Fanfiction
This page is dedicated, if it still remains a mystery to you, to my fanfiction. It can either by read here, as you can see below, or you can visit my page at http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1117908/SeasonVelvet if you wish. I have a small portfolio, spanning Harry Potter, Smallville, Dark Angel, and Hey Arnold.
Harry Potter
Mushrooms
While not necessarily explicity, the below story has mature, dark themes. It is also slightly abstract in prose, so bear with it. Enjoy!
While not necessarily explicity, the below story has mature, dark themes. It is also slightly abstract in prose, so bear with it. Enjoy!
She wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. Sure, she was the one moving her legs down the hall, and the one brining her hand up to brush away hair that had annoyingly fallen into her face -- obscuring the view she wasn’t paying attention to, but she wasn’t really there. It’s amazing what thinking did to a person. Thinking and pondering; a favorite past time for some. She had once been included in that group, with her insanely high grades and spotless academic record.
She had her life. Friends included, with adventures to match. What was once fun, now became a stone of L and D.
If their endeavors had ever really been fun, anyway.
So, walking down the semi-crowded corridor, her eyes unfocused, she traveled in a dream-like state. No one would think her capable of parading in a dream-like state.
Why was she dreaming? She wasn’t dreaming, exactly. Just zoned. Zoned out on a high tragically created. As if The Hermione Granger had ever taken a drag.
Notice the ‘the’. The. A word usually reserved for someone important. The President. The mutant goo-monster from outer space. The love.
Love. Love is a tricky thing. Especially for The Hermione Granger.
Notice the ‘the’.
Ron. He occupied her thoughts quite frequently. Far too frequently for a supposed friend, wouldn’t you agree? But they weren’t friends. No. In her mind, they were much much more. On some days, anyway. After watching a romantic movie perhaps, she could see their future. Or dining at a restaurant with her parents, she could imagine them there. But then there were days like these ones. Where the sun touched the earth, and it was called the end.
Of course, that made no sense at all. She liked how it didn’t, but then did, in an odd way.
Odd. What was odd, was a lot of things. Very odd things, all the time. Like people. They were odd. Funny movements, funny actions. Funny sounds.
She continued her delirium as it began to take notice.
Notice. She had noticed something strange. Very strange indeed.
“What do you want.”
An answer wasn’t given to that question. Not immediately, anyway.
She brought her hand up again, to brush that pesky hair away. She sighed as she thought about how her hair was always going to be in her face today, because she didn’t have a hair tie. If she had a hair tie, she thought, she could tie her hair. But she couldn’t now, because she didn’t have one. She sighed again, with slightly droopy eyes.
The foggy white noise around her began to sound different. She idly wondered about what they must have been talking about, before the change. Her mind was brought back to her hair for a brief moment, as she imagined the girls might have been talking about hair. Make-up too, maybe.
She didn’t wear make-up. Make-up was bad. Bad, bad make-up. Yes. Make-up should be punished.
She giggled. Although it didn’t register to her, that perhaps giggling at that wasn’t quite normal.
She liked to giggle. Ron and Harry always made her giggle. Sometimes. Its funny how you can say always, and then sometimes, for the same thing, isn’t it?
There was something in his demeanor, that wasn’t quite normal. Something odd. Very, very odd.
She closed her eyes for a second, mimicking the act of someone who had just experienced a sharp head-ache related pain. She hurt. But she didn’t have a headache.
Her eyes slowly looked around the hallway. This was a very long hallway.
The foggy white noise was looking at her. Worried, confused, humored, shocked?
On the wall hung paintings, brilliantly detailed. People were detailed though, so in her mind it only made sense, the pictures be detailed too. She wondered, since the paintings were brilliant and detailed, if there was one that was smudgy and blocky, would that mean the person was stupid? A detailed portrait for a brilliant mind.
She soon dismissed that thought, however. It didn’t make sense. An image of the Fat Lady tumbled around her head. It was brilliant and detailed. She felt the Fat Lady was not, however.
“What is it, Malfoy.”
Her face scrunched up, as the sounds echoed in her ears. She looked confused and lost.
Why? Why? Why? Why, a word repeated. A word forever repeated. Why? Because. Why is why, and why it is, like a paradox, is a circle that cannot be ended.
Her thoughts ceased to make sense.
Why?
“Stop it!”
She stopped once again, as the sounds returned. Flashes, too. Images, in her mind.
She started to cry.
The foggy white noise hovered around her. Worried, confused, shocked? No laughs to day. No. No laughs, she thought. Unless you’re Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy.
She broke down. Crying can only take you so far. And then you have to leave. Into a blackness that you can feel. Sleep is a delightful surprise, while blackness, a blackness you can feel, is slippery, like oil. Feel. Feel yourself sliding into the darkness. And then the darkness consumes you.
The foggy white noise. The worried, confused, and shocked faces of people she could not see, hovered around her. But she was gone now, into darkness. She would be back though.
“What do you want.”
He just looked at her.
There was something odd in his demeanor, that wasn’t quite normal. Something odd. Very, very odd.
She felt her instincts kick in, as the alarm was sounded. She tried to brush off the fear traveling down her spine. Her heart beat sped up, and her common sense started to scream. Run god damn it, run!
. . .But have people ever listened to their instincts?
She tried to step around him, but he jumped in front, blocking her way.
Pretending to be irritated instead of scared, she retorted, “What do you want, Malfoy.”
He took a step forward, and in an automated response she took a step back. His eyes were hollow.
She tried to move around him again, but just like before, he blocked her path. She moved the other way in a desperate attempt to get away, but he was too fast for her.
“Stop it!” She yelled angrily, trying to rationalize and deny what was happening. ‘This is just Malfoy’, she thought, ‘he’s only being the annoying prat he always is’.
But he took another step forward, and once again she moved back. She turned around quickly, intending to leave the other way, only to remember the only thing down that hall was the empty class room she had just come from. She was at a dead end.
Before she could react, she was grabbed from behind and forced up against the wall. Her eyes widened, suddenly terrified, and she struggled against his weight.
“What the hell are you doing!?” She managed to yell, without even thinking to scream. She felt like a deer in headlights, frozen and paralyzed.
He roughly flipped her over, and covered her mouth with his hand. She fought as hard as she could; trying to kick her legs and release her arms from his grasp. She twisted her head from side to side and tried to bite the hand covering her mouth. She screamed underneath, but nothing except a muffled hum was heard. That, and his heavy breathing. It echoed in her ears.
. . . It all happened so fast.
Before she knew it, his pants were at his ankles.
Still thrashing wildly with even more terrified adrenaline than before, she fought against his perverse advances.
He let go of her wrists which were held above her head, and slid her pants, along with what was underneath, down.
Just as her fists attempted to make contact with his skull, he grabbed them roughly and slammed them back against the wall.
They both grunted as he rammed himself into her.
The rest, as you say, is a blur. An experience to painful to remember; a memory forever locked away in the deepest corners of her consciousness, never to be disturbed.
The foggy white noise stood around her hospital bed, some crying, and some so consumed with fury it was frightening.
Hermione regained consciousness a while later, and lived out the rest of her life like a normal person. It’s amazing what a simple memory editing spell can do. Neither Harry nor Ron, nor anyone else, ever mentioned that day again.
Malfoy, on the other hand, spent 8 years of his life in Azkaban. Thanks to Dumbledore and his revival of her muddy memories concerning the incident, Malfoy left Hogwarts, never to be seen or heard from again.
