Between the Wasteland and the Sky

a_raven @ 2009-06-18T15:54:00

2009-06-18T19:55:41Z

Hi everyone!

In case you're all wondering where I've been, I've made a new journal.

It's Right Here

I haven't posted any fiction there, yet, but I plan on it. It is friends only, but if you comment, and you are a friend here, I will be more than happy to add you there.

Hope to see you guys on the other side!

Unraveller - Chapter 3

2008-03-08T22:25:28Z

Title: Unraveller
Rating: T (possible bump later)
Characters: Naomi, Malik, OC, and Altaïr
Summary: Abstergo sends a young woman on a mission to unravel the fate of a missing artifact and the assassin who stole it. But dark secrets and evil plots reveal that there is something more up Abstergo's sleeves, and she's merely a pawn in their twisted game of cat and mouse.
Warning: This is an unedited draft of chapter 3.

Naomi *edited
Subject 23 *edited

My breath caught in my throat, and I found it hard to breathe. Was he suffocating me?

“Out with it, woman! What do you know of these trinkets?” His voice was rough, toneless, like he held it under perfect control. It was infuriating how calm he was.

“I… I…”

I felt the pressure of his forearm against my chest increase, and the world began to spin. A white, foggy haze clouded my vision. I tried unsuccessfully to blink it away and swallowed hard. He gave my shoulders a rough shake, and the back of my head smacked the wall, hard. A dizzying pain rushed from the back of my skull to my forehead, and I felt like I couldn’t hold my head up.

Did I really feel the pain in my head? Or was I just experiencing an elaborate memory, like one of those dreams that feel so real that you wake up feeling the sensations you felt while dreaming?

I sagged along the wall against his weight; his body was pressed roughly against mine. He was the only thing standing me on my feet.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t…” I croaked, squeezing my eyes shut. Tears of desperation were stinging to the surface, making it impossible to see. They left searing trails down my cheeks. I swallowed hard and choked back a sob, “I don’t know. The girl gave it to me, that’s all I know.”

One tear trailed onto the back of his hand, and he squinted. He kept his grip on my tightly, but leaned in closer.

“Remove your hood,” he commanded. I whimpered against his grip, unable to move. He made a low growling noise, and brought the blade up to my face. I shrank back further into the hood, as though it could offer some kind of protection, when it pointed straight at the bridge of my nose.

But instead of impaling me, he used it to push my hood back. He squinted in the moonlight, his face so close to mine I could smell his breath. It smelled sweet, smokey, like cloves.

He studied me for only a moment before his eyes grew wide.

“Addah?”

I sniffed, then frowned. It had taken me a moment to understand that he had called me a name, and was confused. Who was that? Suddenly, with grace I had never seen in a grown man before, he had leapt away from me, the blade making the distinctive shink sound as it disappeared into his bracer. He reached behind his back and unsheathed a sword, pointing it right at my heart.

“What games are you trying to play, woman?”

“What—” I began, but his hand whipped out and caught my mouth again, silencing me. His pressed his fully body against mine, however this time it seemed like it was to keep me quiet moreso than to seem threatening. He leaned his face close to mine and stared off into the distance, as though listening for a sound that he had heard that I had not. I wriggled against him, for which I received a harsh glare, before he went back to staring in the distance.

And then I heard it, the sound of voices.

“Maayad is demanding we find the rat that stole his apples.”

“That dirty pig is always demanding we find rats, and we always never find them. I don’t understand why we keep doing this. I have a woman at home with a warm pair of legs, and I’m out here searching for a rat who stole some apples. It serves the fat bastard some good.”

I could hear the crunch of footsteps on sand getting louder, and louder. The man holding me captive against the wall tensed, his grip on my mouth tightening. I wriggled against him again and felt him push me harder against the wall. The two voices continued.

“You keep doing this because his gold buys the silence of your younger woman with even warmer legs,” laughed the first voice. The second voice laughed with the first, and the crunching footsteps get louder. They were around the corner of the building now, and I could cut the tension with a butter knife. The man holding me captive seemed to be holding his breath, his eyes fixed on the wall.

The owners of the voices, which happened to be the two guards that had been chasing the thief earlier that day, came walking around the corner, both with their hands poised on swords. They were talking conversationally before they stopped and looked at us.

“You there!” one shouted, his voice suddenly menacing. I felt the man’s grip on my mouth tighten, “You! Priest! What are you doing there?”

The man holding me captive was now staring at me, though I could not see his face below his hood. I could feel his eyes burning into my face, studying me, memorizing me. His grip slowly began to relax until he had finally let my face go, and his hand was slowly traveling down my front. I blushed when his fingers grazed the nape of my neck, between my breasts, and finally settling on my hips.

“I’m sorry, good men,” he finally said, turning up to him. His voice sounded surprisingly pleasant, “But this woman and I have just been married, and we thought we were… alone…” his eyes fell on me again. It was a chilling difference between the pleasantness in his voice in the icyness of his faceless stare.

I frowned, unsure of whether or not to take his hint to play along or not.

“That is very well, but surely you must—” The first guard stopped as he stepped forward. Recognition flashed across his face, and he drew his sword.

“INFIDEL!” he shouted as the other shouted, “ASSASSIN!”

I had not even a second to react before the robed man grabbed my wrist and began dashing away. It felt like he was running in a random direction, anything to get away from the guards. The ground, the buildings, the occasional tree all became a blur as we wound through the tiny gray buildings. I could barely hear the sound of the guards screaming and shouting from behind us. My legs felt like rubber as they pounded the ground, trying to keep up with the man with the iron grip on my wrist. A numbing feeling was slowly creeping up my legs, starting with my toes and feet. How was it possible for a man to run this fast? And how was I keeping up with him?

Thoughts had little time to become coherent as we began racing toward an enclosure. The guards’ screams and shouts were far away, but still close enough that they could probably catch up. I was roughly dragged over the crudely-cut fence and was pulled toward a horse lazily grazing in the center of the pasture. In an instant, I felt my body lift off the ground and I was thrown onto the bare back of the horse. The robed man just up behind me, both hands grabbing the horse’s mane, his arms around me, preventing me from slipping down.

The horse whickered indignantly beneath us, rearing mercilessly. It was an interesting experience. I had only ever ridden a few horses in my life, mostly those in the pony rides at the county fair. Though I’d never had a real reason to believe I’d ever be on the back of a rearing horse, I’d always imagined that I’d fall off, as my sense of balance has always been slightly, if not very, off. But I had not fallen off, instead, I instinctively clutched the horse’s sides with my legs as tightly as I could manage, and scrambled to get a grip on the mane. The horse came back down, and did not rear up again. I wondered if it was because it wanted me to stop pulling on its mane. It paced to and fro in the pasture as the guards came into view. When they reached the fence, I felt the man behind me give the horse a hard kick, and we took off into the night.

It was only in an instant that the guards’ voices had completely died, and I felt the horse carry us into an unknown darkness.

- - -

We found him, Ritchie!

Can you believe it? The first try! She found him!

Naomi, can you hear me?

Almost there, Naomi. You’re almost there.

We found him! We found him!

- - -

I was vaguely aware of sunlight on my face, but was not sure if I wanted to open my eyes. I’d been dreaming a very strange dream that I had very much wanted to finish, if only because none of it had made sense.

I dreamt that I had been on the back of a horse for hours and hours. We had been galloping through a mountainous terrain for a while before the horse finally came to a stop and we trudged through the winding paths amongst the rocks and hills for hours with only a moonlit night as our guide. And then I was back at the lab, with Ritchie and Dr. Vidic celebrating something, but I had been too tired to ask what it was they were celebrating about. Dr. Vidic suddenly said he had to go open a bottle of champagne and told Ritchie to take me to my room, in which he did. I was vaguely aware of the desire to kiss him, if only because his hair was so unruly it was sexy, but I did not. I just collapsed on my bed and told Ritchie to sit next to me. He didn’t, only told me to go to sleep, so I did.

And suddenly, there was sunlight on my face.

I could feel its warmth warming my skin. It made my forehead, nose, and cheeks prickle with sunburn. The warmth and prickliness in my face was quickly coaxing the sleepiness away until it drifted off of my body like mist off the surface of a lake in the morning. Finally, I was just laying in an extremely comfortable bed with eyes shut and sunlight pouring on my face. There was no chance that I was going to finish my dream, and so I opened my eyes.

The first thing I was aware of was the tiny window in which the sunlight was pouring through. It was a tiny square window cut into a stone wall that almost reminded me of a castle wall. Beneath the window was a large vase. A scrap of cloth hung over the edge, it was smudged with dirt.

The next thing I was aware of was that I was not lying in a bed, but rather a comfortable cot comprised of an assortment of large pillows. They were of many different colors, but all had a variety of patterns embroidered on them. The blanket covering me was made out of thin linen. It was a pale, dingy color, and there were a few stains on it, but I did not care much. All that mattered was that it was comfortable. I slowly brought my arm out from under it in order to touch the linen between my fingers and realized I was no longer wearing the stiff potato sack anymore.

I slowly sat up and pushed the linen blanket off of me to find I was wearing a very large, very soft man’s shirt. It was so large that it could have been a dressing gown if it were not for the fact that it had a long, draping hood, and that the front of it only managed to cover me to halfway passed my thighs, while the back of it seemed to flow down to my calves. How strange.

I covered myself with the linen sheet and laid back down, rolling over to take in the rest of my surroundings. The walls were all carved out of stone, most of them faded and dusty. The ceiling of the room came up in a dome shape. Very old, wooden shelves lined with mostly miscellaneous objects and very few books lined the walls, and in a far corner of the room was a large wooden desk. There was not anything on it.

Beside my cot of pillows was a table. A bowl of dark water, a scrap of cloth, and what looked like the old hooded potato sack I had been wearing before I fell asleep sitting on it, placid and forgotten.

“Ah, friend, I was wondering when you would wake.”

The voice was cheerful, almost jubilant, and cut through the silent room so suddenly that I nearly jumped out of my skin. In the doorway stood a very short young man wearing a dark cloak. He had very short, cropped dark hair, and a wide, crooked smile. His young eyes were sparkling with obvious mischief.

I sat up immediately, and was suddenly aware of a dull ache between my thighs. Had I been raped? The thought made me feel sick, and the only thing I could do was pull the blanket up to my face and curl up in a ball. I hoped the man in the doorway was not going to try anything stupid.

“Stay in the doorway,” I told him quietly. My voice felt scratchy in my throat.

His jubilant expression faded, and he held a hand up and stepped back into the doorway. I noticed one of his arms lying listlessly at his side. It took me a moment to realize it was missing.

“If that is what you wish for, my friend,” he brought his hand back down and leaned against the door frame, “Just know that I mean you no harm.”

“What have you done to me?” I snapped, suddenly feeling brave when I saw the man retreat back to the door.

He chuckled lightly, “I have done nothing more than dressed your wounds and had one of the… women… put you in one of the apprentice’s robes. I wished we had something more suitable for you to wear, perhaps a maid’s dress, or something, however we had none to spare and our young assassins were more than willing to donate a cloth for you to wear.”

I looked around, “Women?”

A nod, “Yes, one of our women. Our assassins may be men, however our women are as important to us as air to breathe and water to drink.”

Though I had not told him he could leave his spot by the doorway, he did so anyway, coming to kneel by my cot and look into my face. I could make out a couple distinctive scars on his face, but otherwise he was quite handsome. He had a slightly round face which sported obvious stubble. His deep brown eyes were thoughtful and inquisitive, even when his thick brows were furrowed. He lifted a hand and touched my forehead, using his thumb to brush off some of my hair from my brow.

“Altaïr is right,” he said quietly, “You could be her.”

“Don’t touch me,” I glared. He obediently brought his hand back and nodded, “I don’t want anyone to touch me.”

He seemed to understand, and quietly stood and took a few steps back. With his one arm, he pulled out a chair that sat behind the desk and sat down, peering at me from behind the desk.

“I’m Malik,” he said conversationally, “You need not tell me your name, now, although sooner or later Altaïr will be wanting to know. He gets very… spiteful… when he does not have his way.”

“Altaïr?”

Malik nodded, “Our Master. He was the man who brought you here.”

I instantly remembered the man in the white robes. He had had a hood drawn over his face, so I could not see it, and a blade on his wrist. He’d been missing a finger. I gulped.

“What does Altaïr want with me?”

The jubilant smirk on his face melted away, and he stood up, “That is better left for later conversation. You have spent nearly a full night and a full day riding horseback. That would be grueling on even the most experienced riders. I will have Nadirah fetch some fresh water for you.”

He gave his head a slight bow and quietly left the room.

It was like his words had jogged a memory that I could not recall on my own. I could remember the sights and smells of a world I’d never seen before where women wore long dresses and balanced clay pots on their heads. Where everyone traveled by horseback, and where I was forbidden from screaming out for help as the tip of a dagger at my back threatened my life with the first sign of a scream. The robed man, Altaïr, was sitting behind me on the back of a pure white horse.

It was a strange feeling, remembering memories that I had never experienced first-hand. At least, that’s what it felt like. I wondered if this was how the Animus worked; it filled in memories that I was to skip in order to keep me from being confused later. If this was the case, then the damn machine was pretty smart.

The door opened, and a spindly young woman walked in. She was very thing, and seemed to be wrapped in a very thing, almost transparent, draping silk gown. I could easily see her body through the thin material; wiry, toned. She had a dark beauty mark right between her breasts, and her legs were sculpted like she rode horses constantly. In this world, she probably did.

She bowed in the doorway. Between her long hands, she balanced a large clay plate. There was a small clay jug on it, as well as what looked like a bowl of mash.

“Hello,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft, but cautious. In a way, it was soothing. I uncoiled from my ball and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

“Hi.”

“I bring you food and drink. Malik said you do not wish to be touched. It’s understandable. Where do you wish for me to put this?”

I swallowed and patted a pillow next to me. Obediently, the young woman came to my cot and knelt down, gently lowering the plate onto the pillow. I watched her carefully as she stood and took a few steps backwards, folding her hands before her.

“Eat.”

There was a crude object cut out of wood that resembled a spoon. I carefully took a bite of the beige-colored mash in the bowl. It was magnificient, though I could not quite place my finger exactly on what it tasted like. I wolfed the food down, feeling like I hadn’t eaten in days. I could recall memories that I had not. In a brief moment, I had eaten and drank everything that the woman had put in front of me. She took the large plate and put it on the desk before sitting on her knees beside my cot again.

“I’m Nadirah,” she said.

“I’m Naomi.”

“That’s a strange name,” she frowned, “and it isn’t the name we thought you would use.”

I frowned back, “Thought I would use?”

She nodded, “When Altaïr brought you here, he claimed he had found my sister.”

She leaned forward and touched the tips of her finger to my hair, brushing it away from my face. I imagined I must have looked like a mess. Her eyebrows furrowed and she bit the side of her lip in a funny way that almost reminded me of Cher Horowitz from Clueless.

“My God, you look just like her, but you claim to have a different name! What have the Templars done?”

I was so confused. My face must have shown it, too, because Nadirah brought her hand back and rubbed her face with her hands.

“Your… my sister’s… Addah. Her name is Addah.”

“Addah?”

That must have been why the robed man had called me by that name.

“Addah,” I said it carefully, trying to see if it would jog a memory that was not mine. It didn’t. “That’s a very pretty name.”

“She was a very beautiful woman,” Nadirah said sadly, her eyes trailing to the stone floor. “The Templars took her a few years ago. We have been looking for her for a long time…”

The door opened, and I felt my heart leap into my throat as the familiar white robes whisked in. Nadirah immediately stood, her hands folded before her, and she gave a little bow to the man who had walked in.

“Nadirah,” he greeted. His voice was cold, toneless.

“Altaïr,” she greeted back, looking at the floor.

“You may look at me, Nadirah,” he said quietly, “I do not rule my assassins with the same stinging punishments as our Al Mualim had.”

She hesitated before looking up at him, her dark, wavy hair nearly hiding her entire face.

“You may leave, Nadirah,” he said. She glanced at, and I silently pleaded for her to stay. I did not want to stay by myself with the knife-wielding man with no face. But even if she saw my pleads, she did not listen. Instead, she quietly stepped out, and an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. I instinctively curled into my ball.

