles, letting them squirm in their seats for a moment.

“So?” Ron finally snapped. “Why do you think he’s back?”

“Because,” Draco sighed, voice flippant, lashes fluttering as he peered between the two leaning forward in rapt attention. “I saw him, Weasley. Up close and personal. Last night. Dressed as an auror, if you must know.” Theodore whistled, obviously more appreciative of this revelation than the ungrateful Ron, who only narrowed a sky colored set of orbs and looked ready to start mocking him. Of course, Weasley didn’t, because like all stupid ingrates, Ron knew what happened when one mocked a Malfoy. And it wasn’t pretty. Or so Draco liked to think.

“...You have to be mistaken,” Ron simply said, dismissing the whole of the claims and turning away from him.

“Oh?” Malfoy challenged.

“Oh,” Ron answered, voice dripping with sarcasm before he rolled his eyes and crossed long digits over his stomach, slumping back in the wheeling chair at his desk. “Please, Malfoy. Harry quit four years ago to move to Canada. Even if he hadn’t explicitly made clear that he was quitting, he still moved out of country. You can’t live in one country and be a law enforcement officer in another. It just doesn’t work that way. It had to be someone else. Maybe someone who looked like him.”

“And has a scar like him?” Draco prodded, leaning forward, fingers finding the crack between the two wooden slats that separated the work spaces, drawing his nails along it. “Come on, Weasley. He had the scar. I spent most of my young adult life tormenting him. I can recognize him easier than I can spot pair of knock off Fendi shoes. And we all know how good I am at that.”

“Where was it at, you said?” Nott quickly interrupted, cutting off Ron before the male could follow up with the normal insults to Draco’s sexuality that always came after the blond brought up fashion. Ron snapped his jaw shut as Draco smirked, turning to the old Slytherin.

“It was at Steam and Whistle. That new place out by Picadilly?”

“...was he dancing?” Theo wondered, sounding amused. Draco flicked the paper football at the aurors head.

“No, fuck face. He flashed the bartender something and then went into the backroom with that fat guy. The owner. The guy from the commercials or whatever?” Brow quirking, the sandy haired Slytherin turned his attention to his redheaded partner, both of them sharing a strange expression across the mounds of paperwork, dirty coffee mugs, and quill holders. Draco suddenly felt like an outsider to a conversation that was happening between their shared expressions, and he didn’t like it one bit. “What? What am I missing?” he snapped.

Ron gave a nervous glance around the office, then moved forward in his chair, arms resting heavily on the table and over some scribbled notes, obscuring an angry mugshot of a gray haired Rodolphus Lestrange who didn’t seem to appreciate the blood traitors arm on him. Ron ignored the indignant wiggling of the subject of the photo, as did Theodore and Draco, who both moved in as well.

“...we’ve been getting alerts from that place daily about unauthorized Dark Magic use,” Ron whispered, voice low, conspiratorial. “But word is coming down from pretty high up, you know? They tell us to disregard. That it's a faulty trigger. The we shouldn't worry.” Licking his lips, Ron glanced around, and Draco had to hunch forward more to even hope to hear the next words he spoke. “Theo and I have noticed some weird shit from that place. You know, narcotics. Large amounts. One of our witnesses in the Lestrange case mentioned delivering over 200 kilos of pure Peruvian Potion-laced Cocaine directly to the head of this place.” He tapped the desk, near the file, as if to enunciate his point. Theo, flushed in the face with excitement, reached out and grabbed Draco’s finger from where it was lodged between the two desks.

“And how else to move this shit, who would be so unexpected, as Harry Potter himself?” Theo said, a little rushed, and Draco thought with disgust, with more anticipation than anyone should have for anything outside of a mindblowing orgasm or money.

“You think Harry’s a drug dealer,” Draco deadpanned, not buying any of this for shit.

“No,” Ron said. “But we could have a rogue meta on our hands masquerading as him.”

“Whatever it is, it gives us an excuse to finally poke our noses in,” Theo agreed, looking over to Ron. Ron nodded, taking in Draco's face, expression imploring, as if willing him to nod his head like a faithful hound or a ditzy cheerleader and congratulate them on their brilliant fucking deductions. But neither of them could even hope to suck Sherlock's nuts, and Draco knew what he had seen, and it hadn't been any meta, rogue or otherwise.

“Right.” Feeling like he were surrounded by two nutjobs, he carefully extracted his finger from the right hand of Theodore, wincing as the death grip relinquished. That grip was fucking strong, and the blond thought it either meant he was masturbating far too much, or providing his share of courtesy reach arounds. He resisted the urge to smack them both. “Look, you guys have uh, good luck with that. I gotta go and do things.” Like not try to throttle you both. “I need to go change my blinker fluid.”

The two nodded, accepting the excuse without question, even as Draco crowed with laughter on the inside that the fools bought it. Kicking the wheeled chair back to the original unoccupied spot it had come from, he spun on his heels and headed for the exit, ignoring the way the two began plotting like jolly old conspiracy buff chums.