She had her life. Friends included, with adventures to match. What was once fun, now became a stone of L and D.
If their endeavors had ever really been fun, anyway.
So, walking down the semi-crowded corridor, her eyes unfocused, she traveled in a dream-like state. No one would think her capable of parading in a dream-like state.
Why was she dreaming? She wasn’t dreaming, exactly. Just zoned. Zoned out on a high tragically created. As if The Hermione Granger had ever taken a drag.
Notice the ‘the’. The. A word usually reserved for someone important. The President. The mutant goo-monster from outer space. The love.
Love. Love is a tricky thing. Especially for The Hermione Granger.
Notice the ‘the’.
Ron. He occupied her thoughts quite frequently. Far too frequently for a supposed friend, wouldn’t you agree? But they weren’t friends. No. In her mind, they were much much more. On some days, anyway. After watching a romantic movie perhaps, she could see their future. Or dining at a restaurant with her parents, she could imagine them there. But then there were days like these ones. Where the sun touched the earth, and it was called the end.
Of course, that made no sense at all. She liked how it didn’t, but then did, in an odd way.
Odd. What was odd, was a lot of things. Very odd things, all the time. Like people. They were odd. Funny movements, funny actions. Funny sounds.
She continued her delirium as it began to take notice.
Notice. She had noticed something strange. Very strange indeed.
“What do you want.”
An answer wasn’t given to that question. Not immediately, anyway.
She brought her hand up again, to brush that pesky hair away. She sighed as she thought about how her hair was always going to be in her face today, because she didn’t have a hair tie. If she had a hair tie, she thought, she could tie her hair. But she couldn’t now, because she didn’t have one. She sighed again, with slightly droopy eyes.
The foggy white noise around her began to sound different. She idly wondered about what they must have been talking about, before the change. Her mind was brought back to her hair for a brief moment, as she imagined the girls might have been talking about hair. Make-up too, maybe.
She didn’t wear make-up. Make-up was bad. Bad, bad make-up. Yes. Make-up should be punished.
She giggled. Although it didn’t register to her, that perhaps giggling at that wasn’t quite normal.
She liked to giggle. Ron and Harry always made her giggle. Sometimes. Its funny how you can say always, and then sometimes, for the same thing, isn’t it?
There was something in his demeanor, that wasn’t quite normal. Something odd. Very, very odd.
She closed her eyes for a second, mimicking the act of someone who had just experienced a sharp head-ache related pain. She hurt. But she didn’t have a headache.
Her eyes slowly looked around the hallway. This was a very long hallway.
The foggy white noise was looking at her. Worried, confused, humored, shocked?
On the wall hung paintings, brilliantly detailed. People were detailed though, so in her mind it only made sense, the pictures be detailed too. She wondered, since the paintings were brilliant and detailed, if there was one that was smudgy and blocky, would that mean the person was stupid? A detailed portrait for a brilliant mind.
She soon dismissed that thought, however. It didn’t make sense. An image of the Fat Lady tumbled around her head. It was brilliant and detailed. She felt the Fat Lady was not, however.
“What is it, Malfoy.”
Her face scrunched up, as the sounds echoed in her ears. She looked confused and lost.
Why? Why? Why? Why, a word repeated. A word forever repeated. Why? Because. Why is why, and why it is, like a paradox, is a circle that cannot be ended.
Her thoughts ceased to make sense.
Why?
“Stop it!”
She stopped once again, as the sounds returned. Flashes, too. Images, in her mind.
She started to cry.
The foggy white noise hovered around her. Worried, confused, shocked? No laughs to day. No. No laughs, she thought. Unless you’re Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy.
She broke down. Crying can only take you so far. And then you have to leave. Into a blackness that you can feel. Sleep is a delightful surprise, while blackness, a blackness you can feel, is slippery, like oil. Feel. Feel yourself sliding into the darkness. And then the darkness consumes you.
The foggy white noise. The worried, confused, and shocked faces of people she could not see, hovered around her. But she was gone now, into darkness. She would be back though.
“What do you want.”
He just looked at her.
There was something odd in his demeanor, that wasn’t quite normal. Something odd. Very, very odd.
She felt her instincts kick in, as the alarm was sounded. She tried to brush off the fear traveling down her spine. Her heart beat sped up, and her common sense started to scream. Run god damn it, run!
. . .But have people ever listened to their instincts?
She tried to step around him, but he jumped in front, blocking her way.
Pretending to be irritated instead of scared, she retorted, “What do you want, Malfoy.”
He took a step forward, and in an automated response she took a step back. His eyes were hollow.
She tried to move around him again, but just like before, he blocked her path. She moved the other way in a desperate attempt to get away, but he was too fast for her.
“Stop it!” She yelled angrily, trying to rationalize and deny what was happening. ‘This is just Malfoy’, she thought, ‘he’s only being the annoying prat he always is’.
But he took another step forward, and once again she moved back. She turned around quickly, intending to leave the other way, only to remember the only thing down that hall was the empty class room she had just come from. She was at a dead end.
Before she could react, she was grabbed from behind and forced up against the wall. Her eyes widened, suddenly terrified, and she struggled against his weight.
“What the hell are you doing!?” She managed to yell, without even thinking to scream. She felt like a deer in headlights, frozen and paralyzed.
He roughly flipped her over, and covered her mouth with his hand. She fought as hard as she could; trying to kick her legs and release her arms from his grasp. She twisted her head from side to side and tried to bite the hand covering her mouth. She screamed underneath, but nothing except a muffled hum was heard. That, and his heavy breathing. It echoed in her ears.
. . . It all happened so fast.
Before she knew it, his pants were at his ankles.
Still thrashing wildly with even more terrified adrenaline than before, she fought against his perverse advances.
He let go of her wrists which were held above her head, and slid her pants, along with what was underneath, down.
Just as her fists attempted to make contact with his skull, he grabbed them roughly and slammed them back against the wall.
They both grunted as he rammed himself into her.
The rest, as you say, is a blur. An experience to painful to remember; a memory forever locked away in the deepest corners of her consciousness, never to be disturbed.
The foggy white noise stood around her hospital bed, some crying, and some so consumed with fury it was frightening.
Hermione regained consciousness a while later, and lived out the rest of her life like a normal person. It’s amazing what a simple memory editing spell can do. Neither Harry nor Ron, nor anyone else, ever mentioned that day again.
Malfoy, on the other hand, spent 8 years of his life in Azkaban. Thanks to Dumbledore and his revival of her muddy memories concerning the incident, Malfoy left Hogwarts, never to be seen or heard from again.
Dude, That's Just Weird
Another Harry Potter fanfiction, and again it revolves around Hermione and Draco. This one, however, is comedic, and ixnay on the angst. It is not complete, so email me or comment in the guestbook if you would like it to continue, and how, or simply leave your thoughts and I will consider them.
Hermione lay in bed, wide awake.
See; therein lie the problem of living in a boarding school. The restrictions. If she were at home, for example, she could simply just get up and go to the kitchen for a little late-night snaking. Or travel off to the living room and be entertained by humorous late-night television. Of course, this being a school, leaving your dormitory after 9 was against the rules. And, this being a wizarding school, TV’s were unheard of. She loved the wizarding world, she really did, but even she couldn’t deny their need to get into the twenty-first century. Electricity is an option, you know.