Altaïr stood in the doorway, his stance proud. It was the first time I got a clear look at him in the sunlight, although it was still hard to see his face. His robes looked as though they had been washed and parched, and his hand was free of his metal bracer. He was wearing a pair of dark brown boots and a gray pair of pants beneath the tapered part of his robes, however his collection of tiny daggers sheathed along his middle glinted in the sunlight. I saw one of his hands rest on one of the daggers, the fingers drumming along the exposed handle.

“I do not hesitate to tell anyone of my abilities in the art of death,” he said. His voice never wavered, never faltered. It was toneless, heartless. I felt the traces of fear shiver up my spine, “These blades are a part of me. A part of my body. Against wind, rain, and dust, they never miss their target. So do not think you will be lucky and I will miss you should you say something I do not like.”

The shivering was getting worse. My feet were shaking, my legs were shaking. I could feel my fingers prickling uncomfortably, and my body was beginning to feel weak.

It’s just a memory, it’s just a memory.

He came to the front of the desk and leaned against it, folding his arms. He was careful to not hide the daggers, and I was careful to not stop staring at them.

“I will ask you questions. I expect your answers. Should I think you’re lying, you will not walk out of this chamber alive.” He cleared his throat, “Am I understood?”

I nodded. The daggers were hypnotizing. I couldn’t stop staring at them.

“What is your name?”

“N-Naomi,” I managed. It took a great deal of effort to push the word from my throat. Even with all the effort, I felt as though I could not quite speak properly.

“Slower.”

“Nay-Oh-Mee.”

He stared at me for a moment, “Naomi. That is not a normal name,” he pulled a dagger from its sheath and inspected it. I felt cold sweat beading above my upper lip. “But I do not think you are lying to me. He glanced at me over the edge of the blade. At least, I thought he did. I still could not quite see his face. Either way, I shook my head no. I was not lying to him.

“Naomi,” he said again, sheathing the blade and crossing his arms again, “Can you tell me what you were doing walking around Jadabar so late at night?”

I swallowed, “I was looking for a place to sit.”

“You do not have a home?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I’ve traveled from… very far away.”

It must have sounded convincing, because his hood tilted to the side, as though he were tilting his head.

“So you come to a trade village you do not know and converse with children you’ve never met before,” he paused. I wasn’t sure whether I was to answer him or not, “And you don’t know anything of these trinkets?” He reached into a pouch and pulled out Naleh’s little horse-hair pouch. I could hear her dirty, tarnished trinkets tinkling inside.

I shook my head, “I know nothing of them. Naleh, the girl had them and wished to bury them, and so I helped her do it.”

He glanced down at the little pouch and pocketed it, crossing his arms again.

“And you say your name is Naomi?”

“Yes.”

“And you know my name?”

“Altaïr. Both Nadirah and Malik had said it.”

“And do you know where you currently are?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Addah is?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like her?”

“I don’t…. I don’t know. Do I?”

“Do you know her?”

“No…”

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who are you?!”

“I don’t know!”

“WHO. ARE. YOU?”

He had suddenly leapt toward me, landing quietly on the cot and staring straight into my face. In his quick movement, his hood flew backward, revealing his face.

I felt my breath catch, and the world around me seemed to freeze in place.

He was unbelievably handsome. He had a narrow face, a strong face. His hair was cropped very short, almost like a long buzz cut, and it looked like it would feel soft beneath my fingertips. His eyes were strong, determined. They were a light honey-brown color, and they glared at me from beneath a pair of thick eyebrows. His jaw was squared, dusted with days-old stubble. A thin scar ran across the left side of his mouth, marring both his upper and lower lips. He was cold, toneless, heartless, but he was so handsome.

And in the moment of my taking in his beauty, I felt a strange thing happen to me. It was a rush of a world of memories, memories that I had definitely not experienced first-hand, but ones that left my skin crawling with a tingling sensation I hadn’t felt since my last boyfriend.

1.

“You are so beautiful,” a husky, daring voice in my ear. Tingling down my spine…

2.

“Do you not know what your body does to this man?” chapped lips along my collar

3.

“I will return to you when the mission is over, when dawn breaks. And then you’re mine…” Hands trailing my sides, a giggle in my throat.

4.

“Altaïr,” my voice in my throat, it’s taking so much effort to speak. All I can do is giggle. There’s a heat wrapping around me that I hadn’t felt in ages, “Altaïr.”

5.

More chapped lips trailing my neck. Tingling down my body. My eyes are shut, and his tongue just feels so… delicious...

6.

“Why must you keep doing this, Altaïr?” I’m shouting. There are tears on my cheeks. My hands are balled up in anger. “Why must you keep killing these men? Can you not stop? Must I keep watching men die while I wait for my love to return so we can start our own lives?”

7.

“You know I cannot leave, Addah,” his voice is stern, “I am the highest, both in skill and rank. I cannot just… leave.”

8.

“I want children, Altaïr. I want sons and daughters. I want to feel them in my womb, in my arms. I want to watch them grow into adults. I want to watch them marry, and have wealth, and children of their own. But I don’t want to do it in a world of shadows, blades, and death.”

9.

“This will be my last mission, Addah. My last.”

10.

Tears on my face, a harsh ground beneath my feet. The mountain fortress at my back. He’ll never know…

“Your lover.”

The young, handsome face before me with the marred mouth blinked. The eyes bore into me, staring at me. His brows, if it were even possible, knit even tighter together. I could hear his teeth grind when he squared his jaw, and he exhaled sharply from his nose. With catlike grace, he leapt away from me, tapered robes billowing around him. I could barely register the feeling of his weight lifting from my body. Was he even putting weight on me?

He stood in the center of room for a moment, his stance no longer proud. Almost defeated. His hood was still down, and his face was still staring at me. I gulped and looked away, trying to make sense of the new emotions coursing through me. I felt like I knew him, and knew him well. I felt like I knew every scar he bore, every birth mark. I felt like I had seen him many times in my life, like I had made love with him many more times. I felt like he knew me, knew every spot that sent me shivering with pleasure. I felt like he had once loved me, and now did not know what to think.

And yet, these emotions felt strange, synthesized. They were not mine. They were the Animus’.

I blinked, and he was gone. Not even the smell of sandalwood and leather followed him.

I glanced around the room, at first thinking that he had just moved to a new spot and I hadn’t noticed. He had a habit of displacing himself as such. It was what made him excel above the other assassins.

A Masyaf sun was still shining through my window. Mid-day. I was neither surprised nor unsurprised to know that I finally recognized where I was. The rational part of me told me that I should not have been able to recognize it. The other part of me – I was unsure just what to call it – told me that I should have.

I sagged back into the pillows, feeling my body relax finally. I felt like it’d been tensed up for hours, even though the encounter had lasted only a few seconds. I released the blankets that I kept bunched in my fists, not realizing I had been clutching them with every essence of my being.

A small, white-blue fog began to take over my vision. It was tiny at first, unremarkable. Like I had been looking into a light for far too long, and was now looking away. But it began to get bigger and bigger until my entire vision was overcome with fog. I relaxed into the pillows and closed my eyes, allowing the Animus to pull me out of this memory.

I wanted nothing more than to be out of it.

- - -

Don’t you understand? We’re closer than ever before!

But we’re not there, yet! We’re close. But we’re not there yet. Let’s not be hasty in celebrating.

She’ll get what we need. And when she does, she’ll catch him. Desmond can’t keep hiding forever.

Never Fallen Chapter 1

2008-02-25T21:42:49Z

Title: Never Fallen
Characters: Caelas - a blood elf hunter; Altair - the great white lion and Caelas' pet (yes, named after the assassin from Assassin's Creed); a druid gone barking mad; and two guardian druids at Nighthaven.
Rating: T - most definitely a possible bump in the future
Summary: Caelas Arrowind discovers a night elf druid in the wood who has gone mad. Though he initially wishes to kill her, the weight of a guilty conscience psuades him to take her to the Moonglade, where he is sent on a mission to save all of humanity from a new evil stirring upon Azeroth.
Note: You guessed it; it's unedited.

A thunderous crash echoed across the valley, followed by the horrid scream of a dreadlord. The victory call of an orcish battle horn cut through the air, sending a wave of anxiousness through him. It was almost their time. He closed his eyes and felt the wind against his face. It was blowing due East. Perfect.

His fingers prickled with excitement, and he gripped his bow tightly, reaching back to grab an arrow from his quiver.

“The wind is due East!” He shouted loudly, the Thalassian words rolled off his tongue like a stream downhill. A few of his officers, brilliant archers and even more brilliant comrades repeated his words. He heard the sound of arrows sliding from quivers behind him, “Let the wind carry your arrows! Victory lies ahead, along the horizon!”

At the repetition of his words from his officers, there was a chorus of agreement along his brethren. He lined his arrow along his quiver and pulled, leaving the string taught. The next horn, the Darnassian horn, would need to sound, signaling the opening of their attack.

“Love,” the voice was soft, gentle. She was standing next to him, her own arrow aimed and willing, the wind blowing through her blood red hair.

“Love,” he repeated, flashing her a grin.

The sheer white eagle balanced on her shoulder screeched, ruffling its feathers. Her eyes, green as emeralds, toggled between him, and the great bird. She raised an eyebrow, and he nodded.

The ancient language rolled off her tongue, dancing along the wind. The bird called loudly, taking off into the sky. With it came the calls of the other eagles. It was like a veil coming off of the face of a bride as hundreds of the enormous ivory birds took off into the sky and dived down into the canyon. There was another thunderous war, and the Darnassian war call hung in the air.

“Farstriders!” he called at the top of his lungs, “For Silvermoon!”

He opened his eyes, bolting straight up in his bed. A deep gray dawn hung just outside the window. The sun had not risen yet, but it was soon going to. He sighed and ran a hand through his tangled, drenched hair. The whisper of white against the dark walls of his cottage caught his attention, and the bed suddenly shifted as the white ghost crawled onto the bed. He felt a rough tongue against his face, and he reached up.

“Altair,” he whispered to the white lion, listening to its purrs and tiny growls of comfort.

You were tossing, the ancient language danced in his head. He could feel Altair’s blue eyes piercing him through the darkness. He stroked the lion’s head and nodded.

“Dream, friend, nothing more.”

The lion flopped down onto the cot, his giant head in his lap, and he leaned back against he pillows. The last thing he was aware of was the strength of his heartbeat against the medallion that hung around his neck. Despite feeling so warm when he awoke, the smooth metal felt strangely cold.

- - -

He found Altair standing at the edge of a small pool, his great ivory reflection almost a mirror image in the still waters. The pool was nothing spectacular, it probably would have come up to Caelas’s waist, if he were to have wandered into the deepest part of it, and it stood in the center of a clearing surrounded by a very thick array of trees and brush. Very little light shown through the canopy of trees, creating an eerie green-blue glow. Caelas was surprise to find that he had never seen this treasure during his exploration for an isolated spot to build his home. He probably had passed by many a time on his way to an outpost and never knew it.

He saw a body lying beneath Altair, his charcoal-gray mane almost brushing it. The great lion was sniffing it cautiously. It looked like that of a large, dead beast, a cat, in fact. It’s fur was matted and caked in blackened mud and dirt. So much so, in fact, that he could not tell what sort of beast it was. Squinting to get a better look, Caelas took a few steps forward and crouched beside Altair, who was gingerly nudging the animal with the end of his large gray nose.

“Is it alive?” Caelas asked quietly, examining the beast with utmost scrutiny. It did not move.

It is, Altair’s response was collected, calm. But barely.

Caelas reached down to touch the poor beast. A large surge of power rushed through his veins, up his arms and into his chest as he was thrown backward into a tree. Rattled, he leapt to his feet and drew his bow on the beast, who had not moved. Altair, too, had retreated to his master, a low growl emitting from his throat as he crouched in preparation to attack.

“Magic? What beast is this?”

It is not a normal beast… Altair sounded a combination of both amazed and jealous.

Caelas furrowed his brow at Altair, and lowered his bow. He carefully sheathed the bow, dropping his drawn arrow into his quiver, and walked over to the body. It would not matter if the animal was feral and likely to attack, it was obviously injured and would be sluggish, providing Caelas just the right amount of time to strike and kill it before it could cause any harm, if that was indeed the beast’s intention. Caelas stepped at the head of the animal and slipped his hands beneath it, turning the animal’s face to look at him.

It was indeed a feline. Its large, narrow head appeared to be midnight black and caked in mud and dirt. It had a purple-black nose and long black whiskers. Most were bent and broken. A chunk of fur had been ripped from the side of its face, the open wound gushed with pus and ooze. It had obviously been struck; the wound appeared as though it had been inflicted by a whip. Wherever the beast had come from, it had definitely been maltreated and would probably be impossible to tame. Caelas had learned from past experience that traumatized animals tended to lash out when excited or over-stimulated, particularly in large crowds found in cities.

Too put the beast out of its misery, or no? Caelas pondered as he examined the animal further. Much of its fur had been ripped out, leaving open, infected wounds. And the fur that had not been ripped from its body was caked in strange black mud. A large puddle of blood had spilled beneath the animal, inviting a large number of horseflies and chiggers to a feast.

“Are you sure that this beast is alive?” he asked Altair, who had taken a few steps forward and was now laying rigid beside his master, his nose nearly touching the nose of the beast that Caelas held in his hand.

I am sure, but I am also not sure as to what sort of beast this is. The magic in the air is… so delicious.

Caelas frowned at the laughter in Altair’s voice, and he sighed.

“Magic or no magic…” he stopped, feeling his chest run out of breath before he could speak. It was a familiar feeling, but one that he pushed aside and continued. Mana could wait. “Do you believe this animal could be revived?”

Altair let out a grunt and peered up at his master.

I am not sure. But why would you want to revive it? Surely, it is not a normal beast.

Caelas slipped his hands under the animal’s head and turned it so as to look into its face.

One eye slowly opened, revealing glowing yellow. Caelas tilted his head, brow furrowed, as the other eye opened. He could hear Altair growling, now. With lightning-like reflexes, the cat immediately leapt from Caelas’s grasp, stumbling backward into the pool and thrashing wildly as it scrambled to the other side, leaving a trail of blood and dirt behind him. Caelas drew his bow and an arrow and pointed it at the animal as it pulled itself from the waters. It stood dazed for a moment as it paced in one direction to another, much like a kodo when pierced with a tranquilizing arrow. It began stumbling in his direction.

He could feel a pressure on his body, pushing heavily on his chest, filling his lungs. The edges of his vision began pulsating blue-green, making the eerie glow of the thicket swim in his head. As the animal lurched in his direction, he felt the Tap in his fingers begin tingling as they sought for the magic they initially felt when he had first touched the fur.

The beast stumbled, splashing into the water, and crawled out. Altair lunged, but missed as the beast clumsily darted out of the way of his attack. Caelas released the arrow. It pierced the beast’s shoulder, sending it wailing into the air. It was a sickening wail, the wail of a dying animal.

But instead of falling, it lurched forward. The tingling in his fingers intensified, and he gave into it. The beast was going to die, wasn’t it? Not tapping its magic would be a waste, wouldn’t it?

He felt a surge of energy race through his body, wiping his vision clean. The animal froze and dropped to the ground, writhing. He made to draw another arrow, but stopped when he saw that the animal’s tail was retreating into its backside. Its legs and body began to retreat into itself, the fur disappearing. Long locks of silvery-white sprung from its head, which had rounded itself. In mere seconds, the unconscious body before him was no longer feline, but humanoid.

“A druid,” Caelas mentally slapped himself. Why had he not thought of that? An animal with magic? Of course it made sense…

He stepped toward the body, arrow drawn. He had seen druids before, both of his allies, the Tauren, and his enemies, the Night Elves. This one was indeed a night elf. She was small for those of her race, though he surmised she was probably very young. Her hair was long and silver and caked with blood and dirt. She bore no markings, which was unusual for many night elf females, and her skin, though a ruddier tone than most of her kin, was a deathly pale.

She had been wrapped in a gray sheet mottled with stains of various colors and smells, and wore nothing more. Her body had been littered from the top of her head to the tips of her broken toes.

I knew it was not a normal beast, Altair murmured from behind him.

Caelas bent over to examine the young girl’s cheek. The gashes that had ripped out the fur in her cat form were evident on her face. They deeply broke into her skin. He could see the squirming traces of maggots in a few of the cuts. She had been whipped, beaten, and left to die. Perhaps it would be better to just finish her off.