Stupid fools.

Unsatisfied with the turn of events, he knocked the call button the elevator with his knuckles, scratching over the tip of his nose in thought. He’d just have to find out himself what the fuck Harry was doing in England. Because really, Draco didn’t care. At all. He just wanted to make fun of him, was all. It had absolutely nothing to do with being worried over how skinny the stupid faced savior had been, or wanting to know how, with all that weight he had lost, his ass still looked good even when obscured by robes.

Chapter One
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Fri, 26 Dec 2008 13:38:48 GMT

Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Remus/Sirius, Harry/Draco later on, Ron/Hermione, Fred/George, various others as fic progresses
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Drugs, violence, sex, incest, twincest, abuse, slash (male on male, potential female on female), cursing, het
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: Death is the natural ending to life--the perfect balance. But what happens when death is faulty? How does the world restore the balance?
Ten years since the final war. Ten years since the death of so many loved ones. With wounds just healing, the wizarding world is just wrapping up the last of the trials. Things seem like they are going well when the old savior reemerges suddenly from his self imposed exile. And with him, faces many never thought to see again. Faces that many thought were lost forever to the grave.
Disclaimer: Not mine!

Chapter 1: Saviors, Mohawks, and Coke

I still live, I still think: I still have to live, for I still have to think.
Friedrich Nietzsche

Death? Why this fuss about death. Use your imagination, try to visualize a world without death! ... Death is the essential condition of life, not an evil.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman

~ ~ ~
Music pulsed a sweet serenade, rattling his eardrums, making his chest vibrate with the bass as he slid with the sweating masses. Behind him, Millicent’s body, having grown more slender but supple with age, was pushed into his back, her full breasts a firm heat where her long, black waves over his shoulders were a ticklish, dampening cool. In front of him was Blaise, his silver shirt rippling in the light like liquid, gleaming like mercury across the dark plains of his body, his hair having grown long, the tight braids disguising his ears, body hunched, features hidden in the exposed cleavage of Pansy, who was beside him. The two were writhing, Blaise’s gyrations rubbing against Draco’s cock, Pansy’s short tresses spiked and back as her leg rested between her friend’s thighs. They were dry humping each other to the music, and Draco didn’t mind. Because Blaise’s ass always felt right underneath him.

But it was hot. Too hot. And the music was becoming obnoxious. A loud, screeching, techno and electrical beat that his heart felt the need to mimic in his temples. It mingled with the smell of sex, liquor, and sweat, fogging his mind from the thoughts of life outside. A world where he worked to reestablish the Malfoy name, and fought tooth and nail to distance himself from the memory of his imprisoned father and his mother with her madness brought about by war. It was a world where trials of Death Eaters was still going on ten years later, and the mark on his arm, faded though it was, still branded him as effectively as a Scarlet A across his chest.

It didn’t help that a new surge of youth, claiming the title of Neo DE’s like some magical branch off of their muggle Nazi counterparts, started walking around with shaved heads and dark marks and beating up on anyone they didn’t like. Ever since a recent attack in Hogsmeade, the looks had been coming again. As if he was somehow financing the little shits. Like any pureblood would approve of such plebian tactics.

Millicent grabbed his groin. Sparks flew behind his eyes and suddenly Blaise released a roar, Pansy squeaking. Grey eyes turned in time to see Blaise’s white teeth against dark lips latching onto her white breast, breaking skin, blue eyes hazed as he jerked against her thigh in what Draco knew to be an orgasm. At some point, Blaise’s hand had wound up Pansy’s skirt, and Draco was reminded of shortly after school—they hadn’t changed a bit. The four of them with their sexual exploits, their promiscuity amongst only each other, the strange kinship they all shared that was only made tighter by the fact that each of them had fucked every other, and more than once, all at the same time. Good old pureblood ideals. Roman, in a way. Fuck the man you fight beside on the battlefield, and you’ll defend him with your life.

Or something like that.

He slipped away from Millicent, making a motion of fetching a drink. A bastardized version of Chamillionare kicked in. “Evening News”. He knew the song, only because Gregory had moved to the states a few years back and continuously emailed him the shit music from that he listened to. Making his way to the bar, panting, adjusting his robes to hide his erection, he brushed short hair away from his face and leaned his hip on it. He still couldn’t get over the place—the whole of the club was dimly lit, decorated in a copper and glass design that reeked of an odd late 1800’s-1900’s turn of the century air. The counter top was golden red metal, lined with thick leather, and behind it on the wall were two mirrored circles containing the liquor. The shelves there held only antique bottles of shit that Draco wasn’t sure he had the stomach to handle, if the dates were anything to go by. And the tender—the tender dressed like something out of a weird American Muggle movie. A white shirt, flowing at the sleeves, a vest, and a pair of goggles over his eyes, boots laced up to his knees and a red bow around his neck. Like out of a Western, maybe, only if Westerns smoked a bit more crack and had fags in them. And maybe some bleach, he mused, looking to the streaks in the tender’s hair...