So she lay there, debating whether or not to risk getting caught. The idea of roaming the halls all alone at night gave her mixed emotions of excitement and fear. The idea of being alone wasn’t as frightening to her as one might think. Her mind gravitated towards the idea of just being with herself, without anyone else there. It could be fun, thought a voice in her head, and for a second she actually listened to it.
What, am I crazy?! She thought back at the voice, coming to her senses. I could get detention! Or worse. . .
- Oh, come on. What are you, afraid?
No.
- Then what’s holding you back?
Because it’s not allowed, that’s why!
- Since when do you care about the rules?
Since forever.
- Oh yeah? It said, knowing that both she and it knew exactly how many times her, Ron, and Harry had broken the rules before.
Hey, those were extreme circumstances!
It snickered at her.
You -- !
- Can’t go anywhere by yourself these days, huh? It said.
I can so!
- Then prove it.
Fine! I will!
Err! No, I can’t!
- WHY NOT?!
Because. .
- This is your home as much as it is a school! If you can’t get to sleep, then they bloody well better let you get something to eat!
I don’t know. .
- Just GO!
FINE!
She threw her sweaty blankets off and swung her legs around the side of her bed. She sat there and breathed for a second, gathering up her courage. She contemplated whether or not to get dressed, and decided on putting a sweater over top of her pajama shirt.
She stood up quietly and surveyed the room, making sure everyone else was asleep. Nobody abruptly sat up in their bed’s and yelled at her for being up, so she figured she was safe.
Stealth wasn’t exactly her forte, but to her relief she succeeded in walking through the common room without alerting anyone of her presence. But that was far from being the tricky part. Now, she had to get through the portrait . . . and having the Fat Lady there was going to prove to be a huge problem.
Well, I guess this is the end of the line. At least I tried, she thought, turning around.
- That’s it!? You’re going to give up just like that!? Coward!
Shut up.
- Cow-ward! Cow-ward! Cow-ward! Cow-ward! The voice taunted in a sing-song voice.
Shut up!
- COW-WARD! COW-WARD! COW-WARD! COW-WARD!
ALRIGHT!!
She knew the voice was smiling evilly for making her agree – because that’s what it was. Evil.
She glanced around the common room, afraid someone would see her, although logically she knew they were all asleep in their beds. Like I should be.
GASP
A light bulb went off in her head.
No no no no, I can’t do that.
- And why not?
Because someone might see me, that’s why!!
- COW –
Okay! I’ll do it.
- Good.
I hate you, you know.
- How can you hate me? I’m you. Just. . .better. . .
Ha. In your dreams.
- Actually, in our dreams –
Shut up! She hissed at it, embarrassed. She could barely admit to herself the theme of her dreams and dare she admit it, day-dreams were.
Yes. That’s right folks. Hermione Granger thought about sex.
- Hermione and –
Shhh!
-- sitting in a tree, K – I – S – S – I – N - G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes –
SHHHH!
-- in a baby carriage.
She heard its evil laughter rang through her head as she tip-toed her way up the stairs and into the boy’s dorm. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might injure herself. Like being high, and feeling your heart pound faster and faster out of your control. Not that Hermione had ever smoked pot. .
She was jerked out of her momentary revere when she heard a slight movement. She made a sharp intake of breath with widened eyes as she flew to the floor. She waited there for what seemed like forever, not about to risk moving too soon in the event that someone might wake up.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if she were to get caught up and about in the girl’s room. No, that would have been fine, or well, better. But no. She had to be in the boy’s room, where upon discovery she would be mortified and probably humiliated.
She crawled along the floor in a cat like fashion, careful to make the least noise possible. What amazed her though, was the fact that the boy’s room was neater than the girl’s. This is probably a good thing, considering I’m crawling around on the floor like an animal.
Finally, she reached the foot of Harry’s bed. She stood slowly and peered over at him, extremely thankful he was still sleeping like a baby. Except, his face was scrunched up and his head was slightly moving back and forth. Okay, so maybe he was sleeping less like a baby and more like someone having a terrible nightmare, but at least he was sleeping. Which was definitely better than the alternative: him awake.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to act the concerned friend. She needed what she came for and needed it now before her grumbling stomach gave her away to the entire lot of ‘em.
Moving with extreme caution, she pulled his trunk out from underneath his bed and unzipped it slowly to reveal the exact thing she was looking for. Thank you, she prayed to whichever muggle god was looking over her. She picked up Harry’s invisibility cloak and draped it around her. Relaxing a little, knowing no one could see her, she re-zipped Harry’s trunk and pushed it back under his bed. She thought briefly about how hard it was going to be to put it back, but resolved to cross that bridge when she came to it. Right now, all her thoughts were of the food variety.
She walked out of the boy’s dorm, feeling deliciously sneaky. Maybe she was right in taking this chance after all.
She stood in front of the portrait and whispered the password, hoping for a trouble free exit. The portrait swung open and she hesitantly walked through, even though she knew the Fat Lady would not be able to see her.
She stepped out into the hall and looked back the Fat Lady. Her eyes were darting around the hall, looking frightened.
“Who’s there?” She demanded, holder her umbrella up as a weapon. Without thinking Hermione giggled at the sight, but immediately regretted it when she saw the Fat Lady’s eyes widen.
“I can hear you!” She said in a shrill voice that was becoming increasingly louder. “I know you’re there! I hear you! Who are you?! I know you’re there!!”
The voice faded as Hermione sprinted down the hall, her heart beating even faster than before. Someone’s going to hear her, someone’s going to hear her. She repeated worriedly whilst thinking of the Fat Lady, still running as fast as she could through the halls. Eyes followed her as she went, the portraits looking around suspiciously for the source of the foot steps.
She only started to calm down once she reached the entry of the kitchen.
She had made it.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and finally let herself feel the exhilaration you get after doing something you aren’t supposed to. It had been so long since she had felt it. Sure, she had broken the rules many times before, but those times had been so serious and important the rules didn’t even matter anymore.
You don’t feel exhilarated when you’re breaking rules to save peoples lives. No. That’s when you feel sick and worried beyond belief.
It was nice to be doing something normal. Something someone her age might do. Being a rule-breaking teenager was really underrated. Of course, she was no rebel, but still. . .
I told you. Said the evil voice.
Yeah yeah she responded, secretly glad for it.
She took off the cloak and pushed open the kitchen door, wondering what she was going to eat. Maybe I’ll even be able to set a house-elf free. .
But what she saw inside wiped the relieved smile right off her face. There was Malfoy, sitting at the table eating a piece of chocolate cake.
Shit.
His head jerked up and he looked at her, momentarily frightened. But much to her displeasure, the frightened expression quickly melted into his usual expression around her. There was only one way to describe it: smirking distate.
“Well, if it isn’t Hermione Granger. Where’s Potty and Weasel? They still a little sore after getting their asses kicked today in Quidditch?”
She glared at him for a moment, not moving from the doorway.
“Yes, please, don’t come in. At least then one of us will be able to enjoy their snack.”
She opened her mouth to say something rude but her stomach growl interrupted.
“Don –
“Just keep eating, Malfoy.” She said, cutting him off.
“Tell me what to do again Granger, and I’ll set another gigantic snake after you. Trust me when I say it’ll do more than petrify you.”
Her anger flared but she ignored him, and instead walked towards the fridge. She had long learned that Malfoy was not worth her time (the idiotic git), and in doing so was able to ignore his jabs at her. But everyone had their limits.
“What, no come back? Losing your rights as Prefect for a week must have really tamed you. I’ll admit I’m a bit disappointed.”