He pointed the arrow straight at her head, between the eyes, and then thought better of it. She was probably beautiful to the males of her race – he in particular found night elf females to be too masculine for his tastes – and even though she was an enemy, he had refused to exacerbate the destruction already evident on her face. If any of her kind were to find her before she was unrecognizable, he did not want an Arrowind’s arrow to be found on her face. Instead, he pointed it at her heart.

His fingers were just about to release the arrow when she stirred. She opened her eyes, an eerie pale-golden glow that surrounded even eerier silver pupils, and coughed, spurting blood to the ground. Though he knew she couldn’t have much strength left, she lifted her head and looked around, pulling herself to her unsteady feet.

She kept the sheet wrapped awkwardly around her body, but she was bent over like an old woman as she peered around. Her long, silver hair fell in tatters around her face. Blood dripped from her wounds, and down her legs. She stumbled around before stumbling over to Altair, who was crouched to attack.

“Oh you poor thing,” she murmured. He had not expected to understand anything that a Night Elf were to say. And at first, he couldn’t recognize that he had indeed understood what she said, as he was overcome with shock at the young girl’s stamina. When the realization occurred to him that she was speaking Thalassian, he lowered his bow, “You were late to the tea party, weren’t you? Yes, yes, very late. And the clefthoof herd is long gone now, no more Alterac brew, no no.”

Altair lashed at her, striking her in the side. But she appeared to not notice it. Instead, she leaned over and stroked his great white head, leaving a smudge of red-brown on his mane.

“It will be all right, yes, yes. We will have another soiree soon, and the plainstriders will allow us to collect their beaks and we will eat talbuk until the green smoke covers us all!”

What in the Prince’s name is she talking about? Altair murmured, looking at Caelas helplessly. Caelas felt a strange feeling overcome him, one he was not familiar with. He watched as she continued to stroke Altair’s head and face, leaving smudges of blood and dirt on him. I believe that she is barking mad—

His voice cut off as a breeze picked up and he let out a contented purr. He laid before the girl’s feet, who was whispering an ancient language.

“Sleep, sleep. We must sleep, sleep, sleep so that we will not sleep when the green covers us all!” She kissed the top of Altair’s head as he rested his chin on his paws, his flickering tail curled next to him. Now, the girl turned to him.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my! Aren’t you beautiful?” she gushed, a dazed look swimming over her features. “Too beautiful, too beautiful for the green, green, green! It is a shame you were late to the party…”

There was a large crash in the distance, which brought with it a pit in his stomach. The lumber camps had finally managed to cut one of the Great Oaks down, sending its death crashing over the land. He felt he could just hear the sound of the earth dying beneath his feet. This was another reason that he had to move, the forest was disappearing day by day. It was one tactic the Horde was using to close in on the Sentinels.

The girl jumped and gasped, looking around. She fumbled in the sheet wrapped around her body and pulled a large opalline locket from her bosom, stroking it between her thumb and forefinger.

“He’s here! Oh, oh, oh! He’s here! He’s here!” She began walking in tight circles and stumbled, falling to her knees. He could hear her skin rip across the stones, and sheathed his weapon. “He’s here! He’s here! You were late to the tea party, the talbuk’s have been tainted, and the green, green, green!”

She stood, fresh blood gushing from her knees, and she stumbled toward him, falling into him. He caught her, holding her on her feet.

“Die, die, die. The snow and the ash and the fire and the infernals will fall and die, die, die. The green will cover us all!”

A glowing green mist surrounded him, and he felt a small rush of energy enter him. He had recognized it is a druidic spell for regenerating lost energy, and his brow furrowed. She sighed, looking dejected and looking up at him as though she had asked a question that he had not heard, and was looking for an answer. He cleared his throat. In the distance, he heard Altair lift his head and shake the leaves from his body as he stirred.

“What is your name?” he finally asked, unable to think of something suitable to say.

But she said nothing, only continued to look at him as though expecting an answer.

“Do you have a name?” he added. Still, no answer.

He decided that the best thing to do with the girl, rather than kill her, was to wrap the sheet more suitably around her body and take her to the road. There, he would sit her and she would wait until someone – preferably one of her own – would find her and take her home. Perhaps then, she would receive the help that she needed. And, if she were to be found by an enemy, he would never need know.

She stood still, almost rigid, as he carefully removed the blood sheet from her body. He crinkled his nose at the scent of death and decay unleashed by the removal of the sheet. Her naked body was littered with cuts, scrapes, gashes, burns. This girl had been through hell and back, that much was clear. Unfolding the sheet completely, he found that it was large enough to cloak the girl, and he created a makeshift robe out of it, tying it at her chin with a troll bobble he had received in Ratchet years ago, when he had first come to Kalimdor. He pulled the makeshift hood over her face, making sure it covered her eyes.

The hood fell over them, covering almost all of her face except for her nose and chin. He cut holes into the fabric with the tip of his skinning knife to pull her long elf-ears through, thanking the Prince that she was still enough to do so.

By the time he was done, it appeared as though she had fallen asleep on her feet. He sat her against a tree and washed his hands of the blood and mud from his hands.

He whistled, and through the brush padded the large orange saber, Sai, clad in withering troll armor. The Zulian tiger had been a gift from the trolls when he had killed the high zealots Lor’khan and Zath, as well as their High Priest Thekal for the Zandalar trolls years ago. Sai snapped at Altair, who snapped back, and Caelas rolled his eyes. For some reason, the two had always refused to get along, for reasons he did not understand.

“Meet me at the Lodge,” he told Altair placidly. Not willing to disobey his master, Altair quietly disappeared into the forest, leaving Caelas with Sai and the unknown girl. Sai did not appear to mind as he lifted the girl onto her back and climbed up behind her, holding her steady and taking clucking his teeth. The tiger glided through the wood. The trip was short and quiet when they reached the road. He clucked his teeth to tell Sai to stop, and he glanced around.

The road was silent, still. There was an approaching rainstorm in the air, he could feel it in his skin. The girl before him shivered and leaned into him, her long ear pressed against his chest. He glanced down at the top of her cloaked head, and looked at the road. He could hear the rain in the distance, and knew it would be impossible to leave her there. When it rained in Ashenvale, it poured, leaving the road an impossible, sludgy mess. Knowing the girl and her state of mind, she would stay there and drown in the erosion before anyone would find her. Taking her to Astranaar would be suicide, as there was at least one of his arrows in her body, and the Sentinels there would mistake her injuries for ones caused by him.

Moonglade would be an optional choice, a neutral territory. She would be at home with the druids there, and they would be able to nurse her wounds, and perhaps even cleanse her mind. But it was a few days’ journey away, and she would probably die if her wounds were not cleaned now.

The only option, he supposed, was to take her home long enough to nurse her wounds. From there, he would take her to the Moonglade, where he would leave her with the druids and be done with her. She would not drown in the mud, nor die by the hands of any Horder mercenaries, and his conscience would be clear.

Never Fallen Prologue

2008-02-25T21:36:30Z

Title: Never Fallen
Characters: In this chapter, an undead man and a human woman.
Rating: T - most definitely a bump up in the future.
Summary: Caelas Arrowind discovers a night elf druid in the wood who has gone mad. Though he initially wishes to kill her, the weight of a guilty conscience psuades him to take her to the Moonglade, where he is sent on a mission to save all of humanity from a new evil stirring upon Azeroth.
Note: Prologue. Unedited. One day, I promise, I'll get back to editing. "Lerunon" is pronounced Lare - oo - nahn.

In the far-off distance, a great, vile plume of smoke rose above the trees, staining the pinks and the oranges that a setting sun had painted the sky. Flocks of birds were flying high into the air, attempting to flee from the vaporous inkblot in the sky. Countless numbers of creatures – deer, wolves, squirrels, even the occasional worg – scuttled through the brush, and hopped from tree to tree. A crash sounded through the forest, bringing with it the resonating sound of the Earthmother’s screams of pain and anguish. There was another crash, this one bringing with it the haunted howl of the worgen. One of its kind had been killed.

He felt the dead, skeletal horse beneath him, Ero, snort in irritation and shift its weight, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he kept his eyes on the plume of smoke rising from the distance. He had first noticed it on a mundane delivery ride from Brill to the Sepulcher a few hours previously, and had followed it all the way from the outskirts of Tirisfall Glades to Silverpine forest, where he was greeted by a large array of wildlife fleeing inland, toward the ruins of Lordaeron. The urgency of it all had both amazed and shocked him, and he quickly summoned the first person he knew he could trust.

He first recognized her from her long, pure-white robes as she rode her black mare to a secluded hill that overlooked the Maiden’s Orchard. She had come from the Alterac Mountains, to the east. Her hair, which she normally wore long, was tucked into her white hood, save for a few loose strands.

She was beautiful, she was alive.

For a moment, he felt as though he were alive again, too.

“You’re here,” he rasped when she was close enough to hear him. She nodded in response, her lips pursed tightly, and said nothing else. Ero stomped an impatient hoof and chewed anxiously on the bit in his mouth. It was a common reaction of the undead horses, having suffered from the Plague, to act as such around their living counterparts. “For a while, I thought you had decided not to come.”

“I’d never,” she said flatly, eyeing him from beneath her hood. She had attempted to bring her horse closer, he supposed to make conversation easier, however her own horse skitted backward, braying angrily at his horse. She ran her slender fingers over her mount’s mane, but did not push it forward. Instead, she turned in the direction he was facing, and eyed the plume of smoke lumbering in the air. “Have you gone to see it yet?”

“I thought it wise to wait for your audience,” he said, his speech feeling funny in his mouth. It had been years since he had spoken so graciously, he almost felt as though he had never done so before. But somehow, he couldn’t stop himself. She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. “If we go together,” he added, “perhaps we could prevent well-intended ambushes by certain respective parties.”

She nodded. Her squared jaw and the determination in her eyes told him that she was refusing to look at him. He wished she’d look at him. Instead, however, she looked down at her gloved hands and fumbled with her mount’s reins.

“Have you any idea where it is?”

“It appears to be coming from Pyrewood village,” he hoped he sounded sympathetic.

“Let us go, then,” she replied. Her tone was harsh, but noncommittal. He nodded, and pushed his steed forward.

The forest was silent, save for the sounds of Ero’s leg bones popping against one another as he walked. It was a sound that should have sickened his stomach, as the horse he rode was nothing more than a pile of walking bones, but he was not. He had wanted to turn back to see if it bothered her. If it did, he would resort to tying his horse to a tree and walking beside her so as to make the journey quiet. But, he chose not, as he knew the stoic look on her face wouldn’t reveal anything she was thinking.

The journey was short and otherwise silent, until they came to the road that forked into Pyrewood village. An acrid smell had risen into the air, the smell of burning wood and dying nature. Though he wasn’t nearly as attuned to the earth as the elven races, he thought he could just hear the Earthmother’s screams beneath the sound of the forest. As they approached the fork in the road, he had made to continue down the path that lead straight into the village, however, she stopped him.

“We do not know what is down there,” she said simply, pushing her horse further down the main road, and off into the forest.

“I have nothing to lose, I can go down there,” he reassured her, touching the hilt of his sword. It felt good to be so tongue-and-cheek about something again, although it really was not much. Not compared to what she had to brag about, perhaps.

He heard her scoff as her robes disappeared into the brush. Her voice began to fade, the further away she became, “There is a hill here, just past these trees, that will allow us to see the village. It will be safer than just walking in there.”

He released the hilt of his sword and pressed Ero to follow. She was several yards ahead of him, the scent of her perfume lingered behind her. It was a sweet smell, lilacs. It made his stomach churn with bile.

They came to a stop at the top of a steep hill. Beneath them, Pyrewood village burned in what appeared to be an unabatable fire. The great plume that had stained the sky from so many miles away was magnificent, a giant among ment. Easily a mile or so wide. He supposed the whole town, every building and everyone in it, was burning. It had to, in order to create a plume so large. He heard her cough and fumble with her hood, pinning a portion of it to her face so as to block out the smoke. The acrid smell overwhelmed her lilac perfume. While it did not make his stomach churn, it burned his nose and stung his eyes.

“By the light,” she said quietly, “What could have caused an inferno such as this?”

“The Dark Lady knows,” he replied.

They stared in somber silence at the destroyed town. Even the horses had seemed to forget each other, and stood side by side without acknowledgement.

“Demons?” she asked.

He shook his head, “No, the flames would have been healthy greens, purples. And the whole forest would have been burned down to rubble. The infernal things do not understand the meaning of subtlety.”

She nodded in the corner of his eye, “Scourge, perhaps?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. From somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the sounds of shrieks and screams.

“This is not the Scourge.”

No explanation was needed. She simply nodded again, “Then what?”

“This looks like the work of the Arcane,” he sighed, “It was subtle, until the great plume had risen, and it’s clean. See how none of the trees had been burned?”

She looked around. Her face pulled into a frown, “It appears as though the trees had been deliberately spared. I will venture to guess that whoever is responsible for this wanted to purge the forest of… impurities…” she tilted her head and squinted, as though trying to make something out through the smoggy air. “But all those who I would imagine would want to preserve the earth… don’t know enough of the arcane arts to produce this atrocity.”

He sighed again, nodding.

“Another evil is stirring.”

The words were harsh and rasp, and she nodded in agreement.

As the sun fully sank behind the horizon, the fire engulfing the village left a faint glow on her face. Her head was bowed in prayer. He lowered his own head, but found he didn’t have a prayer to say. How long had it been, since he had thanked anyone – the Dark Lady, the Gods, the Light – for anything? He couldn’t remember the last time he had prayed. But he did not want to seem rude. He kept his head bowed in mock prayer until she looked back up.

“I will go inform Highlord Fordragon,” she finally said, “he will spread the word to King Bronzebeard, to Mekkatorque, to Lady Whisperwind, and the Prophet Velen,”

“Do you really suppose this is worth informing the entire planet? Suppose this is just a group of rogue mages…”

She whipped toward him, “If it is just a group of rogue mages, they must belong to the horde or alliance. Seeing as this was a human village, I would guess it is of the Horde,”

He felt a sting of pain whip through him, followed by a bubbling anger. He had not liked the way she had stressed that the inhabitants of Pyrewood had been of the living. He gripped the reins of his horse between his fingers.

“They were also cursed by Arugal, and are monsters. Perhaps the humans of the alliance…”

“That would never happen,” she growled. “Just go tell your Lady. If whoever caused this could burn a town without so much as a single voice of war, imagine if they could do it to Stormwind. Lordaeron.”

He glared at her, but fell silent. After a tense moment, he nodded.

She turned her horse, making to leave the hill and head westward to Alterac to catch a gryffon ride back to her home.

He cleared his throat, “Emmaline.”

She stopped, but did not turn back to face him, “What, Lerunon?” Her voice was harsh and raspy, like she had been crying.

He looked at his hands, “A high priestess now. You finally got what you wanted.”

“A high warlord. You did the same.”

“It’s all meaningless, now, not without you by my side.”

She squared her shoulders and sighed heavily, but still did not turn around.

“I would be lying if I said it was not the same for me.”

He looked down as her black mare, her white robes, and her crystalline tears disappeared into the forest.

Unraveller - Chapter 2

2008-02-12T16:12:28Z

Title: Unraveller
Rating: T (possible bump later)
Characters: Vidic, 2 OC's, some kids, and Altaïr
Summary: Abstergo sends a young woman on a mission to unravel the fate of a missing artifact and the assassin who stole it. But dark secrets and evil plots reveal that there is something more up Abstergo's sleeves, and she's merely a pawn in their twisted game of cat and mouse.
Warning: This is an unedited draft of chapter 2.

Naomi
“I’ll do it.”

Dr. Vidic appeared delighted by my answer, and just about looked like he was going to spill his piping-hot coffee on himself. He grinned widely, displaying a grin full of coffee-stained teeth and childhood dimples that he probably could never grow out of. I forced a smile at him.

“But, I’ll do it for a price.”

That caught his attention, and the delightful look on his face left before it was even really there. He took to stroking the rim of his coffee mug with his fingers.

“Name it.”