The man approached, but Draco couldn’t hear him when he spoke. The music was too loud. It took a bit of shouting back and forth, but finally Draco conveyed his desires, and he turned away a good three minutes later with a bottle of water in hand to watch the surge of people as they writhed across the floor.

It was a relatively new club, but obviously, business wasn’t lacking. The amazing part was the people—they dressed so strange, a style that Greg had told him was referred to as “Steampunk”, after being flooded with picture messages from the blond's cell. Many looked like the tender, or donned themselves in wild dresses with curled hair and overly done, ornate looking mechanical clothing pieces. An offshoot of the “age of steam”, as Gregory had explained to him, combining old American Western with strange technology.

Imagine Jack the Ripper with a rocket launcher, Gregory had texted him back after Draco had, in so many words, demanded what the fuck he was going on about. Draco still didn’t get it, but whatever.

The place was filled with all types, as well. A mix between wizards, witches, and muggles who didn’t seem to notice the use of magic (perhaps they were all squibs?). The place had grown quite popular, and Draco was shocked when they had decided to visit the only two week old building and found the line for entry well over an hour’s wait. But it had been worth it. The music, while irritating, was enough to get lost in, and the costumes some of the people wore turned out to be entertaining to the extreme. Some were hideous, and some were simply...fucking awesome, for lack of a better word.

Feeling almost better, he took another swig and readied to toss the still half filled container into the garbage bin, wanting to spare himself a trip to the pisser for as long as he could. Public restrooms were disgusting, after all, and definitely not befitting of a Malfoy. But halfway through his drink, he stopped, catching a glimpse of something familiar. He shifted at his post, then recoiled into the shadows as he appeared, melting like liquid, completely unbothered by the crowd, looking for all intents and purposes like he had, in fact, not even realized they were there.

Harry Potter. It had been ten years—maybe a little over that—since their last encounter at the Battle of Hogwarts. He knew from rumor and ministry contacts that the man had remained low on the radar, giving his testimony via writing, and seeing as he was the savior, there was really no reason for anyone to deny him that opportunity. Then he had left England all together nearly four years ago, if word was correct. Moved up to some place in...in Canada was it?...was Canada even a country?

Sipping at his water, Draco skimmed grey eyes over the other. He obviously hadn’t arrived there to party. He wore a tight shirt that hugged a too skinny body, with well fitting jeans, and over it, the red robes of an official Auror, hanging like an afterthought on shoulders that, if the neck and face were anything to go by, were suntanned and strangely, fascinatingly delicious. His hair was shaggy as ever, his green, green eyes obscured by thin rimmed glasses that looked as if they had seen better days. They did nothing but enhance the heavy bags that made him look like a caricature of Droopy the Dog, and Draco couldn’t help but entertain the notion that whatever it was Harry had been doing, getting laid was not part of it.

Harry paused at the bar, the tender coming over. A flash of muggle currency and the man disappeared behind the counter as fast as he came, moments later emerging with the club’s owner, all without anyone seeming to realize the lithe was blond was still standing by, watching like a studio audience to a boring sitcom. Draco knew the look of the bar's founder from the commercials that had been airing all over the magical holo’s in Diagon and in the picture ads in the paper, though he was shocked that the robust, fat bastard looked even more like an inflated beach ball in person than he did behind the lens. What in the world would Harry have to do with him?

Whatever questions or curiosities he had were dashed when the two suddenly made their way to a door marked “Employees Only”. Huh. Maybe they were fucking, he thought, chucking the near empty Aquafina container away, shuddering in horror as his mind graced him with the image of a deep roll swallowing the savior. Maybe that's where he had been for four years. Maybe Canada was actually a mole under all the lard. Oh Merlin, he just grossed himself out.

Shrugging it off, feeling better about himself and his spot in life now that he had witnessed the shitty looking hero with his own eyes, he grinned and decided to call it a night. Why stick around to let something happen to destroy his glee at learning that Harry was worse off than himself? It took him only a bit to find his friends again and explain away his absence with a headache and assure them that no, no, he didn’t need them to help him home, he was going to be fine, really.

And it was the truth; he had never felt so good about himself.

Battle not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the abyss
the abyss gazes into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche

There are some fates worse than death.
Unknown

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t the first time Harry Potter had stood in this room. Perhaps not the exact same, but it was a near replica of the one he had been in countless times in Romania, dimly lit because the normal occupant’s vision was tender, walls covered with acrylic paintings of daylight scenarios and pictures of cottages on the English countryside. And across the thick, hand carved desk with the yellow, antique globe, was a light glaze of white powder which he knew from experience was probably the most valuable cocaine known to man. One lick of that would put his bank account out a good couple hundred galleons.