She clenched her jaw, but again ignored him. She searched the fridge looking for something portable, but the only things inside were a carton of milk and a chocolate cake, missing only one piece. She wondered if someone left them in there on purpose, solely for hungry kitchen-raiding kids. You have to admit, it did look suspicious.
She lifted the cake out and set it on the counter, closing the fridge door with her foot. Searching the drawers for a knife and fork, she heard Malfoy laugh from behind her. She jumped and dropped her knife, causing him to laugh further. She sent him daggers with her glare and bent down to pick it up.
“Where did you get such hideous pajama pants? It looks as if your Grandma picked out your clothing.”
Grabbing another knife she replied absently, “that would mean I had a Grandma who cared enough about me to buy me clothing.” She turned to him and finished with false sweetness, “But I’m sure you know all about that, right, Malfoy?” His face contorted in anger, his lips tight in a hateful glower.
“I mean, sometimes she even goes as far as to accompany me to school functions! My parents even come! God, what a nightmare that is!” She said with false dramatics. “And can you imagine them kissing me and hugging me and telling me they looove me? In front of all my friends too!” She shook her head, mockingly exasperated. “Parents.”
His eyes blazed, warning her that maybe she had gone to far. Everyone knew that Malfoy and his parents weren’t exactly close.
Baking cookies on a Saturday afternoon was to the Malfoys as the reality of magic was to Muggles.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything that would lead to something disastrous, Nevl entered the kitchen.
He rubbed his eyes sleepily before they focused on Draco and Hermione.
“Hermione?”
See; therein lie the problem of living in a boarding school. The restrictions. If she were at home, for example, she could simply just get up and go to the kitchen for a little late-night snaking. Or travel off to the living room and be entertained by humorous late-night television. Of course, this being a school, leaving your dormitory after 9 was against the rules. And, this being a wizarding school, TV’s were unheard of. She loved the wizarding world, she really did, but even she couldn’t deny their need to get into the twenty-first century. Electricity is an option, you know.
So she lay there, debating whether or not to risk getting caught. The idea of roaming the halls all alone at night gave her mixed emotions of excitement and fear. The idea of being alone wasn’t as frightening to her as one might think. Her mind gravitated towards the idea of just being with herself, without anyone else there. It could be fun, thought a voice in her head, and for a second she actually listened to it.
What, am I crazy?! She thought back at the voice, coming to her senses. I could get detention! Or worse. . .
- Oh, come on. What are you, afraid?
No.
- Then what’s holding you back?
Because it’s not allowed, that’s why!
- Since when do you care about the rules?
Since forever.
- Oh yeah? It said, knowing that both she and it knew exactly how many times her, Ron, and Harry had broken the rules before.
Hey, those were extreme circumstances!
It snickered at her.
You -- !
- Can’t go anywhere by yourself these days, huh? It said.
I can so!
- Then prove it.
Fine! I will!
Err! No, I can’t!
- WHY NOT?!
Because. .
- This is your home as much as it is a school! If you can’t get to sleep, then they bloody well better let you get something to eat!
I don’t know. .
- Just GO!
FINE!
She threw her sweaty blankets off and swung her legs around the side of her bed. She sat there and breathed for a second, gathering up her courage. She contemplated whether or not to get dressed, and decided on putting a sweater over top of her pajama shirt.
She stood up quietly and surveyed the room, making sure everyone else was asleep. Nobody abruptly sat up in their bed’s and yelled at her for being up, so she figured she was safe.
Stealth wasn’t exactly her forte, but to her relief she succeeded in walking through the common room without alerting anyone of her presence. But that was far from being the tricky part. Now, she had to get through the portrait . . . and having the Fat Lady there was going to prove to be a huge problem.
Well, I guess this is the end of the line. At least I tried, she thought, turning around.
- That’s it!? You’re going to give up just like that!? Coward!
Shut up.
- Cow-ward! Cow-ward! Cow-ward! Cow-ward! The voice taunted in a sing-song voice.
Shut up!
- COW-WARD! COW-WARD! COW-WARD! COW-WARD!
ALRIGHT!!
She knew the voice was smiling evilly for making her agree – because that’s what it was. Evil.
She glanced around the common room, afraid someone would see her, although logically she knew they were all asleep in their beds. Like I should be.
GASP
A light bulb went off in her head.
No no no no, I can’t do that.
- And why not?
Because someone might see me, that’s why!!
- COW –
Okay! I’ll do it.
- Good.
I hate you, you know.
- How can you hate me? I’m you. Just. . .better. . .
Ha. In your dreams.
- Actually, in our dreams –
Shut up! She hissed at it, embarrassed. She could barely admit to herself the theme of her dreams and dare she admit it, day-dreams were.
Yes. That’s right folks. Hermione Granger thought about sex.
- Hermione and –
Shhh!
-- sitting in a tree, K – I – S – S – I – N - G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes –
SHHHH!
-- in a baby carriage.
She heard its evil laughter rang through her head as she tip-toed her way up the stairs and into the boy’s dorm. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might injure herself. Like being high, and feeling your heart pound faster and faster out of your control. Not that Hermione had ever smoked pot. .
She was jerked out of her momentary revere when she heard a slight movement. She made a sharp intake of breath with widened eyes as she flew to the floor. She waited there for what seemed like forever, not about to risk moving too soon in the event that someone might wake up.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if she were to get caught up and about in the girl’s room. No, that would have been fine, or well, better. But no. She had to be in the boy’s room, where upon discovery she would be mortified and probably humiliated.
She crawled along the floor in a cat like fashion, careful to make the least noise possible. What amazed her though, was the fact that the boy’s room was neater than the girl’s. This is probably a good thing, considering I’m crawling around on the floor like an animal.
Finally, she reached the foot of Harry’s bed. She stood slowly and peered over at him, extremely thankful he was still sleeping like a baby. Except, his face was scrunched up and his head was slightly moving back and forth. Okay, so maybe he was sleeping less like a baby and more like someone having a terrible nightmare, but at least he was sleeping. Which was definitely better than the alternative: him awake.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to act the concerned friend. She needed what she came for and needed it now before her grumbling stomach gave her away to the entire lot of ‘em.
Moving with extreme caution, she pulled his trunk out from underneath his bed and unzipped it slowly to reveal the exact thing she was looking for. Thank you, she prayed to whichever muggle god was looking over her. She picked up Harry’s invisibility cloak and draped it around her. Relaxing a little, knowing no one could see her, she re-zipped Harry’s trunk and pushed it back under his bed. She thought briefly about how hard it was going to be to put it back, but resolved to cross that bridge when she came to it. Right now, all her thoughts were of the food variety.
She walked out of the boy’s dorm, feeling deliciously sneaky. Maybe she was right in taking this chance after all.
She stood in front of the portrait and whispered the password, hoping for a trouble free exit. The portrait swung open and she hesitantly walked through, even though she knew the Fat Lady would not be able to see her.
She stepped out into the hall and looked back the Fat Lady. Her eyes were darting around the hall, looking frightened.
“Who’s there?” She demanded, holder her umbrella up as a weapon. Without thinking Hermione giggled at the sight, but immediately regretted it when she saw the Fat Lady’s eyes widen.
“I can hear you!” She said in a shrill voice that was becoming increasingly louder. “I know you’re there! I hear you! Who are you?! I know you’re there!!”