I froze. I really had not anticipated him paying me for my contributions to his research. If anything, I had expected him to be turned off at the idea, and it would be easier for me to just slip away without worry. My father always told me I was too nice for my own good. But the idea that he would actually pay me, and he was allowing me to name the price that he was to pay me was tempting. Perhaps it was a test. If I went too high, he would decline and I would be free to go. If it was too low, then, I could negotiate.

I said the first thing that flew to my mind.

“Abstergo Industries pays the final semester of my graduate studies, this one, as well as pays off my student loans.”

“Done.”

I blinked. That, I had really not expected. My legs began to tremble, and I felt like I had to sit on the bed to regain my composer, but chose not to. I had to look strong in front of Dr. Vidic. Here, I was given a chance to not have to worry about being in debt for the next fifteen years of my life paying for college expenses long over, and all I had to do was sit in a table and watch memories. I could do that. To finish graduate school free? Of course I could do that.

“Are you still interested, Miss Clarendon?” Dr. Vidic pried.

I jerked my head and looked at him, “Oh, yes, of course. I just had not expected you to…”

“I did tell you last night, Miss Clarendon, that Abstergo Industries strives for brighter futures and better tomorrows. If that means paying for the education of an up-and-coming psychologist as yourself, then so be it.”

The frankness in his voice caught me off guard. Something about his eagerness to pay me – thousands of dollars, simply because I asked him to – did not ring right with me. He was too eager, too enthusiastic. Perhaps this was dangerous, and he knew I wouldn’t have to make it. Then, he wouldn’t have to pay me, right? But he was a scientist. And twice, so far, he had told me of Abstergo’s attempts at bigger, brighter futures in the exact same manner. He hadn’t stumbled at all. That had to mean something right?

Only that he’s a sleezeball and is probably lying to you.

I pushed the thought out of the way and stood up, stretching.

“Of course,” I nodded at him. “Let’s get started.”

“Right this way,” I couldn’t help but notice how much nicer he was being. Perhaps last night, he had just been in a bad mood. I had been in a bad mood too, and sleeping for a few hours felt great.

Subject Seventeen’s door was unlocked as we walked by, but it was closed. Dr. Vidic didn’t seem to notice it when I stared at the glowing green lock, perplexed. When we walked into the lab, I heard the sound of multiple people tapping on laptops. Ritchie was there, the curls in his hair were still wet and fresh from the shower. He smiled up at me as I walked over to the table he sat at.

The Original Animus, much to my surprise, was also occupied. A tall, thin blonde woman was tapping away at a bigger laptop. She wore a pressed white shirt and a black skirt. A pencil through her hair kept it pulled up into a tight bun. She barely cast a look at me as I walked by.

Before her, on the table, laid an attractive young man. There was an arch of fiber glass that arched over his face, casting it in a strange blue glow, like a mini television. He had very, very short dark hair and a very olive complexion. I would have ventured to guess his eyes were brown, but he was sleeping and therefore I couldn’t tell.

He was not the most beautiful man I had ever seen, but he was most certainly one of the more attractive ones.

“Miss Clarendon, I’d like for you to meet my assistant for the Animus, Lucy Stillman. Lucy, this is Subject 23.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I told myself that it was probably not a good thing that there were six subjects between Subject Seven and myself. Where had they all gone? Perhaps it was just a misnomer. Perhaps there was some kind of patent war going on right now that I didn’t know about.

Lucy cast a look up at me and nodded in recognition, “It’s nice to meet you, Subject 23. Naomi, right?”

Her tone was soft, light, almost playful. But there was something else there, something dark. I just smiled at her and let her go back to tapping away at her laptop. Dr. Vidic was quickly pounding away at his keyboard at the head of the lab. I pointed over to the young man in the Animus, and looked at Ritchie.

“What’s that over his face?”

“It’s just the memory screen. Think of it like an LCD screen for a laptop, or a computer, or television, only this is a thousand times lighter, and a thousand times more realistic looking. It’s what we use to record and collect memories.

How odd.

“Will I have one?”

“Most certainly. But don’t worry, it’s easy to get used to the feeling once you do it a few times.”

“Now that we have your consent, Miss Clarendon, in which I thank you very much, I will have to explain to you how Animus Mach 6 works, and what you should expect.”

Dr. Vidic walked back over from his computer and handed Ritchie a piece of paper. I couldn’t tell what was written on it.

“From your DNA, we will be uploading your ancestor’s memories. The Animus extracts these uploaded memories, and allows you to access those memories and see them as your ancestor saw them. Did you ever see that movie, oh what was it called… The Final Cut, with Robin Williams?”

“The one where the guy makes movies from the memories of people implanted with memory chips?”

“Yes. That one.”

“Oh. I get it now. So it’s kind of like that?”

“Kind of. You will be seeing the world through your ancestor’s eyes. What he or she saw, what he or she did. What you see, hear, and say will be uploaded onto my computer here,” he tapped the top of his min-laptop, “And we will go on from there.”

This didn’t seem too bad. I got to sit down and watch a movie. I could do that. I did it all the time, when I wasn’t studying.

“So all I have to do is lie down?”

Dr. Vidic nodded at me, taking a loud sip from his coffee. Apparently, it was still too hot.

I made to sit down on the glowing table before Ritchie, but he stopped me.

“Before you lay down, though, I’m going to need you to put some things on for me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. From a small shelf underneath the sleek massage table, he pulled up a folded sheet and a box and held them out. Confused, I accepted the box and the sheet and furrowed my brow. Ritchie motioned toward the Animus.

“The Animus works with brain waves and brain patterns. You will need to wear the choker in the box in order to prevent an overload. Each end of the choker is polarized, which should prevent an overload of too many ions in your brain. Basically, it’s like a buffer for radiation.”

This was most certainly not a field I was familiar with, but he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. I opened the box. The choker inside was more like a thin metal wire with a large silver ball at either end. It easily fit around my neck comfortably.

The sheet was a standard hospital gown. I was instructed to return to my room and put it on and come back. When I had done so, I found myself awfully cold, with my bare feet on the tile floor, and uncomfortable. I couldn’t help but get the feeling that Ritchie was staring at me when I wasn’t looking.

The Animus was comfortable. It felt like I was laying in a larger version of one of those comfort gels that my dad put in his dress shoes to keep them from hurting his feet. It ever-so-gently buzzed beneath me, emitting the smallest hint of a vibration. All in all, it was very relaxing, very comforting. I fought the urge to fall asleep, I wanted to watch that fiberglass screen arch over my head like in the other Animus, but my eyes began to droop.

Can you hear me, Naomi?

I think it was Ritchie’s voice that said it, but I wasn’t sure. It sounded so far away, like I was slipping into a dream and it was just bouncing off of the last fragments of conciousness.

“No, I feel tired, though.”

Naomi. Naomi.

The world was suddenly blindingly white, and I squinted. Ritchie was right, this would be something I had to get used to. I felt my eyes droop. No! I wanted to watch the memory! But the white was too much, and I closed my eyes. I could feel my body relax into the comfortable table beneath me. Everything felt limp, listless, save for the curious sensation of pulling at my naval.

“You!”

I was aware of something poking me harshly in my side and batted at it. If it was my cat, Willow, trying to tell me she wanted to play with the laser pointer again, she had another thing coming. But whatever it was continued to poke me, even more harsh this time, and I grunted.

“Oi! You! Get up, Peasant!”

“Five more minutes, mom” I grumbled, rolling away from the poking.

Instead of more poking, I was met with the sound of metal sliding against metal, the unmistakable sound of an unsheathing sword. My eyes flew open, and I looked up.

There was a man standing over me, obviously of Arabic descent, and he was holding a sword to my back. He wore a maroon tunic and a pair of dingy white pants that were tucked into even dingier black boots. On his head, he wore a crudely-shaped helmet. His sword was pointed between my eyes, glinting in the afternoon sun. I gulped. Had I done something wrong?

“Shouldn’t a lowly peasant like you know not to sleep in one of the King’s many stables?” he snapped. I frowned. I had been sleeping in a royal stable? But it hadn’t looked like anything extravagant…

I quickly scrambled to my feet and raked my fingers through my hair. The point of the sword seemed to follow the space between my eyes as I stood. I stared at it. He glared at me.

“I… I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t know…”

“Well you better learn in move along, or else you’ll be learning without any fingers or toes.”

I nodded and bolted away from him in the first direction I faced, which lead me away from the sun and up a hill. I wasn’t sure as to where I was going, only that I needed to get away from the guard and the barn he had found me near fast. It wasn’t long before, as I had slowed to a walking pace at the top of the hill, I realized that the guard had been speaking in clear Arabic, and I had understood him. I had understood him so much so that I could speak back to him in Arabic. This confused me at first. I was never taught anything in Arabic. So how would I know now? Not unless the Animus I was laying in could translate the words from my ancestor’s memories until my language back at home…

I came upon a small village at the top of the hill. It consisted of a bustling market and a handful of gray clay buildings. A couple of horses were lazily grazing on the shriveled desert grasses in a small enclosure, their coats mottled with dirt and dust. A group of children dressed in what looked like nothing more than dingy potato sacks were running around, laughing loudly. I sighed and sat on a bench against the wall of one of the gray building, waiting for something to happen.

And I waited. And waited.

This was supposed to be like a movie, was it not? Wasn’t I supposed to sit back like Robin Williams in that movie and watch my ancestor’s life unfold through her own eyes? It was what Dr. Vidic had said, and Ritchie had agreed. So why was I sitting in a desert village waiting for my ancestor to move? To speak? To fetch water, or sew a dress? What was supposed to happen? I frowned in the desert sun, feeling the heat bouncing from my scalp, surely leaving scalpburn. Dark hair or not, my scalp was always the first to burn. Perhaps this ancestor, whom I was supposed to ‘be,’ was where it had all started from.

My time in the Animus was beginning to go from what sounded very exciting to very boring. I took the time to observe my surroundings while I waited for the memory to kick in. In that time, I learned from listening to conversations between merchants and customers that baskets were selling for ridiculously high prices, and that it was probably going to rain soon. From the other side of the village, I heard what sounded like a yelling merchant chasing after a thief. Apparently, thievery was commonplace here. I supposed it was a good thing that I didn’t carry anything of value on me while I was in the Animus.

In the corner of my vision, I noticed a man in a white tunic sit next to me, but I did not look at him. Earlier, I had made the mistake of smiling at a man and what looked like his son, and promptly found myself on the receiving end of a fierce game of medieval 20-questions. Why was a woman such as myself alone, where was my husband, and did I have no respect for Allah for smiling at another woman’s man and her son? It was a startling experience, but I was not afraid. This was only a memory. Surely, I could not really be hurt.

“I really need to wake up,” I whispered to myself as quietly as possible, “I don’t know what I should be looking for.”

It was as if the memory heard me say this that something did happen. Two guards toting their swords came jogging from around the corner of the building where I sat, panting heavily. I recognized their voices as the guards chasing after the thief. The group of children that had been playing in the small field stopped in mid-game to watch them with interest.

“Dammit, he’s gone,” the first guard grumbled, looking around venomously.

The other guard threw his hands in the air, “He couldn’t have gone far. Let’s go this way.”

The children waited until the guards were completely gone before continuing their game. There were two boys and a girl. The first boy, who looked around six, was holding onto one of the girl’s hands. He pulled her along as they ran from the other boy.

“Don’t worry, my princess!” the first boy yelled, pulling the girl behind him and drawing a wooden stick that was tucked into a chord wrapped around his waist, “I’ll save you from this fiend!”

“Oh no you don’t!” The second boy yelled back, pulling a stick from a similar chord wrapped around his waist, “I shall steal you from this prince and make you my wife!”

“Oh help me! Help me! If this monster makes me his wife, he will surely steal my treasure!” She was waving a small pouch in her free hand.

The boys’ stick-fighting did not last long before the ‘monster’ was mercilessly flung –although it rather much resembled a purposeful dive—right into me. I caught the boy quickly in my arms before he could hit his head on the bench. I felt the man next to me jump slightly under the impact. I could hear his friends yelling “Caib! Caib!” as they began running toward us.

“Hey there,” I greeted, smiling at him, trying to reassure him everything was okay. The maternal instincts had kicked hin. I adjusted him onto his feet, “Are you all right, little guy?”

“I…I…” He looked at me, stunned, with big brown eyes. Large, glassy tears began to slide down his cheeks and he flung himself to the ground, wailing, “I’m sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to knock into you! I wasn’t looking and I just fell! Please don’t whip me!”

I stared, confused. His friends stood behind him, cowering together, both watching for my reaction in anticipation. I quickly slid off of the bench and knelt next to the poor boy, rubbing his back.

“Hey, hey, now. Caib? Is that your name? Caib, listen to me. I’m not mad, and I’m not hurt. It’s all right. Hey!,” I caught his face in my hands, immediately bringing his sobs to a halt. “Caib. Look at me. I’m not mad. Stop crying.”

He sniffled, “All right.”

From behind me, I could hear the man in the white tunic scoff quietly.

I let go of his face and stood up, pulling him to his feet, “Are you all right? Oh, look, you scraped your knee. Let me fix it.”

His cowering friends began toward me as I ripped a small portion of my ‘dress’ away and wiped at the cut on his knee. It would have to do, “There. Good as new.”

He smiled, “Thank you.”

The little girl spoke first, “My name is Naleh,” she said proudly. I smiled at her as her friend introduced himself as Kalim.

“Do you want to help us bury Princess Naleh’s treasure?” Caib asked, squeezing my hand, “We have to hide it or the King of Thieves will steal it.”

“Sounds fascinating. What kind of treasure are you burying?”

Naleh held out the little pouch she had been waving around and opened it for me, instructing me to hold my hand out. As I did so, what looked like four small, tarnished figurines that looked like they had been cut from some kind of rusted metal, and a tarnished plate no bigger than the compact foundation I carried in my purse at home clinked into my hands. I gasped in mock-awe and nodded up at Naleh.

“Of course I’ll help bury this magnificient treasure for you!”

The children giggled, and led me over to a large cyprus tree in the middle of the field, Naleh tugging on one hand and Caib tugging on the other. It was apparent that Kalim lead the group, as he stayed in front of us, his stick no longer a sword but a cane.

Just a little while later, Naleh’s magnificient treasure was buried, and we were walking around the village, enjoying an extra loaf of bread that Kalim’s mother couldn’t sell in market. The sun was getting ready to set behind the mountains and merchants and traders were packing up their stalls for the night.

“Will we see you tomorrow, Naomi?” Caib asked. I distinctly think he was developing a crush on me, as he had insisted in walking next to me and sharing his particular hunk of bread with me, and me only. It was a shame that, in my world, he was probably old enough to be my great-great grandfather four times over. Of course, I wouldn’t dare tell him this.

“Of course you will,” I said, “Same time, same place?”

The children agreed happily and dispersed after many farewells, leaving me to wander the village by myself. It was a quaint little place, right next to a river bank that I had not noticed before. I wondered where exactly I was now. Egypt? No, certainly not Egypt. Perhaps Jordan? I wasn’t sure. I was definitely aware of how much cleaner the sky looked at night and how much cleaner the air smelled. It was certainly a different experience than what it was like back home.

I was sure it was not a good thing to run around the desert at night. It was already getting awfully cold, and I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. As quietly as possible, I began creeping back down hill to the barn that I had originally woken up next to. It wouldn’t be long before the Animus pulled me back out, and I wanted to be sure that I was pulled out somewhere that I would be familiar with, Royal Stable or not.

There weren’t any guards nearby, and all of the horses had been retired to their stalls. This was a good thing, perhaps. If Ritchie took forever to pull me out of the Animus, at least I would be somewhere that was warmer than out in the elements. As I crept up to the door, creaking it open, I made sure to check around me one last time for any signs of any guards.
No one.

I was just about to turn into the barn when I heard the distinct sound of someone dropping to the ground behind me. Before I could turn toward the sound, I felt a pair of strong arms wrap tightly around my middle and yank me backward into a hard, solid body. A hand clamped tightly over my mouth, preventing the scream in my chest from erupting in my throat. The strength of the grip over my mouth was enough to keep me from moving my head around to see what was behind me. I could feel the tip of something cold and sharp against my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

This wasn’t happening, there was no way this was happening.

“Scream, and your blood will stain the sand before you have a chance to pray to your god to forgive you for your sins.”