“Let me fetch his lordship.” Glancing to the robust fellow, Harry nodded, watching as he toddled much in the way Vernon once had before the heart attack landed him in an early and much deserved crematorium. And much like Vernon, the man played a role—fake owner to the club of Steam and Whistle, the person to make a public appearance and handle all the paperwork and press. Of course, it was only because the true brains behind the operation was unable to ever let himself be known or seen, just as Harry was never allowed to tell anyone that he knew who the real owner was. The name, in fact, was forbidden to ever cross his lips.

As if on cue, the very subject of his thoughts entered the room, a willowy male, all liquid grace and feline strut despite a pronounced limp and a thick, hollow, brass cane that he leaned on heavily. He was a strange individual, a white medical mask over the lower half of his face, like he were a paranoid bystander during the SARs epidemic. One bright blue eye was offset by the dull whiteness of the other. The paler, blind eye gave the impression that the pupil had burst, the black bleeding out and around as oil during a spill. It breached beyond the iris to make the whites look inky and dirty. Around the eye, and over his cheek, remnants of scars puckered his face lightly—white lines that looked like could have been painted on, if not for the tight pull to the healthy flesh around them, obscured only partly by a tumbling of bangs that he tried to use to hide it. And his hair, red hair that Harry had always seen down around his jaws when they were in Hogwarts, was cut short on the sides, the rest up in Mohawk that didn’t exactly manage to stand up fully on its own.

He made his way painfully to a seat, helped by his guard; a lumbering, massive man dressed in a suit, covered from head to toe quite literally, wearing thick black gloves and a plain white kabuki mask that set his face in a perpetual moment of concentration. Not one inch of flesh was visible, and Harry knew it was more for the benefit of everyone else, rather than for the man’s own ego.

The red head leaned his cane against the desk on the back, eyes fluttering as his hips loudly popped, shivering in pain that never fully faded. Harry, oftentimes, felt tired and worn, but compared to these two...compared to these two, he knew he had it easy.

“Please, have a seat,” the red head urged, waving long, white gloved fingers at the chair across from him. Harry complied, settling himself in and glancing between the masked man and the redhead. “Rooster”, as he was called in passing by a few people, all thanks to the hairstyle he had chosen. But then again, the older of the Weasley twins had always been one for flamboyant designs.

“Thank you,” Harry murmured. The masked man, Vincent Crabbe, stepped forward, moving so very confidently for the burned scar tissue Harry knew to make up his body, and produced a white bag of powder, pouring out the pile onto the desk before them. A few graceful, swift movements had it broken up into lines, and then he offered them each a straw. Harry declined, though Fred took it, slightly trembling fingers grasping the black plastic item, decorated with glittering skulls.

“My pleasure,” Fred replied, ridding himself of cordiality as he pulled the mask down from over his nose. It was slightly crooked, offset from the center from where the rock slide had mangled his body, though beyond that, he looked not a day over nineteen. “It’s been a while since you’ve been in England,” he stated, shoving the end of the straw into his nose, holding one nostril closed with his knuckle. Then he snorted. One, two, three lines, eyes watering in the dim light as he shivered in sweet relief. Leaning back in his seat, he grabbed a kerchief from the long black robes he wore, white fur lining the sleeves blending in with the snowy cotton square of fabric as he dabbed the blood from his nose. “What brought you out of hiding? Did Montreal become a bit boring for you?” Harry studied the actions, not as bothered as he had been the first time he witnessed the event, understanding it more now than he ever did.

“Rather peaceful actually, for the few weeks at a time that I’m able to actually stay there,” he informed him, green eyes glittering, thick brows pinching together. “Your kind has a rather nasty habit of appearing where you shouldn’t be and keeping me busy.”

“You didn’t come out of vacation just because I came back to England a little early, did you?” Fred asked, lips still hidden, voice only slightly muffled by the cloth. Quirking well kept copper brows, the supposedly deceased Weasley twin tapped the end of his black straw on the counter, wiggling his nose and sniffling.

“Actually, I did,” Harry replied. “The Ministry was under the impression you were staying in Romania for at least another fifty years. That is, after all, part of the conditions for your continued existence.”

“No, the conditions were ‘banished until a reasonable time has passed’, actually. Fifth page, paragraph seven. It’s been a decade, Harry. Who’s going to realize who I am?” Fred waved the concerns away, running his hand through his Mohawk, showing just why the gel wasn’t holding as he wrestled his fingers through the mass. “Please, and it’s not like I’m the only one here. There’s plenty of us. Don’t worry. We’re not going to turn our insatiable hungers to you unsuspecting mortals. It’s not like you can sustain us anyway.”

Feeling a hint of disgust at the statement, Harry tried not to let it show, crossing one leg patiently over the other and folding his hands in front of himself. “Plenty is an understatement,” he said patiently, ignoring the rest of Fred’s words. “You were all rather content to stay away before. What’s changed, Fred?”

“One little mass migration gets your knickers in a twist, does it?” Fred sighed, turning to Crabbe, resting his chin on his palm as he adjusted the cloth mask over his own mouth again to recover his still bleeding nose. “I’m not high enough for this. Go get me more, would you? And do you want anything to drink, Harry?”