The voice faded as Hermione sprinted down the hall, her heart beating even faster than before. Someone’s going to hear her, someone’s going to hear her. She repeated worriedly whilst thinking of the Fat Lady, still running as fast as she could through the halls. Eyes followed her as she went, the portraits looking around suspiciously for the source of the foot steps.
She only started to calm down once she reached the entry of the kitchen.
She had made it.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and finally let herself feel the exhilaration you get after doing something you aren’t supposed to. It had been so long since she had felt it. Sure, she had broken the rules many times before, but those times had been so serious and important the rules didn’t even matter anymore.
You don’t feel exhilarated when you’re breaking rules to save peoples lives. No. That’s when you feel sick and worried beyond belief.
It was nice to be doing something normal. Something someone her age might do. Being a rule-breaking teenager was really underrated. Of course, she was no rebel, but still. . .
I told you. Said the evil voice.
Yeah yeah she responded, secretly glad for it.
She took off the cloak and pushed open the kitchen door, wondering what she was going to eat. Maybe I’ll even be able to set a house-elf free. .
But what she saw inside wiped the relieved smile right off her face. There was Malfoy, sitting at the table eating a piece of chocolate cake.
Shit.
His head jerked up and he looked at her, momentarily frightened. But much to her displeasure, the frightened expression quickly melted into his usual expression around her. There was only one way to describe it: smirking distate.
“Well, if it isn’t Hermione Granger. Where’s Potty and Weasel? They still a little sore after getting their asses kicked today in Quidditch?”
She glared at him for a moment, not moving from the doorway.
“Yes, please, don’t come in. At least then one of us will be able to enjoy their snack.”
She opened her mouth to say something rude but her stomach growl interrupted.
“Don –
“Just keep eating, Malfoy.” She said, cutting him off.
“Tell me what to do again Granger, and I’ll set another gigantic snake after you. Trust me when I say it’ll do more than petrify you.”
Her anger flared but she ignored him, and instead walked towards the fridge. She had long learned that Malfoy was not worth her time (the idiotic git), and in doing so was able to ignore his jabs at her. But everyone had their limits.
“What, no come back? Losing your rights as Prefect for a week must have really tamed you. I’ll admit I’m a bit disappointed.”
She clenched her jaw, but again ignored him. She searched the fridge looking for something portable, but the only things inside were a carton of milk and a chocolate cake, missing only one piece. She wondered if someone left them in there on purpose, solely for hungry kitchen-raiding kids. You have to admit, it did look suspicious.
She lifted the cake out and set it on the counter, closing the fridge door with her foot. Searching the drawers for a knife and fork, she heard Malfoy laugh from behind her. She jumped and dropped her knife, causing him to laugh further. She sent him daggers with her glare and bent down to pick it up.
“Where did you get such hideous pajama pants? It looks as if your Grandma picked out your clothing.”
Grabbing another knife she replied absently, “that would mean I had a Grandma who cared enough about me to buy me clothing.” She turned to him and finished with false sweetness, “But I’m sure you know all about that, right, Malfoy?” His face contorted in anger, his lips tight in a hateful glower.
“I mean, sometimes she even goes as far as to accompany me to school functions! My parents even come! God, what a nightmare that is!” She said with false dramatics. “And can you imagine them kissing me and hugging me and telling me they looove me? In front of all my friends too!” She shook her head, mockingly exasperated. “Parents.”
His eyes blazed, warning her that maybe she had gone to far. Everyone knew that Malfoy and his parents weren’t exactly close.
Baking cookies on a Saturday afternoon was to the Malfoys as the reality of magic was to Muggles.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything that would lead to something disastrous, Nevl entered the kitchen.
He rubbed his eyes sleepily before they focused on Draco and Hermione.
“Hermione?”
The Place We Used To Live
This one is rather barren and abstract, but the style is meant to convey emotion and feeling, as one would feel it, like a bombardment of nonsensical thoughts and emotions to create what and who we are.
No one knew what it was like, really, except perhaps, others of the like.
Us against the world. I love you.
Together forever. I’ll kiss you.
The feel of fingers on skin. Deep.
I see myself in you, together forever, and the world around us, us against the world.
Feel me.
From the place we used to live.
You are my best friend. Love. Love.
Let us laugh. Let us play. Smile, sweet reverie.
And then close your eyes. Feel me. The place, we used to live? God, I love you. I love you.
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry.
God. I love you.
Does it feel, sweet reverie?
Close your eyes. Feel.
From the place we used to live.
I love you.
I love you.
Cry.
I love you.
I
Love
You
You.
Forever and a day.
Day.
Cry.
God.
Scream. Feel.
Ah.
See.
I love you, sweet reverie, from the place we used to live, together forever, us against the world, best friend, I love you.
Us against the world. I love you.
Together forever. I’ll kiss you.
The feel of fingers on skin. Deep.
I see myself in you, together forever, and the world around us, us against the world.
Feel me.
From the place we used to live.
You are my best friend. Love. Love.
Let us laugh. Let us play. Smile, sweet reverie.
And then close your eyes. Feel me. The place, we used to live? God, I love you. I love you.
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry
Cry.
God. I love you.
Does it feel, sweet reverie?
Close your eyes. Feel.
From the place we used to live.
I love you.
I love you.
Cry.
I love you.
I
Love
You
You.
Forever and a day.
Day.
Cry.
God.
Scream. Feel.
Ah.
See.
I love you, sweet reverie, from the place we used to live, together forever, us against the world, best friend, I love you.
Dark Angel
The Animals Were Immune
This one is also quite abstract, and is meant to be modeled after 'the ripple effect' or something similar to. To explain, it is Sandeman's thoughts, actions, and how they reverberate in Max's world. Imagine his words as narration as the 'scenes' of her life 'play'. To read further, go to http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4687620/2/The_Animals_Were_Immune which explains the theory I try to present.
This one is also quite abstract, and is meant to be modeled after 'the ripple effect' or something similar to. To explain, it is Sandeman's thoughts, actions, and how they reverberate in Max's world. Imagine his words as narration as the 'scenes' of her life 'play'. To read further, go to http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4687620/2/The_Animals_Were_Immune which explains the theory I try to present.
The animals were immune.
Haven’t you hear a word I’ve said?
Amphibian, reptilian, avian, mammal.
Is he alive? Do you know where he is?
Maybe.
I gotta find him!
Why?
Got a lot of questions! Like why he made us.
Canine, feline.
What are you doing with Ray?
What is necessary.
Could you be a little more specific? 'Cause I left my copy of Wacky Cult Rituals for Dummies at home.
Ray is proving himself.
Oh, really? Well, I'd like to see you prove yourself.
I have. We all have.
MRCA. Most Recent Common Ancestor.
What is this breeding cult all about?
A millennia of zenith erection. Selective breeding.
You were chosen for me.
World population, seven billion. An immunity of less than thirty per cent.
Did I pass? Am I strong?
You did fine.
What do you need to be strong for, Ray?
For the Coming.
The Coming? What's that?
Nobody ever told me yet, ‘cept it's bad if you're not one of us.
The philosophy, the legend, the rituals. The few from which it began.
There was some kind of genetic breeding going on for generations. Selected women were forced to have children. Always in threes. They kill the first two newborns. Max, the Whites had two miscarriages before Ray. When they’re through, they kill the mother.
Evolution. Creation, stasis, obliteration. Theory of Mass Extinction.
Transgenic scum. You think those geeks with their chemistry sets and their gene banks have their greasy little paws on the future? You have no idea what you’re up against.