The voice was low, almost a whisper. It was harsh, and cold, despite the hot breath against my cheek, my ears, and my neck. From somewhere in the back of my mind, I kept telling myself that he couldn’t really kill me, that I was in a memory and that I wouldn’t really feel anything. But a little voice in the back of my head was telling me otherwise.

“Do I have your word that you will not scream?”

I nodded into the hand, taking in the scent of leather and sandalwood. Whoever it was holding me hostage, he smelled nice. I felt the hand release my mouth, and I was roughly spun around and pushed against the wall of the barn. One strong hand squeezed my shoulder tightly as another held a blade to my throat. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, afraid to look at the man pinning me against the wall.

“Look at me,” he growled. I kept my eyes shut. “Look. At. Me.”

Don’t, Naomi, I told myself, You remember what happened earlier, when you looked at the one man…

“For the love of your god, look at me.”

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and peered up at him. He was tall, unbelievably tall – though, I am also rather short, perhaps he was of normal height, I wouldn’t know – and he wore a tapered white robe trimmed in red cloth and brown leather. I gasped when I saw that the blade he held to my throat was actually attached to a metal bracer on his left wrist, and that he was missing his left ring finger. The metal feeling that had been digging into my back when he was holding me tightly had been a series of small throwing knives that were tucked into a leather sheath around his middle. A long, white hood covered his face, save for a strong, squared jaw line. The top of the hood came down at a point; it reminded me of that of the beak of an eagle or a hawk.

I blinked when I saw what he wore. He had been the same man that had sat next to me on the bench not an hour, an hour and a half before!

His body pressed roughly against mine, one of his knees digging into my thighs. He held the blade that protruded from his wrist against my throat, using his forearm to pin me against the wall. With his free hand, he dug into a pouch that hung around his middle. I gulped when he brought the hand up to my face.
ï
A tiny pouch dropped from his hand, dangling from horse-hair strings in front of my face. I immediately recognized it to be the pouch that Naleh had carried around her treasure.

“Take a good look at it, woman,” he growled, allowing me a few more moments’ study before quickly pocketing it again, and pressing harder against my body. I fought back a yelp. “Answer me honestly, or I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the swine. What do you know of these trinkets?”

Unraveller

2008-02-12T16:04:19Z

Title: Unraveller
Rating: T (possible bump later)
Characters: Dr. Vidic, 2 OC's
Summary: Abstergo sends a young woman on a mission to unravel the fate of a missing artifact and the assassin who stole it. But dark secrets and evil plots reveal that there is something more up Abstergo's sleeves, and she's merely a pawn in their twisted game of cat and mouse.

Being kidnapped had been a most curious experience.

Not that I had ever actually counted on being kidnapped, but I’d always imagined that my kidnapping experience, should I have ever been fated to experience one, would be much like the movies: perfectly-paced rock music underlining an intense, complicated action scene in which my kidnappers would rush in, kidnap me, and rush out; and my hero would sweep in, rescue me, and bring me home, where we would take part in wild love-making and I would live happily ever after. Something exciting, anyway.

But, it had most certainly not been anything like that.

There wasn’t a lot of rushing in, or rushing out. There had not been a hero to sweep in and rescue me, nor were there any letters to my parents demanding such-and-such in exchange for my safety. In fact, there was not a whole lot of anything, really.

It had been a cold, rainy Wednesday night. My mother, a NICU nurse at Memorial Hospital, was working the nightshift and had already left for her seven o’clock shift. My father, a private engineer, was on a trip to California after some asshat with a clicky pen and laser pointer accidentally built one of his generators wrong, and he had been summoned to fix it. That left me home alone, reading about cognitive memory for my psychology class with no other company aside from my ginger-colored cockapoo, Sophie.

Taking notes from my Psychology textbook had begun to make me tired, and, knowing that I had long since exceeded my attention span, I decided to just scrap the idea of studying so I could eat a cold manwich over a brand new episode of Family Guy.

At one point in the half-hour cartoon, I had heard some scuffling in the kitchen and yelled at the cat, Willow, who had a habit of jumping onto the countertops to steal table scraps. After the tale-tell thuh-thunk of Willow jumping to the floor, a sign which meant that I had succeeded in thwarting her attempt at stealing any dinner scraps, I went back to watching my show and munching happily on my food.

It wasn’t until I heard rough footsteps behind me that I knew there was something more in the kitchen than just the cat. However, I had only a very brief moment to react before something, most likely some kind of cloth bag or an oversized beanie, covered my eyes.

I kicked and screamed, more out of confusion than out of actual fear, but it was useless. Despite my muffled kicks and screams, I felt a pair of large, beefy hands bind my wrists with what felt like those plastic handcuffs that the police were using these days, and fling me effortlessly over a very broad shoulder. I figured it was safe to assume that whoever it was that had blindfolded me and tied my hands was very large, and therefore could quite possibly break my skull in half with his pinky finger.

Overall, I was extremely confused. How had it been possible for someone to have gotten in the house without me hearing a thing? Had the television been too loud? Even so, how come Sophie hadn’t barked? And what was this black thing over my head?

I heard the front door open and felt the cold January rain against my skin as whoever it was carrying me had taken me outside. This prompted more muffled kicking and screaming my part, but, no matter how hard I kicked, or how hard I screamed, my captor continued on undeterred. I heard the front door pull shut and its lock flip, and then I was bouncing on my captor’s shoulder as he strolled out into the night.

It just so happened that it was unusually cold, the night I was kidnapped, even for January; the bitter weather quickly sapped my body of any energy I had between screams, kicks, and attempts to wriggle free. To conserve my energy, I decided to stop my kicking and screaming long enough to wait for my captor to toss me into the trunk of the getaway car. At least in the trunk, I’d be slightly warmer, and it would be easier to make all the noise I could to let any passersby know I was being kidnapped.

But, in the end, I wasn’t thrown into the trunk of a car. Instead, I was tossed into the back seat of one of those old-people-type cars, a Crown Victoria, perhaps. The seats were very large and cushiony, and smelled musty, as though the car had hardly ever been driven. Most interestingly, I recognized Chopin’s “Nocturne in G Minor” playing gently on the radio.

Whoever owned the car was most definitely an old geezer.

“Now, now, Mr. James,” came an old man’s voice. I had most definitely been right about the car belonging to an old geezer. The voice instantly reminded me of Scar from Disney’s The Lion King, “We want our subject to be comfortable and happy, not prone to catching a cold. You couldn’t have at least grabbed a jacket of some sorts for her?”

Subject? Comfortable? Happy?

I felt the large, beefy hands strap a seatbelt around me, and could have sworn I felt the fingers attempt to brush some inappropriate places, to which I used my leg to kick in the direction I felt was appropriate. The hands didn’t return for a while.

One forgets how easy it is to become carsick when all they see is pitch blackness and all they feel is the tossing and turning of a car ride. Time and time again, I had to swallow my nausea as I felt the car weave in and out of traffic, turning in directions I was most certainly not comfortable with, and once, I could have sworn that I felt the car reverse. I felt sick, dizzy, disoriented, and in desperate need of punching the old geezer as he continuously rambled on about subjects, the number seventeen, and “keeping enough changes of clothing in the lab.” He was most definitely a scientist of some sorts, I could tell from the eloquent speech and technical terms; of course, the definite “mad scientist” in his voice was a big hint, too.

What would a scientist want to do with me?

I had signed up to participate in an experiment for my psych class a few days before. Perhaps this was a part of it? Quite possibly. But wouldn’t they have at least warned me or something, though? Not unless the experiment wouldn’t work if they did warn me. I had signed the consent form, after all; they didn’t need any more of my permission to do as they please.

But my gasps for air to keep from bringing up my dinner prevented me from telling Mr. Mad Scientist that I no longer wished to participate in his convoluted experiment, so I just allowed them to take me wherever it was that they were taking me. I decided I would just argue, kick, bite, and scream when I got there. According to the American Psychological Association, a researcher was obligated to send me home without an argument should I not wish to continue in an experiment. He was bound by law to obey that rule. With that in mind, I was sure that I would be at home and in bed before my mother got home around 8:30 the next morning.

At the end of what felt like a half-hour drive, the car finally stopped and I had been let out. Mr. McBeefy Hands unstrapped the seatbelt from around me and swung me over his broad shoulder again. This time, I just let him throw me around like a rag doll. As he walked and I bounced on his shoulder, Mr. Mad Scientist continued his incessant blathering about something called the “Animus Mach 6,” whatever that was. I could hear a series of what sounded like air-lock doors and a mechanical voices asking for pass codes, followed by a combination of beeps and blips, and finally I was on my feet again.

“You may remove the blindfold now, but not the bindings,” Mr. Mad Scientist was chuckling, “Miss Clarendon here is not ready for her bindings to be removed just yet.”

Wait, how did he know my name?

I clenched my eyes shut, feeling the black bag over my head uncomfortably ruffle my eyebrows, my eye lashes, and my hair as it was lifted over my head. There was a brief moment when I caught sight of the room around me – I was in some kind of high-tech lab of sorts – before one of those goddamned beefy hands brought a cloth up to my face. I was suddenly overcome with the smell of alcohol as another hand snared the back of my hair, making it impossible for me to remove my face from the cloth.

Don’t breathe it in, don’t breathe it in, you’ll black out…

But it’s not an easy task to not breathe when you so desperately need to.

The world around me began to spin, and my legs began to feel like Jell-O. Hazy fog veiled over my vision, and I gagged on the bile rising in my throat. Unable to remove my face from the volatile cloth in order to puke, I just swallowed and swayed. Suddenly, the floor was the ceiling, and the ceiling was the floor. Through my foggy vision, I could just barely make out a mop of crazy white hair and a wrinkled face peering at me.

“Careful, careful, Mr. James,” stupid, mocking, Mr. Mad Scientist taunted. How I wished I could punch him, “She is going to fall. Be sure to catch her. We don’t want any more trauma…”

Mr. McBeefy Hands mumbled something incoherent behind me as I reluctantly fell back into him. I struggled to wriggle from his beefy grasp, but it was futile. My eyelids were feeling unbearably heavy.

“There, there, Miss Clarendon, relax,” Mr. Mad Scientist tutted, his voice echoing, “We will be taking very good care of you...”

The words swam viciously in my head, bouncing between in my ears and behind my eyes. My eyelids were growing even heavier; I felt like I had not slept in weeks. I fought for the life of me to keep them open. I was being kidnapped, for Christ’s sake! This was no time for sleep!

But I couldn’t fight the drowsiness, anymore. My eyes closed, and I felt consciousness drift away from my body.

My nose itched.

Scratching it wasn’t helping. If anything, it was making the itching worse. And not only was my nose itching, but it was also running now. Great. I was getting a cold.

I felt something velvety and warm brush my face, my cheeks, my nose. It was an interesting sensation that was accompanied by the smell of dust, dirt, and hay.

What the hell?

I slowly opened my eyes to find myself staring into the large, whiskery nostrils of an enormous horse. It was licking my face emphatically. Instinctively, I rolled away from the beast, which looked at me with curious brown eyes before flicking its tail and swinging its head down to the ground to munch on hay.

Wait. Hay? Where the hell was I? In some barn of sorts…

But hadn’t I been in a lab…?

I quickly felt my back for any signs of incision. Had Mr. Mad Scientist taken my kidneys?

Everything felt in tact, which was a relief, but brought on a new realization: I most definitely wasn’t dressed in the lime-green Happy Bunny socks, worn sweatpants, and World of Warcraft t-shirt that I had been wearing when I had been taken from my home. In fact, I wasn’t even wearing any socks or underwear for that matter, just a simple, grungy dress made out of some kind of uncomfortably stiff material.

What the flying hell?

I looked down at my feet. They, felt raw and cracked, and they were caked in sand and dirt. For a moment, it reminded me of all those times that I tracked mud through the house after wading in the creek in my backyard at home. But it had been ages since the last time I had ever gone wading through any creek, why would I have gone wading in any creek at all? Even if I had, why couldn’t I remember it?

And what the hell was I wearing? Where were my clothes?

At least my toes were still painted the bright pink color I liked. Somehow, I found that small detail somewhat comforting.

I took a moment to look around, fingering the hem of the uncomfortably stiff dress I was wearing.

I was most definitely in a barn of some sorts. The horse that had been trying to eat my face was contentedly munching on hay and flicking its long, ebony tail. From somewhere behind me, I heard the baying of sheep and goats, as well as the incessant clucking of chickens. Had Mr. Mad Scientist taken me out to the country, or something? Why would he do that?

The barn was dimly lit, but I could tell that it was bright outside. The sun shone through a hole in the roof, little dust mites catching in the beam of sunshine, making my nose itch even more. I tried to comfortably adjust the dress around my body, feeling self-conscious knowing I wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. Though it wasn’t very cold in the barn, it was still rather chilly, and the stiff fabric against my skin wasn’t helping the goosebumps at all. I resorted to keeping my arms folded over my chest.

The door to the barn stood slightly ajar, and I carefully stepped over the mounds of hay to peek outside. I hoped I had been dropped off somewhere I recognized. Maybe I could even find the highway and hitch a ride to the police station, or something. Would I need to get a rape kit when they took me to the hospital? I was pretty sure that I didn’t have a reason to, but I was probably going to do it anyway.

I pressed my face into the gap in the door and took a look outside. The sudden brightness of the daylight assaulted my eyes, sending spots across my vision and a headache racing to the back of my head. My body swam with dizziness.

…She may be waking…

I blinked at the voice. It sounded far away, like a dream voice. Perhaps I was only dreaming?

The spots in my vision slowly melted away, and I could clearly see what stood outside the barn. I saw a large field, and a little stone house in the middle of it. It did not look like any house that I had ever seen before in my life; it was small, with a flat roof, and had been made out of a gray stone. In the far distance, I could see golden-colored mountains along the horizon, their color resembling very much of that of the grass in my front yard in the summertime when it all died. The dull color made the mountains look strangely dead compared to the crisp, clear, blue sky.

Just a field, dead grass, and mountains. Great. Not only had I been kidnapped, drugged, and left in a barn, but I had been left in a barn in middle-of-flipping-nowhere.

I reached up and touched the barn door. It was made out of crudely-cut wood, and felt rough against my fingers. When I pushed it open, the door let out a loud, horrible creak that cut through the silence of the barn like a steak knife through butter, and sent my heart into my throat.

…Dammit, she needs to relax! She’ll disrupt the wave patterns if her consciousness keeps jumping like this!

“Hello?” I sputtered. My throat was dry, perhaps from breathing in all of the dust and hay. It felt like I hadn’t used my voice in ages. I got no response except for the whicker of a horse, and the clucking of the chickens. “Is someone there?”

My vision flashed before my eyes, and I felt my body lurch forward, flinging the door open and crashing it into the wall of the barn. I stumbled out into the sunlight, pain racing up my nose, into my eyes, to my ears and against he back of my skull like Jell-O on glass.

…I have to pull her out, Warren, she’s not looking good…

This time I ignored the voice and tried to regain my balance. The world began to tip, to turn topsy-turvey, and I choked on a wave of vomit. It splashed onto the ground, coating my legs. The stench made my stomach churn, and I turned away. Just behind me, against the wall of the barn, was a stone trough. The sunlight sparkled off of the surface of the water, and without thinking I stumbled toward it, desperate to wash my legs and be rid of the acid taste in my mouth.

…You need to relax, Miss Clarendon, stop resisting! Ritchie, what are you doing?

…Warren, I need to bring her out, for fuck’s sake! Can’t you see she’s dying?

The words rolled, lulled in my mind as I scooped the cold water into my mouth and spat it to the ground and splashed the vomit from my legs. It felt good against my skin, even moreso that I was beginning to feel hot; there were beads of sweat dotting my upper lip.

I slumped to the ground and held my head. This was like that time that I had drank way too much tequila during last spring’s camping trip in the Appalachian Mountains. What was that my friend had told me to do? Lay down and let it pass?

My vision flashed. The world grew blurry and slowly began melting away from my vision. I found myself lying down on something warm and comfortable. Whatever it was, it was ever-so-gently vibrating beneath my body. In the distance, I heard cursing and stomping, followed by the unmistakable sound of clicking computer keys. I opened my eyes to see a very clean, very white tiled ceiling above me. My eyes were stinging, as though I had kept them open for too long.

“Naomi.”

I blinked. Was that my name? Who knew my name?