“No.” Harry had learned long ago to never take a drink from one of their kind. Vince nodded, disappearing from the room the way they had entered, the back door leading into the labyrinth of hallways behind the bar. Harry clutched his fingers together, taking a measured breath, and then dove in headfirst. “Look, Rooster...Fred... I need to know what’s doing, yeah? I got orders out my arse to investigate this. We’ve got thirty of you Cursed moving in at one time, and about thirty more sneaking across the borders in the past week. That’s over sixty in the space of days. One or two I can turn a blind eye to. But sixty means I need to do paperwork, and I fucking hate paperwork.” The meaning was clear. Harry was practically begging for an easy excuse to shorten the load he'd need to write up and make it easy on all of them.

Fred’s response was put off when Vincent entered back into the room, the masked man moving like a Ken doll in his perfect grace and appearance but rigidity as he lowered a tray of white powder before his boss, situating it like a good servant would an expensive meal. Vince stepped away, and Fred’s fingers twitched over the straw, eyes glued to the treasure in front of him, but he gently pushed it aside, opting instead to lean forward and focus his attention on Harry.

“I...” He paused, looking back to Vincent as if for permission to continue, but then frowned, once more studying Harry’s face. “As...a Cursed...I will only tell you that I’m not telling you or helping you with shit.” It was a common response he got as part of the Ministry—no wizard or witch suffering from the affliction that kept Fred and Vincent the walking, living, breathing dead was readily apt to talk to the government that refused to assist or acknowledge them, and threatened them and their families.

This wasn’t what I fought for... The thought was cut short in Harry as a tired desperation started to hit him, realizing that he had fallen into the same category with Fred as he had fallen into with most of the others he dealt with. He made to stand, but then a silk covered hand was resting on his, and he met the half blind look from Fred head on. “But as your friend, Harry,” Fred continued, imploring. “There are some things that are...worse...than death, as the Ministry has so eloquently explained would be our punishment if we came back here, not to mention what they would to our loved ones. But there are things that are worse than...that.” Fred was pursing his lips behind the mask—Harry could tell by the way the spider’s web of white scars made his blind eye pull. “We came here for safety,” Fred whispered. “We believe if we cannot enter into England without detection, then neither...neither can It.” Then the redhead fell silent, fingers digging painfully hard into Harry’s wrist.

“...It?” Harry pressed slowly, urging more details. Fred blinked, then abruptly let him go, leaning back in his chair and tugging the mask back away from his nose, readying his straw.

“That’s all I can tell you.” Pulling the tray of drugs back in front of himself, he dabbed the kerchief at his nose again, then pressed the tip of the straw into his still blood stained orfice. For a moment, Harry couldn’t see it; Harry looked at Fred, but couldn’t find the boy who had been laughing moments before the wall fell on him. He couldn’t find, in that face that was familiar yet changed, the young Weasley who had laughed and sung and held so much hope and so much joy that he had seemed to keep an entire world afloat by always knowing just how to cheer Harry’s spirits up. Fred Weasley was lost behind the jaded image of the cursed creature he had become, and while the body lived, the boy had long since died. The young saviors heart felt sick. This wasn't what I fought for. “Close the door on the way out, will you?” the older Weasley twin said, then pressed the free end of the straw into the pile, inhaling in a long drag.

Unable to watch, feeling shaken to his core at the stranger he had once known, he turned and made his way out, knowing that the conversation was done. As the door latched behind him, the music of the club enveloping him, the last image he saw was a red mohawked head rearing back, blood pouring across his lips from the abrasion of powder to the sensitive sinuses, slender body convulsing back into the seat.

Chapter One
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Mon, 22 Dec 2008 09:58:35 GMT

Done now.
Friends purge!

FANFIC HOLY SHIT

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 17:19:32 GMT

Title: Who The Watcher Watched
Author: tes_aidan/Me!
Fandom: HP
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete//Short!Fic
Pairings: Past Regulus and Snape, and Sirius and Snape TALK
Summary: Sirius and Snape pay a visit to an old grave, but don't realize they're being watched.
Warnings: SLIGHT mentions of sexual conduct. Lyrics are all property of Rasputina.

A matchbox bears my picture. It details the reward for my capture. "Not one person here has helped me," reads the caption under my picture, see? The younger they are, the more fearless! But they were betrayed by merchants who had offered seven ships. "We were maimed, tortured, and kidnapped. They cut off ears, limbs and lips."