From the sole it was so
The seed from which came enlightenment
Death of the one, death of the two
To weed the Garden
An ascetic trial to reach Laurel
Fe’nos tol
My dad wanted to change things with science and technology, but they said that was heresy.
So your dad got sick of the whole selective-breeding thing and started to get into the gene-splicing game?
He didn't come here until later, after the government took over.
Took over what?
Hello! Manticore!
Survival.
They say all of the same stuff that he was spouting off about for years, about how all life is sacred, blah blah blah, and how the meek will inherit the earth, and you know what? The meek will not inherit the earth. The strong will take what is theirs and crush the meek. After our long wait, our time has come.
The animals were immune.
Haven’t you hear a word I’ve said?
Amphibian, reptilian, avian, mammal.
Is he alive? Do you know where he is?
Maybe.
I gotta find him!
Why?
Got a lot of questions! Like why he made us.
Canine, feline.
What are you doing with Ray?
What is necessary.
Could you be a little more specific? 'Cause I left my copy of Wacky Cult Rituals for Dummies at home.
Ray is proving himself.
Oh, really? Well, I'd like to see you prove yourself.
I have. We all have.
MRCA. Most Recent Common Ancestor.
What is this breeding cult all about?
A millennia of zenith erection. Selective breeding.
You were chosen for me.
World population, seven billion. An immunity of less than thirty per cent.
Did I pass? Am I strong?
You did fine.
What do you need to be strong for, Ray?
For the Coming.
The Coming? What's that?
Nobody ever told me yet, ‘cept it's bad if you're not one of us.
The philosophy, the legend, the rituals. The few from which it began.
There was some kind of genetic breeding going on for generations. Selected women were forced to have children. Always in threes. They kill the first two newborns. Max, the Whites had two miscarriages before Ray. When they’re through, they kill the mother.
Evolution. Creation, stasis, obliteration. Theory of Mass Extinction.
Transgenic scum. You think those geeks with their chemistry sets and their gene banks have their greasy little paws on the future? You have no idea what you’re up against.
From the sole it was so
The seed from which came enlightenment
Death of the one, death of the two
To weed the Garden
An ascetic trial to reach Laurel
Fe’nos tol
My dad wanted to change things with science and technology, but they said that was heresy.
So your dad got sick of the whole selective-breeding thing and started to get into the gene-splicing game?
He didn't come here until later, after the government took over.
Took over what?
Hello! Manticore!
Survival.
They say all of the same stuff that he was spouting off about for years, about how all life is sacred, blah blah blah, and how the meek will inherit the earth, and you know what? The meek will not inherit the earth. The strong will take what is theirs and crush the meek. After our long wait, our time has come.
The animals were immune.
Hey Arnold
Love is for Saps
About Helga and Arnold -- it is not yet complete, but installments are on their way. Tell me what you think of it so far. The quotes are from A Streetcar Named Desire.
About Helga and Arnold -- it is not yet complete, but installments are on their way. Tell me what you think of it so far. The quotes are from A Streetcar Named Desire.
“He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery – love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that’s how it struck the world for me. . .”
The sun of an early spring day shone in through the window, touching with its light the classroom dust and debris, making commonness special as only sunshine can. The daylight flung itself over one student in particular, its rays illuminating and shadowing the form simultaneously. The sun which warmed one cheek made the other cooler in the shadow, and her elongated silhouette spread over the classroom floor, looking like the secret caricature of an alter ego. Her shoulders were hunched as two mountainous peaks, her torso conclave as an encompassing cave, her feet wound together under her chair as hidden vines. The attention of the sun, grazing her stony face, went unnoticed, and the bustle of the lively class, the noise a stark contrast to her stanch stillness, went unheard. Her full concentration was on the book in her hands.
“. . . But then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that’s stronger than this – kitchen – candle . . .”
Oh, Blanche! She thought. I know such a love! Such a love, so blinding, eclipsing, that no light can compare! Such a love, so musical, that no earthly song could possibly sound as beautiful! Such a love that should it be stopped, the light extinguished and the melody ended, I should live forever as a hollow mockery of the human condition, my heart ripped from my chest, beating and bleeding until the last of my breaths . . . Ahohohoh!
A paper airplane sailed over the heads of her peers and collided with the side of her head. Its tip crinkled on impact with her cranium and it fell to the floor. “Hey watch it, buddy!” She yelled.
“You watch it!” Came the idiotically boastful voice, always too loud and obnoxious. The congregation of snickering fools around him looked from her to him with excited anticipation.
She sighed again, but this time in weariness and irritation. Harold, he never learned. The big oaf, the big buffoon.
She looked with disdain at his pink, baby-butt face, all hot and bothered as it always was, with a perpetual look of stupidity about the wrinkled forehead and downturned lips.
“Harold,” She began in a controlled voice, full of faux amiability. “You don’t really want to make me mad, do you?” Her eyes were wide with innocence, though all the while she was stretching her fingers, making and unmaking a fist. Harold’s eyes went quickly from her face, the tension of menacing niceness, to her hands, working and preparing to punch him in, and back again. He swallowed, panicking with dazed anxiety and confusion, trying to hide his fear from the expectant gazes of his friends.
“You know how I hate to get mad.” Clenching, releasing, clenching, releasing. “And I know you know what happens when I get mad.” He stared at the hard set of her mouth, watching the threatening words form. “So why don’t you just sit down there, okay Harold? Just sit down there and be a good boy.” Clenching, releasing, clenching, releasing.
He seemed like a ticking time bomb, about to explode – before all the tension suddenly went away.
“Okay, Helga,” he said, and sat down.
Moron.
She heard the nasally voices of Sid and Stinky argue with incredulous disbelief at Harold’s actions with smug indulgence before tuning them out returning to her book.
“You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be – you and me, Blanche? . . .”
Someone cleared their throat beside her, and she glanced over to see a torso. Oh, for the love of pork rinds!
Wait. Red quilt. Arnold!
The noise of the classroom increased tenfold to her sensitive ears, and the scent of vanilla cookies wafting in through the window hit her senses like a stunning, dreamy cloud. Every fiber of her being seemed to hum -- the strands of her hair springing into attention -- the moisture of her mouth drying up -- the tingling sensation of excitement running up her back . . .
She choked it all down. Her nose remained in the book, her eyes gazing down on the page in pretend concentration, fingers tapping in pretend agitation. “What do you want, Arnaldo? Can’t you plague some other poor sap with your annoying presence?”
She could feel him scowl; hear it in his clipped and tired voice. He must have heard her converse with Harold, too. Why must I be so cruel to my beloved? Oh Arnold, if only I could --
Offering methodically, “I just came over to see if you’re still coming over to work on our project after school.” He stood easily, looking at her with that blank, patient expression of his.
Her mood darkened. Arnold. “Yeah, I’m coming. What, d’you think I’d forget? Afterschool, 4:00, bring a snack and a noose to hang yourself with.”
He sighed. “You know Helga, you don’t need to be so mean about things all the –
“Oh, spare me!” Her head shot up, a petulant expression on her face as she glared at him.
Their eyes locked for a moment in angry standing, glaring at each other with more than today behind their eyes. There was an almost pitying (perhaps regretful?) look in Arnolds, which sent Helga over the edge. She was practically shacking with rage as Arnold shook his head and turned away, walking back to his seat.
To say the least, their relationship had been on the decline ever since . . . well, ever since . . . well, ever . . . since . . .