It was a male’s voice, but was definitely not of Mr. Mad Scientist, nor of Mr. McBeefy Hands. This one sounded young, soft, professional almost.

“Naomi Clarendon. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I managed, coughing, “I can hear you fine. But… who are you?”

“Up here, Naomi.”

The voice had come from above me. I followed it to find an attractive young man in a white lab coat. He was awfully pale, he obviously didn’t get much sun, and had a mop of very curly, soft-looking brown hair, and deep brown eyes. In very much a stark contrast to the chaos that was his hair, he sported a very neatly-trimmed goatee. I frowned up at him.

“Good evening, Naomi.” He smiled, giving a slight bow of his head, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I think...”

“My name is Ritchie,” Mr. Mophead said, briefly smiling at me and clicking a few keys on a miniature laptop that he kept on his lap.

I was about to say something to him when I was interrupted by the sound of an air-locking mechanism. From a door in the far corner of the room, the crazy white hair and wrinkled face that I recognized to be Mr. Mad Scientist strolled into the lab, his shoes rapping sharply against the tile floor.

“Ah, Miss Clarendon, I see you are awake. It seems my partner, Mr. Morgan, thought you could use a little mental rest.”

“Mental… rest…?” I managed.

“Your body was overloading the cerebral hemispheres in your brain,” Ritchie piped up from behind his little computer. I frowned at him, “Basically, your brain was firing too many sporadic messages in too many sporadic directions for your body to handle. Essentially, you were using more portions of your brain at one time than what is normal, and it was causing an overload. It’s a very easy way to cause a figurative brain explosion of sorts.” he shrugged and went to tap-tapping away at his laptop.

I blinked again, “A brain explosion. How lovely. Will I be all right?” I made to sit up, but Mr. Mad Scientist stepped up to me and leaned over, putting a hand on my forehead.

“You feel a little warm, but you will be fine. Am I right, Mr. Morgan?” Ritchie nodded at the doctor, barely acknowledging that the he had even been spoken to. His fingers kept furiously tapping the keyboard, “Miss Clarendon, have you ever heard of Abstergo Industries?”

“The pharmaceutical company? Of course I have,” I glanced briefly at Ritchie and his mop of hair before grinning up at Dr. Vidic, “I take the birth control you guys recently patented… what is it called, again? I forget…”

I heard Ritchie cough once, followed by a soft apology. The forced smile on Dr. Vidic’s face flickered, and he cleared his throat, “Excellent, excellent. Then I don’t have too much to explain to you. Miss Clarendon, have you ever heard of an Animus Mach 6?”

“No,” I shook my head. It sounded like some kind of rocket, or at the very least, some kind of new electrical razor for men.

“Ah, very well. You see, Miss Clarendon, Abstergo Industries isn’t just about pharmaceuticals. We’re very interested in neurosciences, too,” that caught my attention. I was double-majoring in history and psychology at West Harmon University. “Can you tell me what the definition of a memory is, Miss Clarendon?”

Immediately, I thought back to my psychology 101 text, “The period of time covered by the remembrance or recollection of a person and/or a group of persons. Psych 101, Professor Byrnes.”

I heard Ritchie laugh quietly from behind his computer. Vidic raised an eyebrow at me.

“Very well, very well. What if I told you…”

“Perhaps you should just cut to the chase, Warren.” Ritchie put his computer down and stepped from around the table I was laying on. He gently took my wrist and pulled me into a sitting position. The world spun slightly for a moment before it righted itself, “I’m sure Naomi here really wants to go to sleep. Her exhaustion levels are extremely high, and quite frankly, so are mine.”

“What? Who said I’m sleeping here?” I began, but my words went ignored as Dr. Vidic glared at Ritchie from beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows. I sensed that he wanted to have a go at Ritchie, perhaps punch him in the face for being so pushy. However, I also sensed that there was a deal of respect between the two men, and Dr. Vidic’s impeccable hospitality was keeping him from acting on his impulses. In the end, Dr. Vidic tucked a clipboard into the crook of his arm, and Ritchie began digging around in the pockets of his lab coat, quietly muttering to himself about misplacing something.

“Very well,” Dr. Vidic cleared his throat, “That was a very nice textbook answer you gave me, Miss Clarendon, but I have research that suggests that memories may just be more than a ‘remembrance’ or a ‘recollection.’”

I cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. Ritchie apparently could not find what he was looking for in his pockets, and patted his lab coat down before glancing at Dr. Vidic.

“Light pen?” he said simply.

Dr. Vidic rolled his eyes slightly and gave a little sigh as he pulled a long, shiny black object from his coat pocket and handed it to Ritchie. I heard it click and a miniature light blinked on at one end.

“More than just a remembrance?” I repeated as Ritchie took my face in one of his hands, prying my left eye open and shining the bright light into it. My vision was immediately assaulted by pink and green spots.

“Exactly. Our research suggests—”

“Wait, wait, I know what you’re getting at. You said you’re interested in neurosciences? We were discussing this in my psych class last week. Don’t tell me you actually believe in that genetic memory crap,” I added as Ritchie looked deep into my eye. I could just barely make out the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips. I wondered what he was looking for.

Dr. Vidic sounded put off, “Oh, but we do, Miss Clarendon. Very recently, we have uncovered some amazing evidence that shows a great significance in its existence. What do you suppose you saw before you awoke in the Animus Mach 6?”

“That could have very well have been some sort of new virtual reality video,” I countered. Deep down, however, I really wasn’t sure what any of it had been.

Dr. Vidic chuckled, “I promise you, by the end of your next session, we will have proven to you that genetic memory exists. That is, in fact, why you’re here.”

I tried to glare at Ritchie as he shined the light into my right eye, assaulting the other half of my vision with pink and green spots. It was hard to concentrate on what I wanted to say, “You want me to help you do a study on genetic memory? You want me to experience my ancestors’ memories?”

“Something like that, Miss Clarendon. You see, we here at Abstergo Industries are always looking for a brighter future, and a better tomorrow!” Dr. Vidic grinned broadly. Ritchie squinted into my eye, as though noticing something that wasn’t normal. But he didn’t say anything about it, only tapped on a few keys on his miniature computer and pocketed the light pen. Dr. Vidic continued, “We believe that our ancestors had a… well, for the lack of a better term, an ingenious… method of society. An eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. No constant judicial appeals for murderers and child rapists, nor wasted taxpayer’s dollars on keeping them alive for years and years after their sentencing...”

I considered launching into my speech about the apparent mental illnesses found in said murderers and child rapists, and how those constant appeals were buying our scientists time to study these behaviors in order to find methods of prevention, but I held my tongue. Ritchie had snapped latex gloves on his hands, quickly flashing the light into my ears, and examining my throat before putting his light away and tossing his gloves into a nearby trashcan. He sat back down on his chair, and pulled his computer back into his lap. I wondered what he was taking notes about.

Dr. Vidic stepped up to me, I could almost feel the hem of his lab coat against the top of my feet. It made me feel very uncomfortable that he was standing so close.

“The Animus Mach 6 allows us to extract the memories of our ancestors, so we can simply study society first hand. These experiments have greatly helped sociological and psychological research for the past two years!”

“But does any of this really justify your kidnapping me?” I blurted, “Whatever happened to just coming up and asking me to participate in this study?”

Dr. Vidic folded his hands behind his back and began to walk away, “You did sign the consent form, did you not?”

So it had been part of an experiment, after all.

“Consent form or not, Doctor, you still had no right to go into my home and kidnap me. A simple phone call and a meeting location would have worked just as well.”

Dr. Vidic looked like he was ignoring me. This made my blood boil.

Ritchie loudly tapped on his keyboard a few more times before snapping the mini laptop shut and folding his hands behind his head. He let out a breath.

“If I may make a suggestion, Warren?” he piped up, swiveling his chair. For the first time, I could properly get a look at him. The top buttons of his lab coat were left unbuttoned, revealing the distinctive green 1-Up Mushroom from Super Mario Brothers on the black shirt he wore beneath it. Dr. Vidic looked at him, forcing a look of interest by rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“What is it, Mr. Morgan?”

“Perhaps we should let Naomi rest for the night. That way, she can have some time to decide whether or not she still wants to participate in the Animus 6 Project. Should she choose to continue to participate, we will move on from there. Should she not, we will find someone else. There were plenty of other people who were just as qualified as her to perform in the experiment.”

“What do you mean, qualified?” I interrupted the little strangled noise that Dr. Vidic made through his nose.

Ritchie shrugged, still swiveling his chair, “You were not the only one who signed up for the study. But, you were one of the only ones who met our psychological testing criteria, and had an extensive knowledge of history, which is why we picked you first. You are a double-major in Psychology and World History at West Harmon, right?”

I nodded at him. Dr. Vidic had gone silent. Ritchie blinked casually and folded his hands between his spread legs, twiddling his thumbs, “APA standards, we can’t make you participate, as much as we want you to. However…” he looked at his watch, “It’s one in the morning, and I really would like to catch some Z’s before I have to be back here at eight.”

Dr. Vidic let out a whistling breath through his nose, but nodded, not even trying to mask his disappointment. Nothing could correct the screwed-up expression.

“Very well. Mr. Morgan, please take Miss Clarendon to her provided quarters. Miss Clarendon, you will rest for the night, and make your decision whether to continue to participate in this experiment. In the morning, should you choose not to continue to participate, I will have my bodyguard, Mr. James, escort you home.”

I noticed a large man, definitely Mr. McBeefy Hands, standing beside what looked like the door that lead out of the lab. A light in the threshold above it cast it in a weird red glow. Locked. Mr. McBeefy Hands gave a nod my way, but I didn’t acknowledge it. Ritchie cleared his throat, making me look at him, and he held a hand out to help me slide off the Animus. As I did so, Dr. Vidic cleared his throat and began toward the door that Mr. McBeefy Hands stood next to.

“See you in the morning, Mr. Morgan, Miss Clarendon.”

Ritchie bid him good night, though I could have sworn I heard him call Dr. Vidic a prick under his breath, and he lead me to a door at the opposite end of the lab. A green light shone above this one. Unlocked. That was simple enough. I noticed that there was a second table very similar to the one I had been laying on as we walked through the lab. It looked bigger, bulkier, like an older model, perhaps. Unlike my table, there was a full-sized computer next to it.

“That’s the original Animus Project,” Ritchie explained as we walked through the unlocked door. It opened automatically.

“The original Animus Project…?”

“Yes. The original. There are only three Animus Projects in the entire world. We have two. You should feel lucky. You’re the first to try out the new model.”

Somehow, that didn’t make me feel better.

We walked into a corridor that lead to two air-locking doors. One was red, locked. The other was green.

“If you’re thinking this has been remodeled,” Ritchie began, “It has been. This lab was originally meant to accommodate only one subject at a time. They have since remodeled the old conference room so the lab can accommodate two. This one is your room. Subject Seventeen is in the other. You will not be seeing him much.”

I felt compelled to ask Ritchie where it was that Abstergo held its meetings to discuss nonsensical psychology, now that it didn’t have a conference room, but stopped.

I was not the only participant here.

“Subject Seventeen? He doesn’t have a name?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose personal information. As a psychology student, you should know that.”

The door automatically opened when I stepped inside, and I took a look around. The room was small, slightly cramped, and came with a single bed, a desk, and a bureau. Much to my discontent, everything was gray and white, making me feel very much like one of those clones in thet movie, The Island. A door on the opposite side of the room was left wide open, displaying a toilet and a shower. At least Abstergo had been nice enough to give me that…

“Subject Seventeen is working with Dr. Vidic on a different Animus Project. Yes, there are more than one going on at the current moment. His other assistant, Lucy, handles that case with him.” I heard a series of beeps and blips behind me, and turned around. Ritchie was dexterously pushing keys on a box attached to the wall next to the door. A light at the top of the box glowed blinked from green to red.

He’s locking me in here…

I suppose I wouldn’t want me roaming free around the lab either. But still, locking me in? I glared at Ritchie’s unusually cheerful demeanor.

“Breakfast will be brought to you at eight, be ready to let us know of your decision at eight-thirty, sharp,” he said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Dr. Vidic likes to get started bright and early. And I hope you decide to participate in this experiment. Have a great night.”

“Good night,” was all I could offer as I watched him step out the door. Did he have to lock me in here? The door let out the whispering sound of whizzing air, and slid shut behind him, leaving me alone in the horribly strange, gray-white room.

Clouds

2008-02-12T15:53:54Z

Title: Clouds
Rating: K+
Genre: General
Characters: Draco, Ginny
Summary: Continuation of Clouds; this time, the theme is stars. Fluff.

Clouds

On clear nights, she sometimes wished on stars.

And on those nights, she would wonder, if she wish hard enough, would it be possible to jump into the night and bathe in the stars that she wished on. Just what would it be like to reach out and touch your own wish?

Tonight was one of those nights.

On the quarter hour, before the rest of the students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were to shut their lamps off and close the curtains to their four-poster beds, Ginny had stolen her way up to the Northern Astronomy Tower when no one was looking. There, she sat on the top of a desk, a parchment on her lap and a quill in her fingers, and she gazed up at the endless night sky through the domed glass ceiling. There was a new moon tonight, leaving nothing in the inky blackness but a countless number of the celestial beings twinkling down at her.

They made her feel wonderfully small, wonderfully insignificant in such a big universe.

She could smell the scent of him, could feel his eyes wash over her, as he slipped through the cracked door and shut it behind him. She could hear the sound of him clicking the peppermint against his teeth over the sound of his footsteps. When he came into view, she could see his cocky smile in the twinkling starlight. He always walked with an air of confidence, an air of pride about him.

“It’s past curfew,” he said casually, folding his arms across his chest.

She laid her quill across her piece of parchment and folded her own arms.

“It’s past curfew,” she did her best to mimic him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her impression and swiveled the peppermint in his mouth as he stepped over to her and sat behind her on the desk. His prefect’s badge caught in the starlight, “I thought it looked funny when the tower door was open. What are you doing here? You don’t want to get caught being out of bed, do you?”

She pointed down at the parchment and quill sitting forgotten in her lap, “I’m just stargazing for my Astronomy homework,” she lied. He knew that she was lying. She knew that he knew she was lying, “The Gryffindor tower is too rowdy to concentrate, tonight.”

Though it was clear to the both of them that Astronomy homework was not the reason that she had come to the tower, he accepted the answer. As though to corroborate the lie, she picked her quill back up, and scribbled down a few notes that would probably get her a good mark in the class discussion tomorrow.

“Want to look with me?” she asked.

Before he could answer her, she leaned into him. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her middle, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

They stared at the endless mass of stars, both silently daring the other to jump inside. Silence passed. A shooting star dashed across the sky. He pointed to it as it disappeared behind the Eastern wing of the castle.

“Did you see that? You should make a wish,” Ginny thought he sounded like a child at Christmas.

“I already did,” she smirked at him.

“Did you?” he asked, pressing his lips to her ear, “Then what did you wished for?”

The low growl sent a hot wave of goosebumps rushing through her body that settled between her thighs. A numb, buzzing sensation, it felt like delirious happiness, began to boil in her core. The fluttering feeling crept up her stomach, into her chest, and she fought the urge giggle like a schoolgirl.

“Draco Malfoy,” she reprimanded playfully. She lifted her head from his, and cocked an eyebrow at him, “Surely you aren’t asking me to tell you my wish…”

“What if I am?”

“Then it won’t come true…”

He pulled her back toward him and rested his chin on her shoulder again. She felt him press his lips to her ear again as he chuckled, “Then how will I know how to woo you, if I don’t know your wish?” The hot breath sent another flutter of giggles coursing through her veins. She felt her fingers and toes begin to tingle with pent-up energy.

“Do you want to know what I wished for?”

“I do. Very much so.”

“Do you really want to know?” she breathed into his ear. He quivered beneath her lips, and his hands unconsciously caught her waist.

“I do,” His voice was caught between a whisper and a moan. She planted a kiss behind his ear.

“I wished for you to touch me.”

He froze. She smiled at him wickedly, in the same way the witches did in her brother’s magazine, but he didn’t seem to notice. A moment passed where he did nothing but stare at the sky. Her smile faded. Was something wrong?

The strings of rejection and embarrassment began to pull horribly at her heart. Never had she made such an open attempt to seduce someone, and now, she wished she hadn’t. She turned back and looked up at the stars as well. They seemed to have faded, now, as though they knew her wish was not going to come true.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Perhaps she had offended him?