Light fingers waved in the air to the tune, even lighter feet taking the Watcher dancing across the rim of the building, listening to the music as it riddled through his ear, the wailing woman and off kilter violin sounding like half organized chaos. There was no synchronicity or logic to it, much like there was no way to describe the strange juxtaposition of the two the Watcher was watching. Dual figures dressed fully in black, each looking old before their day, one baring robes the style of which would often be seen on the more ancient, Victorian priests, covered from head to toe in drab humility with more buttons than the Watcher felt he was capable of counting to. And the other had slid into a simple suit, old, a robe hanging on it taken from a forgotten closet and donned on thin shoulders. He hadn't managed to fully fill out the 1950's clothing which the Watcher knew from looking had once belonged to the male's father. No, the Watcher thought, settling down to sit on the corner of the church, propping his head in his palm. He looked much like the whipcord teen he had once been crawling into man's clothing.

But then again, Sirius had always been small for a Black. Both of the children of the cousins Walburga and Orion had been. Probably from being inbred mutts.

But Severus Snape had most assuredly gotten a shape. A strong silhouette that was still thinner than the heavy layer of those disgusting robes showed. Much thinner, but not bad by any means. And the two, they looked like they fit. Like mirrors of each other, but opposites that had somehow merged into the same style of being. Each angels of their respective god--Sirius of James and Snape of Saint Lily--having fallen from grace and forced in to worlds and pain and fates that neither could have ever wrapped their minds around in their younger lives. And now such two distant roads had converged--the clashing enemies brought together, standing in a silence that was strangely companionable in the graveyard before a singular tombstone.

The Watcher kicked his feet out. Their mouths were moving out of tune with the music blaring in from his headphones. He wanted to hear them, and so, with a careful touch, he flicked off of the sound. Carried by the cooling winter air, their words littered the breeze like leaves, carrying the auditory pollution up to him.

"...and I never got to tell him I was sorry," Black was saying, voice tight, hands in his pockets. "I didn't even realize they got him a grave."

"I was there for his funeral," Snape murmured. "I thought the Order had killed him, until Dumbledore told me they hadn't."

Silence. The breeze brushed around their feet.

"Did You-Know-Who do it?" Sirius murmured, still not moving, still staring at the stone.

Severus shrugged; a delicate movement that caused his hair to lift and tumble around his eyes from the precarious perch behind ears that the Watcher knew well. At one point, years and years ago, the Watcher had known the taste of them--what areas caused the man to twitch and moan when his tongue teased out against it. "No," Severus replied. "Someone would have heard about it." A stretch of silence, and then in a voice tinged heavy with regret, "No one's ever even found his body."

"So...it's empty?" the Black asked, fingers clenching around his sleeves, voice suspiciously thick and damp. Another silence, and then Severus sighed.

"No. His mother demanded they put an elf in his spot."

"...that's sick."

"They didn't even kill the elf."

Sirius snorted, placing a hand over his face and shaking his head. "Sounds like her," he grumbled.

And the Watcher agreed. It did.

The two fell into a hush, this time uninterrupted. The Watcher sighed, the action lost amidst the rustling leaves, wanting urge them to speak but not daring. Collapsing onto his side, he stroked his thumb over the volume nob of his music player, slowly turning it up, letting the music slip back into his eardrums as he lay slumped on the bricks of the wall. His mouth ached, and his teeth were beginning to extend. Soon he would need to leave from this place, and the Watcher would become Hunter, and then he would go to sleep.

And while there were two perfectly feasible humans beneath him, he knew he never could. He may be a beast but...

...but the part that was Regulus Black refused to feed off of people he loved.

He rolled his shoulders, rising, lifting to his toes. The song had shifted.

Quite unbelievably
I want someone to be sweet to me
When I'm in absolutely horrible pain.
Thank you for keeping this vigil, doctor,
These infections are becoming quite popular,
I never meant for it to turn out quite this way....

The Watcher made tracks across the wall, up the old roof of the church and down the other side, flickering away into the night. There was no use Watching when one could learn nothing of import, nor contribute to the conversation at hand.

Or when it hurt him so deeply inside in the space that was still human to watch those he cared for suffer.

Below, Snape caught a thought on the wind. It was a brief, fleeting thing, familiar in the way it slid across his mind, bringing back memories of laughing words and a beautiful boy strewn out half naked across the Slytherin dorm room bed as the words were giggled, It's okay, Severus, try getting in again. I have no secrets from you.

He took in a deep breath, and, for a minute, he could taste the same Old Spice cologne the boy had worn, but the breeze blew, and leaves rippled the ground, and all that Severus could sense after that was impending snow and the misery from the male beside him. He shoved the fancy away.

Regulus was dead. Some things could never be changed.

"Come on, Black," he urged, lightly touching Sirius' elbow to urge him away from his brother's plot. "They're going to wonder where we are."