She hunched in on herself once more and scowled into her book. Don’t dare to hope, Blanche. Hope is a joke. And love?
Love is for saps.
The sun of an early spring day shone in through the window, touching with its light the classroom dust and debris, making commonness special as only sunshine can. The daylight flung itself over one student in particular, its rays illuminating and shadowing the form simultaneously. The sun which warmed one cheek made the other cooler in the shadow, and her elongated silhouette spread over the classroom floor, looking like the secret caricature of an alter ego. Her shoulders were hunched as two mountainous peaks, her torso conclave as an encompassing cave, her feet wound together under her chair as hidden vines. The attention of the sun, grazing her stony face, went unnoticed, and the bustle of the lively class, the noise a stark contrast to her stanch stillness, went unheard. Her full concentration was on the book in her hands.
“. . . But then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that’s stronger than this – kitchen – candle . . .”
Oh, Blanche! She thought. I know such a love! Such a love, so blinding, eclipsing, that no light can compare! Such a love, so musical, that no earthly song could possibly sound as beautiful! Such a love that should it be stopped, the light extinguished and the melody ended, I should live forever as a hollow mockery of the human condition, my heart ripped from my chest, beating and bleeding until the last of my breaths . . . Ahohohoh!
A paper airplane sailed over the heads of her peers and collided with the side of her head. Its tip crinkled on impact with her cranium and it fell to the floor. “Hey watch it, buddy!” She yelled.
“You watch it!” Came the idiotically boastful voice, always too loud and obnoxious. The congregation of snickering fools around him looked from her to him with excited anticipation.
She sighed again, but this time in weariness and irritation. Harold, he never learned. The big oaf, the big buffoon.
She looked with disdain at his pink, baby-butt face, all hot and bothered as it always was, with a perpetual look of stupidity about the wrinkled forehead and downturned lips.
“Harold,” She began in a controlled voice, full of faux amiability. “You don’t really want to make me mad, do you?” Her eyes were wide with innocence, though all the while she was stretching her fingers, making and unmaking a fist. Harold’s eyes went quickly from her face, the tension of menacing niceness, to her hands, working and preparing to punch him in, and back again. He swallowed, panicking with dazed anxiety and confusion, trying to hide his fear from the expectant gazes of his friends.
“You know how I hate to get mad.” Clenching, releasing, clenching, releasing. “And I know you know what happens when I get mad.” He stared at the hard set of her mouth, watching the threatening words form. “So why don’t you just sit down there, okay Harold? Just sit down there and be a good boy.” Clenching, releasing, clenching, releasing.
He seemed like a ticking time bomb, about to explode – before all the tension suddenly went away.
“Okay, Helga,” he said, and sat down.
Moron.
She heard the nasally voices of Sid and Stinky argue with incredulous disbelief at Harold’s actions with smug indulgence before tuning them out returning to her book.
“You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be – you and me, Blanche? . . .”
Someone cleared their throat beside her, and she glanced over to see a torso. Oh, for the love of pork rinds!
Wait. Red quilt. Arnold!
The noise of the classroom increased tenfold to her sensitive ears, and the scent of vanilla cookies wafting in through the window hit her senses like a stunning, dreamy cloud. Every fiber of her being seemed to hum -- the strands of her hair springing into attention -- the moisture of her mouth drying up -- the tingling sensation of excitement running up her back . . .
She choked it all down. Her nose remained in the book, her eyes gazing down on the page in pretend concentration, fingers tapping in pretend agitation. “What do you want, Arnaldo? Can’t you plague some other poor sap with your annoying presence?”
She could feel him scowl; hear it in his clipped and tired voice. He must have heard her converse with Harold, too. Why must I be so cruel to my beloved? Oh Arnold, if only I could --
Offering methodically, “I just came over to see if you’re still coming over to work on our project after school.” He stood easily, looking at her with that blank, patient expression of his.
Her mood darkened. Arnold. “Yeah, I’m coming. What, d’you think I’d forget? Afterschool, 4:00, bring a snack and a noose to hang yourself with.”
He sighed. “You know Helga, you don’t need to be so mean about things all the –
“Oh, spare me!” Her head shot up, a petulant expression on her face as she glared at him.
Their eyes locked for a moment in angry standing, glaring at each other with more than today behind their eyes. There was an almost pitying (perhaps regretful?) look in Arnolds, which sent Helga over the edge. She was practically shacking with rage as Arnold shook his head and turned away, walking back to his seat.
To say the least, their relationship had been on the decline ever since . . . well, ever since . . . well, ever . . . since . . .
She hunched in on herself once more and scowled into her book. Don’t dare to hope, Blanche. Hope is a joke. And love?
Love is for saps.
Chapter Two
She twisted to peer at the large school clock, with its token thick black rims and yellowed innards, craning her neck and cracking her back as she did so.
A boy behind her looked up.
“What?” She demanded.
He looked back down.
She swiveled back in her seat to face the front with a huff, the time having slipped from her mind. It was only a formality, the classic “look at clock” move to disrupt and express boredom. She had not looked long enough to actually absorb the time. Class would end eventually. Eventually, ha! Criminy, what’s the matter with this time dealio? Speeds up when you’re having fun, slows down when you’re bored out of your mind! I tell ya, if I were in charge, I would set this time thing straight.
She scowled, staring at her blank paper, the expression coming easily despite the lack of provocation. The classroom was silent, save for the occasional cough or sniffle. The silence stuffed itself into every crevice and corner of the white, black, and green room, creating an atmosphere of perfect analytical numbness. The white silence radiated into her ears and eyes, making her paper too bright, and the silence too loud. Her back began to ache again, in spite of the momentary clock reprieve, from maintaining an uncomfortably still position. She wanted to close her eyes and rest on the table top, but maintained composure and remained in stock-still, straight-backed weariness.
She succumbed to temptation and looked back up at the clock, focusing this time on the hands, their positions, and their relative significances. 11:40. Twenty minutes to lunch. Could be worse.
(Twenty minutes to see Arnold)
She reflected on the nature of their relationship, her head resting in her hand. Arnold. She replayed their interaction this morning like a reel on the blank backdrop of her mind; always blank before Arnold. She thought back over the last few years, imaginary fingers of memory motoring through a rolodex of experiences. Her mind filled with Arnold, inspiration sounding from the whirr of her loves index cards . . . texts and subtexts of their love, harsh realities and smooth fantasies of her girlhoods days, revelations of lights and secrecies of shadows, the pulls of her wants and pushes of her fears –
She stopped. Eye brow raised expertly, she spied her surroundings with nonchalant, feign innocent eyes. Mr. Hayka was sitting languidly with his feet crossed on his desk, engrossed in a journal of some sort, while the students were either bent over, scribbling, staring blankly into space, or sprawled over mused papers in open mouthed snoozing. Dweebs.
Taking once last shifty glance from side to side, she slowly unveiled from beneath the wing of her science textbook a rather curious, petite pink book. So abnormal was such a sight, the juxtaposition of that lovely pink book in the allegedly monstrous hand of Helga G. Pataki, that should it be so much as glimpsed by any other mortal eyes, it would tear a hole in the time-space continuum and bring about the end of the world itself!
So you can understand the delicacy here.
Reassured of her privacy, pink book in hand, she allowed again for the whirr to sound; for her tune to play. Memories, thoughts, and feelings began again to flash and to sparkle! Resounding! Booming! Ringing! Singing! Flowing through and out her senses! Traveling down to her fingers; tingling her very hair follicles! Shining outwards as love’s moonbeams to cool the warmth of the day’s sun! . . .