After a few long agonizing moments, he took her face into his hands and turned her to look at him again. His thumb stroked her cheek.

“You have nothing to apologize for. And you know I wish for that too,” he said softly, carefully, like he was trying to choose his words. “But not here. Not now.”

She pursed her lips and scowled, “You will spend the night with Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and hell, even Hannah Abbot, but not with me?”

He pressed a fingertip against her lips. “Stop that. You know I would never spend the night with Abbot; and Greengrass is seeing someone. You shouldn’t listen to all those rumors; it’s bad for your health.”

Her scowl didn’t waver.

“You are special, Ginevra,” he added with an irritated sigh, “Very special. I wish to prove that to you when the time is perfectly right.”

“It isn’t now?” she gestured around the empty room. He shook his head.

“For now…” he trailed off, shaking his head no. She made to argue with him again, but he interrupted her by kissing her lips, “How about we just wish on stars for now?”

She frowned, but did not push the matter. Instead, she leaned back into his thin frame, feeling his heart beat against her back.

Creed - Segment 3

2008-01-23T07:45:55Z

Title: Creed
Rating: Mature
Characters: Altair, Malik
Summary: Altair receives his target from Malik, who has since become the Acre Bureau leader after the events of the game.

Flying Eagle, Son of No One
Plume of Smoke

The ride from Masyaf to Acre had been a long and tiring one; roughly two days and two nights of riding, pick-pocketing food and drink, and sleeping with one eye open. Along the desert roads, Altaïr had seen more than just the first crashed caravan littered with bodies, but nothing like the one with the strange woman with the almond-shaped eyes. He wondered if they had all been the work of al Sarraf, or his thugs.

He arrived in Acre in the dead of night. For the first time in what felt like a millennium, it was raining, hard. So hard that the withering desert was having a hard time drinking it all in, leaving the roads sopping and slippery. Twice his horse had stumbled, the last time he had been sent tumbling into the mud. His robes were spoiled and wet, and he felt uncomfortable.

At the gates to the city, he felt the eyes of the guards scrutinizing him as he rode up in his horse, the rain dripping from his hood, soaking his body. He kept his head bowed as his horse slowly trudged by, keeping his left hand hidden in his robe. If the guards saw that he was missing his initiation finger, they would know immediately that he was one of their enemies, and would fight to the death.

Not that he would not be able to bring death upon them easily.

He stabled the horse, patting it on its velvety muzzle at his happily munched on hay. The horse had done well, carrying him this far without faltering. It was a shame knowing that it was possible he would never see the beast again.

It felt like it had been lifetimes ago that he had last walked the crowded destroyed streets. The last time he had been here, it was recovering from recent siege. By the looks of it, it still was. Many of the buildings were crumbling and blackened; the shells of once-beautiful architecture. Splintered, makeshift verandas where the Lionheart’s men had piled the bodies of the dead and dying were still standing, though the only thing that piled beneath them now were barrels, bales of hay, and racks of smoked meat and herbs. But the smell of death still lingered here, still haunted him. It was here, in the walls of this city, what felt like a lifetime ago, that he had brought death upon Sibrand of the Teutonic Knights, a wiry fellow who seemed to be well aware that death was on his way anyway, Garnier de Naplouse, the wrinkled and seemingly good doctor who was really the devil in a butcher’s smock, and the young and handsome William de Monteferrat. These three men had been just a small portion of the corruption and the evil that had besieged the Holy Land. Somehow, knowing he was return to remove yet another blemish upon all that was holy was satisfying, gratifying.

He had not forgotten where the Assassin’s Bureau was in Acre. Its location had been born into him, had been a part of him. His feet lead him through the winding streets, careful to remain hidden in the shadows, unseen. When he had reached the musty alley, he scaled the slippery building to the entrance of the Bureau hidden in a trellis flourishing with vines and little pink blossoms. As he jumped down, he was met with the familiar scent of sandalwood, ma’sal, and dust. He glanced briefly at the fountain, decorated with the emblem of the Creed, before walking into the heart of the Bureau.

The dim, dusty single room had not changed since he had last been here. Along the far wall were large, comfortable-looking cots of embroidered pillows and blankets. A crudely-carved hookah sat in the middle of the pillows, its mouthpieces laying forgotten on the floor. Along the opposite wall was the counter, which was bare save for a few smoking bowls. Tiny wisps of gray smoke plumed from the center of the burning herbs in the center of the bowls, filling the room with a sweet, smoky smell.

Malik was leaning against the counter, squinting down at a rumpled piece of parchment. For a brief moment, Altaïr wondered how he even managed to see the words scribbled on the parchment in the dim candlelight.

“Malik,” he said quietly from the doorway.

The one-armed assassin jumped slightly, whatever he had been reading must have been very important, if it distracted him enough that he could not hear Altaïr’s footsteps from the small Bureau courtyard, and grinned at him broadly. His teeth were a stark contrast against his ever-growing beard.

“Altaïr, my friend! You are here early! I expected you not to be here until at least tomorrow afternoon. You rode without rest, did you?”

“I stopped only to eat and drink.”

Malik stepped from behind the counter and pulled Altaïr into an awkward one-armed hug. He smelled of dust and ma’sal smoke, and Altaïr swore also just a hint of woman. He hugged his childhood friend back, but briefly, before bending over to examine the parchment that Malik had been looking at.

It was actually a picture, a rough sketch that rather resembled a port.

“What is this?” Altaïr asked, tapping the parchment with his finger. Malik grinned and smacked his hand against the countertop.

“That, my friend, is a map of the Acre docks. I had my men draw it out for you for your mission to kill al Sarraf.”

“Your men? You did the investigations for me?”

“I did.”

“So why send me here when your men could dispose of al Sarraf for you?”

He felt the anger bubbling his chest. He had not wanted to take the nearly-three-day journey to Acre only to find the job could have been done for him. That was why they had sent for him in the first place, was it not? Malik seemed to have sensed Altaïr’s anger and grimly shook his head.

“Brother, that is the problem. My men tried.” Altaïr raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Malik continued, “Not two months ago had I sent my best men to rid the city of that monster. For days, they prowled this city piece by piece, getting any kind of information they could on that Serpent. They stole maps, stole shipping schedules and lists. They listened to the conversation of some of the people he had done business with, and found and disposed of some of his associates working full-time in the Acre ports. When the time came that the monster had arrived here in Acre, they knew exactly where he would be, even down to how many paces. But…”

Malik’s brow furrowed. Altaïr just barely noticed the glimmer of sweat beading his forehead.

“But he had these… these people with him. At least, I think they were people. For all I know, they could have been demons in disguise.”

“How do you mean, Brother?” Altaïr was intrigued. He picked the parchment up and examined the map more closely. He could now see that there had been notes in various hand; some neat and legible, others scribbled as though rushed.

“He arrived at the port with this extensive cargo of foreign cloth, foreign herbs, foreign spices. But most of all, foreign slaves. Most were women, the strangest I’ve ever seen. Their eyes were slanted, it’s amazing they could even see! And they spoke in a tongue that… sounded like grunts and growls. Devils, I’m sure.” Malik disappeared behind the counter and brought up a medium-sized rosewood box. He put it on the countertop and ran his fingers over the box’s edges. “That night, when the town was asleep, my men searched for him in his Inn. They had planned to scale the building and sneak through the window, to rid of him while he slept. But they were ambushed. My finest, Badil, barely escaped, but died of wounds later. He told me that four men in strange garb just appeared from the air out of the shadows.

“They carried small swords and daggers that pierced faster than any that he had ever seen. Some even carried wheel-like throwing knives that cut through the air cleaner and more quiet than he had ever heard. Three of my men were killed instantly. Badil made it back long enough to bring this,” he ran his hand along the box again, “back, before he died.”

Malik’s eyes were fixed on the floor by the doorway. Altaïr turned to see what he was looking at, and just caught what looked to be a faded bloodstain on the floor. He had not noticed it before, having been more distracted by Malik’s aloofness, but when he saw it, he knew Malik had probably tried hard to scrub it from the floor, even with just one harm.

But blood never left. It always stained.

Altaïr took the box in his hands and opened it. He was met with the strangest looking knife he had ever seen. It almost resembled a wheel, coming out at several points. It had been stained scarlet. Several blood-splatter parchments that had been sitting in the box underneath revealed plans, documents, another map. Malik had already prepared all of Altaïr’s investigations.

“What sort of knife is this?” He examined it closely, looking for any discerning patterns carved into it, but found nothing. Malik shook his head, muttering a noise that sounded a mixture between a huff and confusion.

“It was the one that killed Badil. Pierced him in his stomach. He probably would have lived, had he not forced himself back here. But, he had lost too much blood and just…”

“So why me?”

Malik studied Altaïr’s face for a long moment.

“You are the Master of your craft. Why not you?”

“And the thought that you may be sending me to my death does not phase you?”

“Do you fear death?”

He supposed that Malik had not meant to insult him with a question such as that, but he could not help but feel just slightly insulted. How could he fear death? In just a week, he had been sent to kill 9 men, all of whom were key players in the war for the Holy Land, fighting on the side of evil and corruption. One of which had been his own master, his mentor, the one who had taught him everything. The sole trophy of his accomplishment still sat in the withering library, far out of reach of anyone save for Altaïr alone. All this, and he was asked if he feared death?

“Of course not. I leap from the heavens the same as you would.”

Malik smiled again, folding the parchment on the countertop and laying across the lid of the box.

“That’s what I thought you would say. You will still do this?”

“If it will bring peace to the Holy Land, of course I will.”

“Then I suggest you rest, Altaïr. We will disguss where to find this serpent in the morn.”

Malik retired to the dark recess behind his counter, perhaps the Bureau leader’s chamber that was hidden in a false shelf behind the counter, while Altaïr was left to the dusty cot of pillows beside the forgotten hookah. As he laid on the embroidered cot, listening to the pounding rain and the far-off sound of a couple in the heat of making love, he could not help but feel uncomfortable.

There were people out there who knew the shadows better than he. They used daggers with more blades than all of the weapons he carried on his person. Though Altaïr did not fear death, not at all, he did fear what would happen to his beloved Holy Land should he fall victim to this serpent, this Fadil al Sarraf.

Sleep did not come for a long time. When it did, it was not restful.

Creed - Segment 2

2008-01-23T07:29:37Z

Title: Creed
Rating: Mature
Character: Altair
Summary: Uh, just a brief description of what Altair sees on his ride to Acre in order to receive his orders to kill his next target. Not edited

Flying Eagle, Son of None

The horse beneath him was snorting evenly along its stride as it pounded the desert road. The wind raced passed him, cooling his face and whistled in his ears. He felt free atop the back of his black stallion, free and unguarded. It would be another day’s journey to Acre, but until then, he could enjoy the invigorating, free feeling that riding gave him.

In the distance, he noticed a great plume of smoke rising above the hills. His sweaty brow furrowed beneath his ivory hood, and he pulled his horse’s reins.

“Whoa,” he muttered lowly, pulling harder on the reins. The horse slowed to a stop, and stomped impatiently as he gazed at the smoke staining the setting sky. Something had caught fire in the distance.

He clucked his teeth, giving the horse a light kick in the barrel. As he approached the smoke rising from the ground, he could smell the scent of burning wood…

… and death.

He came to the top of a hill, where he was met with the sight of a splintered wagon that had been engulfed in flames. A small flock of large birds were circling the sky above, screeching to one another. Their song echoed through the air, piercing his ears. He tried to kick the horse to move forward, but it refused, snorting angrily at him. Instead, he tied it to a tree and stepped forward to investigate.

He had never seen a wagon such as this before; it was intricately carved with what looked like the face of a very large lizard. Large, sharp teeth had been carved into the lizard’s mouth, and a pair of long, serpent-like whispers dangled from the snout. It had been covered in brightly-colored pink material, but was quickly being digested by the fire. That was all he could make of the wreckage. If anyone had been there – and there definitely was someone in there, he could tell by the smell of singed hair and flesh – they were most certainly not alive anymore.

He bowed his head, allowing a short prayer before returning to his horse and setting off again.

He really wished common travelers would not risk the desert after sundown; the desert changed at night.

When the sun sank in the evening, the air would become unearthly cold and near impossible to tolerate, should one not be accustomed to it. Wild dogs, docile as the pets of children became vicious flesh-eating hunters. Scholors and priests retreated to their dimly-lit quarters to read their shriveling parchments and spells; and the thieves would be free to come out and roam the streets.

The earth, the sky, the rivers, everything falls into the hands of thieves at night, until the first whispers of daybreak send them back to their lairs to rest, their pockets lined with the hard-earned wages of the men from which they steal, they pilfer, they corrupt. There, they rest until the day is done, and come back out to rule the cities, the deserts once again.

The wrecked caravan was just another telltale sign of such. Knowing that an innocent person, or perhaps several innocent persons, had burned alive in the wagon at the hands of greed and corruption left his heart heavy and a dull ache in his chest.

Creed - Official Prologue, Unedited

2008-01-15T07:19:00Z

Title: Creed
Rating: Mature
Characters: Altair, Nadirah, and the Old Man of the Mountain.
Summary: So I finally did it, I decided to just crap Creed as an original fiction, and make it an Assassin's Creed fic. Something sort of sparked an idea, and I had to just run away with it. I will be doing edits on the other segments later (changing Altiel to Altair) Don't worry! Rin will still be in it! But for now, this is officially the new prologue. NOTE: I did not edit this at all, I just spat it out like ten minutes ago. So it's very rough. Shut up. Very short.

He could hear the trickle of the fountain behind him, the giggling of the virgins, and the gentle hush of a breeze, but he kept his eyes closed. It was times like these that he felt completely at rest, completely at peace with his body, his soul. Without opening his eyes, he sat at the still pond, listening as the wind rustled through the blossoms on the trees and the tiny ripples in the water. Had his eyes been open, he would be unable to see these moments in the land; but he could certain hear them beneath the sound of the bustling fortress just behind the trees, the sound of townsfolk along their duties, the sound of the metal clinking of swords as the novices trained. His body felt ragged, tired, every muscle ached in agony. The last week had been rough on him, and his body knew it.

The virgin before him, her name was Nadirah, was giggling sweetly. He did not have to look at her to know that she was grinning broadly. He was a Master of his craft, and she was simply a woman. Woman or not, though, it was an honor to be in the presence of one so skilled at his work. She was milking this for all she was worth. He could hear the silk of her long dress flow in the breeze. The soft fabric touched his face, feeling cool against his skin. Her tiny hands smoothed over his shoulders, up his neck. Her fingertips brushed his ears, his throat. He growled lowly at her touch, feeling his body tense. She felt good. She felt normal.

He did not need to open his eyes to know where she stood. Instead, he simply reached out, his fingers touching her legs. They were soft, unfit for running and climbing, but that was fine. He felt her body quiver as his fingers traveled the length of her form, feeling the silk ripple beneath his touch. She knelt beside him, taking his hands in her own. Her hands felt tiny compared to his, like he could crush them into dust should he try to squeeze them. She lead his hands to her breast, feeling the bud harden beneath his palm.

She shivered.

“You’re hands, Flying Eagle,” she said softly, giggling again, “They are so rough, yet so gentle…”

He opened his eyes, but did not look at her. Instead, a new sound had caught his ear. Footsteps. Hard. Heavy. With every step of the left foot, there was a scuffling sound. Whoever was walking was male, and he had a slight limp.

Immediately, he jerked his hand away from Nadirah’s breast, dropping it into his lap and opening his eyes. From the corner of his vision, he saw Nadirah quickly refastening her dress and step away from him, her hands folded before her and her back turned to him. She had been forbidden to listen should the Master arrive.

“Altair, Flying Eagle, Son of No One, I see you have returned.”

The Master’s voice rang across the garden, a rasp along the calming breeze. At the sound of his name, Altair stood, his body feeling awfully light without the weight of his blades and his cape to hold him down. Feeling so light almost threw his balance, and he had to strain to remain on his feet.

Just how long had he gone sleeping under the weight of his blades?

“Master,” he gave a nod in the direction of the old man, “I have.”

“It was successful, was it?”