Draco Malfoy Mix

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 07:36:13 GMT

Draco Malfoy Mix:
Songs will be up as soon as I find out how to break the coding for ITUNES xD

+"A Good Son" by Gentleman Auction House
+"When I Grow Up" by Garbage
+"The Shame of Life" by Butthole Surfers
+"Drain the Blood" by The Distillers
+"Creep" by Radio Head
+"Woke Up This Morning" by A3 (Original, NOT Sopranos version)
+"I Can Barely Breathe" by Manchester Orchestra
+"Obstructed View" by Rise Against
+"Viva La Vida" by Coldplay
+"Insect" by Die Warzau
+"Crumble" by Sage Francis
+"Darkness" by Disturbed
+"The Garden" by The Creepshow
+"Let it Be" by The Beatles
+"I Am a Revenant" by The Distillers
+"The Book of Matches" by Gentleman Auction House
+"Mr. Hurricane" by Beast

UPdate: ORGANIZED WOOO

Does anyone know how to get around the "YOU MUST HAVE BOUGHT THIS TO LISTEN" thing on itunes purchased songs?

About Last Nights Election And Pride in Country

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 16:06:07 GMT

There are many things I wanted to write about last night. Words that have come and gone, and amazing thoughts filled with loquacious ramblings that somehow do not properly translate to paper. There are emotions, and speculations, and fears, but more than anything, there is pride. Pride in my nation, in my generation, and pride even in the world that I live in.

We have reached a point in history, the likes of which has never been seen. Last night, the world celebrated as one of the most ground breaking elections took place. Either way, history would have been made; either with the oldest first term male and the first female vice president, or else with the first black president. Obviously, we know which way the country voted.

The weight of this decision resonated globally, but mostly, amongst Voters here in the United States. According to CNN and the AP, revelers stopped cars and joined in the middle of the streets to celebrate and chant. Supporters flooded the front of the white house. Record numbers turned up to hear Obama give his victory speech, and more than one tear of joy was shed.

This election has proven to be a win on so many levels. As the example Obama used of the 106 year-old female voter, our country has experienced dark times and times of joy. And already, in us, the youth, we have seen major events that are unparalleled in our young countries time.

We have watched towers fall. Stood witness to the atrocities of man as an attack of an exceedingly vicious magnitude rocked us to our very cores. We witnessed a country go from economic stability and a cocky feeling of safety to baring a crater-like-scar in the heart of New York City and a deep plummet into the depths of our stock market. We are living through a time with wars being fought in ways that they never have before--with no set enemy, and no clear purpose--and an Economic fallout which is the worst since the Great Depression.

We have bared witness to an age of terror and apathy. Of plummeting hopes and plummeting jobs. We vied for change. We vied for days when protesters flooded the streets. We made enemies with the global population and we learned words that had previously had no meaning, such as Patriot Act.

We became, and still are, a generation of Anonymous. Individuals acting together as one for a common goal with no definitive leader. So when that leader stepped up, despite race, or name, or any other factors that stood in the way, we mobilized. We heeded the call, and instead of living up to our expectations of apathy and irresponsibility as the "youth vote"--instead of being the stunning disappointment the world thought we would be--we were not. We went from door to door, we signed petitions, we made our calls, and it wasn't Obama who did this alone, and he will not claim that. It was the people, An Army of Individuals, Operating as One, who helped to spread the word like the gospel. We have shed the misconception of uncaring and disinterest and have taken on a new title of activists.

We are not the hippies. We are not children media obsessed and craving the release of drugs. Our Woodstock would have been the victory speech last night. Our common message is "Do something" and "Yes We Can".

But it's not over. We cannot lose momentum. Our door to door movements do not stop now. Now is the time when we step them up. We join together. We bang harder. We scream louder. We go to the polls every chance we get, write every letter we can to our congress, and we support our new leader. We have proven that we are only controlled so long as we let them control us. We have proven that we are not a closed minded and manipulated population of sheep but we are independent peoples responsible for the outcome of our lives and our country. We have risen from the dredges of the international community to show that we can relight the flame that has made us for over two centuries the shining beacon to the rest of the world of what can be done, and what will be done, when the people rise and demand it.

So we must continue. We must fight on. We must be the youth. An Army of Individuals, Operating as One, and understand that every one voice adds to the chorus of unity, and that it is when we disagree, and when we fight, and when we listen, that makes us most powerful.

We must continue on. No matter who you voted for, no matter what you believe in, this is our time. This our time to come together, to listen, and to fight to bring us unity, to end this war, to fix our economy. One man, President or no, can not do it alone.

It is the people who must.

And last night, we proved that. Resoundingly so.

I think I speak for many when I say that for the past 21 years of my life, I have been moderately happy to be an American. But last night, for the first time, I was proud.

Congratulations America.
Let's keep up the good work.

WE DID IT!

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 04:47:17 GMT

Congratulations Barack Obama
44th President of the United States

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 10:14:35 GMT

I need to just say this.
I stumble sometimes. I get confused, and I trip up, or I do things I'm not proud of, like obsessing tonight rather than doing my homework like I should be when we have an exam tomorrow.
But I need to say this.

Despite it all--despite the fights, or the struggles, and the strange friendships I've formed, and the issues I still sometimes I have

I'm happy.

I don't tend to write my issues in here anymore, which is a good thing, I think, because they're not meant to be looked at, or judged, or psychoanalyzed. I have friends to talk to for that sort of thing, or to knock me out of my own head.