Her lips parted and a quick gasp was involuntarily sucked in. The pencil was put to paper, and she was gone . . .
Showered affections from divinity,
Grace blue tinged petals – the blood crimson rose.
Bud, blossom, fade – but not give up the ghost,
Of volcanic soil, twisters’ conception,
Thorns to make the entire confection.
Such blossom, thought to be anomalous,
Gives birth to the children of Daedalus,
And to caress the bloom, find from the dark,
Is the lustrous flame of obliquity . . .
Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled softly, goofily, as one does in moments when the heart irrationally swells, filling one with a suffocating happiness, too much, too much, but just for a moment, in an otherwise gray and gloomy existence.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!
The cry of the fire alarm pierced the alcove of her poetic rapture, like an embryonic sac of languid harmony aborted to cease the further development of her fetal ode. She jolted, started out of her wits, practically astounded right out of her body. Her jostled papers cascaded around her, mimicking the chaos of the classroom.
The elevated and buzzing voices of her classmates infiltrated her ears, as if the fire alarm had been the launch of a surprise party, and they were the cake: a thin layer of fear topped with gobs of thrill – and a little cherry of uniqueness to crown.
“Helga!”
She still sat at her desk, searching frantically for her little pink book, her hands working through the mess as if they were fluffing torn pillows, her papers flying about like loosed feathers. Where could it be!? Her heart beat with a dull panic. She was aware of movement around her, of her classmates exiting the classroom, of the entire school leaving. She felt pointedly the anxiety of dwindling time, the anxiety of an unfulfilled need, a task undone – and the bell jar descending.
“Helga!”
Her head jerked up, her arms suspended in mid air with her hands clutching various papers. She had a deer-in-headlights expression, yet instead of surprise there was a sad awareness, and her mouth was slightly open. Such looks of truth are always too subtle to be noticed, and moments too passing to be truly reflected upon.
“Helga, it’s time to go now! We must go now!” The yell from Mr. Hayka came thinly to her over the droning background noise.
“But . . . ,” She responded weakly, knowing he could not hear her, seeing a look in his darting eyes that would not understand her. He beckoned to her with a movement of his arm, Make Haste!, it said, and with one last ditch effort, one last sorrowful and longing glance behind her, she rose and followed the herd.
She twisted to peer at the large school clock, with its token thick black rims and yellowed innards, craning her neck and cracking her back as she did so.
A boy behind her looked up.
“What?” She demanded.
He looked back down.
She swiveled back in her seat to face the front with a huff, the time having slipped from her mind. It was only a formality, the classic “look at clock” move to disrupt and express boredom. She had not looked long enough to actually absorb the time. Class would end eventually. Eventually, ha! Criminy, what’s the matter with this time dealio? Speeds up when you’re having fun, slows down when you’re bored out of your mind! I tell ya, if I were in charge, I would set this time thing straight.
She scowled, staring at her blank paper, the expression coming easily despite the lack of provocation. The classroom was silent, save for the occasional cough or sniffle. The silence stuffed itself into every crevice and corner of the white, black, and green room, creating an atmosphere of perfect analytical numbness. The white silence radiated into her ears and eyes, making her paper too bright, and the silence too loud. Her back began to ache again, in spite of the momentary clock reprieve, from maintaining an uncomfortably still position. She wanted to close her eyes and rest on the table top, but maintained composure and remained in stock-still, straight-backed weariness.
She succumbed to temptation and looked back up at the clock, focusing this time on the hands, their positions, and their relative significances. 11:40. Twenty minutes to lunch. Could be worse.
(Twenty minutes to see Arnold)
She reflected on the nature of their relationship, her head resting in her hand. Arnold. She replayed their interaction this morning like a reel on the blank backdrop of her mind; always blank before Arnold. She thought back over the last few years, imaginary fingers of memory motoring through a rolodex of experiences. Her mind filled with Arnold, inspiration sounding from the whirr of her loves index cards . . . texts and subtexts of their love, harsh realities and smooth fantasies of her girlhoods days, revelations of lights and secrecies of shadows, the pulls of her wants and pushes of her fears –
She stopped. Eye brow raised expertly, she spied her surroundings with nonchalant, feign innocent eyes. Mr. Hayka was sitting languidly with his feet crossed on his desk, engrossed in a journal of some sort, while the students were either bent over, scribbling, staring blankly into space, or sprawled over mused papers in open mouthed snoozing. Dweebs.
Taking once last shifty glance from side to side, she slowly unveiled from beneath the wing of her science textbook a rather curious, petite pink book. So abnormal was such a sight, the juxtaposition of that lovely pink book in the allegedly monstrous hand of Helga G. Pataki, that should it be so much as glimpsed by any other mortal eyes, it would tear a hole in the time-space continuum and bring about the end of the world itself!
So you can understand the delicacy here.
Reassured of her privacy, pink book in hand, she allowed again for the whirr to sound; for her tune to play. Memories, thoughts, and feelings began again to flash and to sparkle! Resounding! Booming! Ringing! Singing! Flowing through and out her senses! Traveling down to her fingers; tingling her very hair follicles! Shining outwards as love’s moonbeams to cool the warmth of the day’s sun! . . .
Her lips parted and a quick gasp was involuntarily sucked in. The pencil was put to paper, and she was gone . . .
Showered affections from divinity,
Grace blue tinged petals – the blood crimson rose.
Bud, blossom, fade – but not give up the ghost,
Of volcanic soil, twisters’ conception,
Thorns to make the entire confection.
Such blossom, thought to be anomalous,
Gives birth to the children of Daedalus,
And to caress the bloom, find from the dark,
Is the lustrous flame of obliquity . . .
Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled softly, goofily, as one does in moments when the heart irrationally swells, filling one with a suffocating happiness, too much, too much, but just for a moment, in an otherwise gray and gloomy existence.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!
The cry of the fire alarm pierced the alcove of her poetic rapture, like an embryonic sac of languid harmony aborted to cease the further development of her fetal ode. She jolted, started out of her wits, practically astounded right out of her body. Her jostled papers cascaded around her, mimicking the chaos of the classroom.
The elevated and buzzing voices of her classmates infiltrated her ears, as if the fire alarm had been the launch of a surprise party, and they were the cake: a thin layer of fear topped with gobs of thrill – and a little cherry of uniqueness to crown.
“Helga!”
She still sat at her desk, searching frantically for her little pink book, her hands working through the mess as if they were fluffing torn pillows, her papers flying about like loosed feathers. Where could it be!? Her heart beat with a dull panic. She was aware of movement around her, of her classmates exiting the classroom, of the entire school leaving. She felt pointedly the anxiety of dwindling time, the anxiety of an unfulfilled need, a task undone – and the bell jar descending.
“Helga!”
Her head jerked up, her arms suspended in mid air with her hands clutching various papers. She had a deer-in-headlights expression, yet instead of surprise there was a sad awareness, and her mouth was slightly open. Such looks of truth are always too subtle to be noticed, and moments too passing to be truly reflected upon.
“Helga, it’s time to go now! We must go now!” The yell from Mr. Hayka came thinly to her over the droning background noise.
“But . . . ,” She responded weakly, knowing he could not hear her, seeing a look in his darting eyes that would not understand her. He beckoned to her with a movement of his arm, Make Haste!, it said, and with one last ditch effort, one last sorrowful and longing glance behind her, she rose and followed the herd.