I have family I don't always get along with, and issues that I face, but I spend most of my time with my nose delved into my school books or my stories that I write, and I go to the gym when I get bored enough, and sometimes I drink too many energy drinks or lay in bed and think "What am I going to do if my scholarship doesn't come through?"

And then I realize it's okay. I'm not perfect. But I'm happy. I have a lot of things I regret, and I have a lot of people I can't stand, because I'm so sick of the "pity me" role being taken, and a lot of people I've left behind, because I need to shake them off. Like shaking off water from wings. And I don't regret that.

I've hurt some people, but they were people who probably needed to be for both of our own sakes. We weren't good for each other. It doesn't mean I hate them, it just means that I much prefer that we live lives apart, because we can't coexist. Because we're better people when we're not around each other, and I think recognizing that some people bring out the worst in me is a good thing.

I'm sometimes a screw up. Well, a lot of the time. And I'm sometimes insecure, and most of the time, I'm completely oblivious, but it's okay, because generally, I'm very happy, and I'm fine like that.

So that's all I wanted to say.

Also, on the note of shaking things off.
I'm purging my friends. So, if you want to stay, comment. If not, you're probably getting deleted. There are very few exceptions to the rule ♥

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 11:36:32 GMT

On October 11, 2008, Randy Johnston, a young up and coming model that I actually truly adore, passed away from unknown causes.

He was 20 years old. No information has been given as to what happened, and I agree with the MH mods that out of respect for his family and for his career, it's best to not speculate.

I found him when I started iconing potential people for a Weasley, and posted them over at My icon journal , and it bothers me more than I care to admit what's happened.

Hopefully everything pans out well. He loved animals, and they have set up a memorial donation fund here.

I just wanted to share the news. He was a great model, and according to all accounts, an even better person.

R.I.P, Randy Johnston.
You'll be missed.

Sat, 04 Oct 2008 10:43:12 GMT

"There are those who believe that music is a universal language.
There are those who believe that mathematics is the bridge that will one day unite us all.
But the truth is
already,
we are one."

Donkey Rollers-We Are 1

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 13:25:38 GMT

So they were talking on MSNBC about cyber warfare. Basically, what it is about is a bunch of people jamming up each others systems and planting false intellegence on enemy computers.

They said the reality of it is nothing like Hollywood, and that what it will really look like is a bunch of people sitting in front of computer screens and typing.

And all I thought of was a bunch of military guys and Al Qaida on a chat, exchanging insults and rick rolling one another.

AlQaiDude92: America sux balljuice
AmericaFuckYeah: Yur fays sux balljus
AlQaiDude92: lrn2spell.
AmericaFuckYeah: Lern wur sheets actly go, fagqaida!
Anonymous: Planned Bombing in Southern Iraq
TurbansSuck: LAWLS
AmericaFuckYeah: FALE
AlQaiDude92: I KILL YOUR MOTHER
AussieGuy: I have a problem with my girlfriend. I was hoping you guys could help.
AmericaFuckYeah: Kill yourself.
AlQaiDude92: I can do it for you.
TurbansSuck: Have you tried hitting her?
AussieGuy: You're all gay
AlQaiDude92: Your mom is gay
TurbansSuck: That makes no sense. How could his mom be gay if Aussiefag was born?
AlQaiDude92: Devils don't need to have sex to make babies.
AmericaFuckYeah: Yur dum.
TurbansSuck: Stop talking, Amerifag.
AmericaFuckYeah: I'm not a fag fag
AlQaiDude92: Burning Come back.
AmericaFuckYeah: lyk we burnd yur city last nite?
TurbansSuck: PWND

(NOTE: Last link is not a rickroll, but funny xD)

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 12:21:24 GMT

Charging Victims for Rape Kits.

Why I will NEVER vote Republican.

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 08:51:24 GMT

As some of you know, I work graveyards, so when I say "this morning", that's typically when I go to bed xD

Well, last night/this morning, I had let the dogs out of their normal running pen and into the very back, and was sitting out to wait for them come back. I was trying to stay awake by sitting in the sun on the concrete platform in the running pen and reading my biology book, thinking that the warmth of the sunlight would help to keep me alert.

I wound up falling asleep, and the dream I had was utterly bizarre and reminded me of those cheesy comics I used to do with Misty in Jr. High.

I dreamed the atomic number and mass number had come alive, and were using the valence shell of an atom as a sword. They were threatening to skewer me and alter my potential energy source and turn me into an inner shell electron, and I had to stop them from killing me.

And all I had to defend myself with was a dog bone.

And my favorite part is what I said. I remember I yelled out in frustration;
"I can't protect myself from physics with a chew toy! This is MADNESS!"

And then I woke up to my dogs jumping on me.

It's like those times when you'd dream in French, except now, it's even MORE odd.

He named his daughter Hurricane

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 10:56:12 GMT