The tone in the Master’s voice was more of a warning than a question. There was a hint in his voice that threatened Altair’s death, should Altair’s answer be in the negative. But, Altair’s answer was indeed not in the negative – the job had been done well, had been done swiftly and without detection – Altair wouldn’t have anything less for the Old Man of the Mountain.

“It was,” Altair said simply. “The blood ran clean, the blade remained hidden, and no one saw death coming. The bell tolled and tolled, and know one even knew.” A crooked smile graced the Old Man’s creased features, and the Old Man placed a gnarled hand onto Altair’s shoulder.

“They never know when death is coming, Altair; they serve death, death does not serve them. You, however, are above death. You defy it like you defy the wind. I did not expect any less than that.”

Altair supposed he should have felt proud of this compliment – he could defy death in the face, after all – but he dared not show it. The Old Man of the Mountain did not take clearly to those who waved the flag of hubris. Such an ironic end, should the waving of that flag be the death of him. Instead, Altair remained still, his expression poised and emotionless. This was something he had been taught to do, to relieve yourself of any kind of emotion. That had been one of the first lessons he had ever learned in the art of the blade.

“You must have patience, young eagle,” Master reminded him, “I have no hour glass to turn over, you may take as long as necessary.”

He rubbed the water from his eyes.

“But you said to traverse the beam as fast as possible. I am going as fast as I can.”

Master shook his head, his long beard swayed, “Are you traversing the beam?”

“I’m trying—”

“No, you are falling. You would have succeeded in this the first time, had I asked you to fall. But I want you to cross,” he pointed at the beam, “Sometimes, fast as possible also means going slowly, if it helps you acquire what it is you are trying to obtain.”

Altair glared at the gnarled, crooked finger pointing at the beam. The muddy water he was sitting in sloshed around him. The old bat. How would going fast mean to go slow? Was the point of going fast to not go slow? He glared harder at Master’s pointed finger. Perhaps Master would let him go.

“Again,” Master said instead, “Remember what I said, young eagle. As fast as you can to traverse. There is no time limit.”

Altair crawled out from under the wooden beam and stood at one end. He made to put his foot on the wood, but Master cleared his throat, “What is the first thing you must do?”

“Become the five senses, to not exit as a person, but to exist as my surroundings,” Altair answered automatically. He closed his eyes. The wood felt gnarled, wet, and cold beneath his foot. The sand from the bank below gathered in his tunic, chaffing him. Master was breathing evenly, calmly. A breeze brushed by, chilling him. He could smellt he mandarin oranges in the breeze, taste them.

Become the five senses. Exist as your surroundings. He stepped onto the beam and opened his eyes, focusing only on the beam. The beam was the only thing he could see, the only thing that which he could stand on.

One step, two steps. He wobbled and stop. Become the beam, become the beam.

He imagined his foot growing darker and darker, becoming rough and gnarled. It was turning into wood. Rough, wet, and slippery from previous attempts at crossing the beam. His feet were becoming the beam. His feet were the beam.

“Well done, young eagle,” Master called, “You traversed the beam!”

The sand on the other end was soft, it squashed between his toes. “Master clapped once and smiled at him before squaring his shoulders.

“You will traverse this beam three times. Should you fall, you will start over. I do not doubt I will see you at evening feast.”

The Old Man removed his hand, returning it into his deep-blue robes.

“You wish something of me, my Master?” Altair asked. His body felt wretched standing up, as though he had been standing for a many full moons. His legs ached, begging to sit. His shoulders stung and burned. His fingers felt dry and cracked. But he dared not move under the Old Man’s gaze.

The Old Man’s wrinkled face curled into a smile, “Indeed, Flying Eagle.”

He swallowed the surge of tiredness that rose in his throat on a wave of bile, but dared not show that to the Old Man’s face. Instead, he gave the Old Man a nod, signaling that he wished to receive his new assignment.

“And who is it that I shall carry away on the wings of death?”

“Fadil al Sarraf, the Merchant King along the trade routes,” the Old Man said simply, touching the tips of his fingers together in mock-prayer. Altair waited for him to say more, but no words came.

“And should this assassin be free to ask what al Sarraf has done to deserve this death?”

For a brief moment, the Old Man looked shocked. In an instant, Altair felt the sting of the receiving end of a sharp cuff to the face, quite strong for such an old man. But Altair squared his jaw through the pain, ordering it to leave his body through the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Master of your craft, you know better than to ask why,” the Old Man growled. Altair nodded.

“I do, my Master,” The stinging pain had left his body, and all that was left was the feeling of the cooling air on his face. The Old Man’s wrinkled face pulled into a crooked smile, however, and he balanced the cane he held between his hands.

“Al Sarraf has commited treason against this Creed, as well as against this country,” The Old Man began, his face turning to the setting sun. Altair knew better than to study the Old Man’s features. “I have received word from our brethren across the Persian sea that his trades with those of the Indias has taken quite an interesting turn. It seems he has set up a post, an ocean caravan, where he has been trading cloths and gold for spices… and slaves.”

Altair looked up, “You send me to bring death upon a man who deals with slaves? Why not send me on Masyaf, on Damascus, on Jerusalem! Why not send me on yourself?” He felt the sharp sting of another cuff to his face, and remained quiet. The Old Man glared at him menacingly.

“With these slaves,” he rasped, “he has been dealing secrets.”

A sudden stillness took over the air. Altair blinked.

“Secrets?”

“Secrets.” The Old Man sighed, staring at the sunset, “In order to prosper, he has been dealing secrets of the Creed’s treasures, its riches, its customs as coin. Promising to sell the secrets of the Creed, he has sent a number of men from countries I yet know the name of to find us. Just three days ago, the Masyaf guard caught three of them, all men in strange attire with faces I had never seen before trying to infiltrate our home. These men were killed in the spot, but not before shouting words that I have never heard before.”

Altair, for the first time in what felt like ages, was overcome with a feeling he was not familiar with: shock. He glanced back at the strong fortress behind him, mentally touching its walls with his hands. Had strange men from strange lands really infiltrated the fortress?

“Though we did not know what these cries meant, we do know that there will be more. Altair, Flying Eagle, Son of No One, you must eliminate this trader before we are overrun with these barbarians!”

Altair simply nodded once.

The Old Man put his fingers together again.

“And where will I find this trader, this heathen?” Altair asked quietly.

“Al Sarraf has a caravan that travels from the ports of Acre to the far off ports of the Arabian sea. My eyes have told me that he is now traveling back to Acre. With him, my ears have told me, he is bringing a large number of these strange men, most to sell off for auction, but some…” the Old Mans’ voice trailed off. A nightingale flew overhead, its haunting song floating in the breeze.

“How long do I have to arrive in Acre?”

The Old Man nodded, “Oh yes, you have two weeks.”

Altair’s body felt as though it were cheering at the words, but he said nothing. He would have time to rest. His legs would have time to rest, his shoulders would have time to relax, he would have time to bury himself in the flesh of a woman, to relieve himself of his manhood tensions before he were to leave, and that was all that mattered.

“I will bring death upon this man,” Altair said finally, “It will be swift, it will be done. And if I need to, I will bring down these strange people he brings with him. The secrets of our Creed will not be betrayed.”

The Old Man touched Altair’s shoulder, the sensation was light, sending prickles through his body.

“I do not doubt this, Flying Eagle,” the Old Man said, “I do not doubt this.”

Clouds in the Sky

2007-12-15T20:29:04Z

Title: Clouds in the Sky
Rating: K+
Genre: General
Characters: Draco, Ginny, Hermione
Summary: Albeit the pronoun problems, this is just a little D/G fluff regarding the Quidditch Pitch

The young bushy-haired witched in her red-and-gold Gryffindor robes looked at her red-headed friend with rapt interest, seeing as her red-headed friend’s eyes were not following whom they were supposed to be following. They were supposed to be following all of the red-and-gold blurbs that were the Gryffindor Quidditch team darting about the Quidditch pitch as though they were all gnats trying to find the best way to pester one’s eyes. Or at least the red-and-gold Seeker, which was no more than a speck of black against the sky, high above the stands.

But, in fact, her red-headed friend’s eyes were not following the red-and-gold blurbs at all. They were following something else. Something, the bushy-haired witch assumed (much to her utter dismay) that was the green-and-silver blurb that was the Slytherin Seeker hovering much closer to the stands. His robes, as well as the rest of his team’s robes, appeared much like those greenish flies that were attracted to horse droppings.

This was troubling to the bushy-haired witch. Very troubling, because the green-and-silver blurb that her red-headed friend appeared to be watching was the very same wizard in the entire school that she really wanted to transfigure into a guinea pig and pop him into a muggle microwave oven for a few minutes.

“Just what are you looking at, Ginny?” The bushy-haired witch asked curiously over the cheering crowd. One of the red-and-gold blurbs darting about in the sky had just scored a point.

Her red-headed friend – Ginny – shook her head and looked at the bushy-haired witch. “There was a funny-looking cloud in the sky. Did you see it?”

The bushy-haired witch knew for a fact that this was not what her friend had been looking at, which sparked her interest even more. Just what had captivated Ginny so? She wanted to know. And she knew just how to weasel the truth out of her. “What did the cloud look like?”

Ginny’s eyes returned to the sky. She pretended to look closer at the “cloud” by squinting, but the bushy-haired witch knew better. “I think it looked kind of like a ferret.”

“A... ferret?”

“Yep.”

The bushy-haired witch waited for a few seconds before she posed her next question.

“Did the ferret have blond hair?”

“Nope.” There was a quick pause before Ginny’s brow furrowed in confusion, and she looked back at her friend as though she had lobsters crawling out of her ears, “What kind of question is that, Hermione?”

Hermione - shrugged, “You said it was a funny-looking cloud that looked like a ferret! I just wanted to know if the ferret had hair!”

Ginny shook her head at her friend, and then let her eyes travel back up to the sky again. Hermione waited for a few seconds before she said spoke up again, “How about gray eyes? Did the ferret have gray eyes?”

Ginny, again, looked at her friend as though she had gone mad. “Hermione, dare I ask... are you asking me if I was looking at Draco Malfoy? Because that’s exactly what it sounds like...”

Hermione shook her head vigorously, although she knew she had been caught. Ginevra Weasley was not stupid. Ginny laughed, watching as a blush crept into Hermione’s cheeks. “Well for your information, Hermione. I was not looking at Draco Malfoy. Never in my entire life would I ever look at that disgusting, vile, and insufferable waste of wizard unless I was spitting on his shoes.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched into a grin, and she shrugged. She was happy with the answer, seeing as now she would not have to whack Ginny in the face with her wand for being so stupid as to be infatuated with that egotistical bastard.

“So you actually were just looking at a cloud shaped like a ferret?”

“Yeah, quite odd, huh?”

- - -

The Quidditch field was quiet and still. The students had long gone, and the stands were absolutely silent. The stars were numberless and vast in the sky above. Ginny felt as though she could just fall into the universe, and just lay there forever in a bath of stars. She closed her eyes and took a breath of the cool night air. The summer holiday was fast approaching, she could smell it.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she felt a pair of dry, slightly-chapped lips brush her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she saw his upside-down face peering down at her, his trademark smirk on his lips. Smiling, she turned around to face him. He was still clad in his green-and-silver Quidditch robes. Ginny reached down, entwined her fingers in his, and then reached up to kiss his knuckles.

“Did you watch me play today?” he asked quietly. His gray eyes sparkled in the starlight.

“Of course,” She answered, quite matter-of-factly, bringing her fingers up to touch his feather-soft blond hair, and then turned her back to him. She laid against him, feeling him put his chin on her shoulder. There was a brief moment when the pair just sat there, gently rocking and taking in each other’s scent. Normally he smelled like peppermint. But tonight, after a match, he also smelled of sweat and dirt.

She closed her eyes and smiled, “You were the only thing that I could keep my eyes on.”

At Midnight -- is starting to piss me off

2007-10-26T04:09:24Z

I'm stuck on At Midnight. Like, terribly.

Aside from losing all of my pieces to the virus my ~~idiot~~ wonderful brother uploaded onto my computer, I've found that I absolutely cannot come up with a decent way to tie together all of the separate pieces of At Midnight. What's more, I'm already hating the First Chapter, and I'm already wanting to rewrite it.

The sad thing is, the entire ending is already written, revised, and ready to go. It's the middle meat that needs some fixing.

I have no idea what to do. I've been writing this damn thing for going on two years, and I'm still stuck in the friggin' beginning.

I think I'm just going to start posting what I have. Then, maybe some stranger with nothing better to do might stumble along and toss a bone my way, and I'll be able to tweek it so it's actually decent.

Prologue
First Chapter

According to my file under At Midnight, this is supposed to be next:

Title: At Midnight
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, Romance
Characters: Draco/Ginny
Summary: “If there was one thing you could have,” she whispered, “what would it be?” Draco’s forehead dropped to hers. “You.” His eyes clenched shut, and he let out a shuttered breath. “Freedom,” he finally whispered.
Author's Note: Written before HBP. But, I thought it deemed worthy to be pulled out of the vault.

1

He opened his eyes.

For a brief moment, he could not remember exactly where he was. This greatly terrified him, and he immediately snatched his wand from his pocket and looked around.

The room around him was small and warm, obviously an effect from the now-empty fireplace along the wall next to him. The walls were lined with shelves of books and of other random instruments, some he had never seen before in his life. Though the walls were completely hidden behind the shelves, it was obvious to him from the stone cutting in the ceiling and the floor that he was in one of Hogwarts Castle’s many dungeons. This helped him relax a little, but he still could not remember how he had gotten there.

In front of him, there stood a small wooden table on an oriental carpet. On the opposite side of the table, there was an empty high-backed chair. In the dim candlelight, he could just barely make out that the color of the chair was red. It was then that he noticed that he himself was sitting in a matching chair. His body felt like he hadn’t moved in ages.

He stood groggily, testing out his weak legs. His bones creaked as he moved. When he had come to a standing position, the room swayed around him gently, and he braced himself against the back of the chair to steady himself.

In the corner behind the chair he had been sitting in there was a large wooden desk. To his surprise, he found his schoolbooks –- new, crisp, and clean -— stacked neatly on top of that. At the corner on the wall opposite to the desk were two open doors. The rooms these doors lead to were dimly lit by lamps. One room appeared to be a small bathroom that contained a single sink, toilet, and a claw-foot tub with a shower. The other room was a small bedroom, with a large canopy bed that looked rather disproportionate to the other meager accommodations: a wooden wardrobe, and a night table.

How had he gotten here?

It was then that he tasted the remnants of bile and cherry syrup in his mouth that he recalled the previous night’s events. How he had been escorted from The Three Broomsticks, to Hogwarts. How he had been sick, and Professor Snape had to give him a Calming Draught.

It surely would have explained why his muscles felt like pudding, and why the room spun when he moved too fast.

A dirty, wretched feeling brought on by the knowledge that he had been wearing the same robes for two days in a row washed over him, and he gingerly made his way into the little bedroom and pulled a fresh pair of trousers and a jumper from the wardrobe. After a quick shower and a change, he felt refreshed and comforted, but only slightly.

The shower seemed to have washed the groggy uneasiness aside, and he wrapped a warm cloak around him and stepped outside of the doorway. A large, stone gargoyle holding its lamed wing glared at him menacingly as it stepped back into its spot.

“Need to acquire a new password, I must,” it grumbled at him. Something in its voice sounded reluctant to ask the boy what the new password would be. The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I need to give you a new password?” he croaked. His voice felt funny after not having been used for… how long had he been asleep?

The gargoyle grunted, but otherwise didn’t move, “Stupid, stupid boy you are. Yes, this is your room until you feel well enough to return to the Slytherin dorms.”

He had his own room? But why? He was suddenly struck with realization.

Her face…

It had been so white, so scared.

He closed his eyes, trying to push the silently-screaming face from his head while trying to push the nauseated feeling from his stomach. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes.

“Stupid, stupid boy! Need to require a new password, I must!”

“Verde!”

The Spanish that had rolled off of his tongue surprised him. It had been years ago since the last time he had traveled to Spain. But, the gargoyle seemed satisfied with his answer, and grunted in approval.

He slowly made his way through the labyrinth of dungeon corridors before emerging into Hogwarts’s main hallway. A quick glance at the fruit portrait that lead to the kitchens told him that he should be hungry, and that he should eat, but the bubbling feeling in his stomach kept him from feeling hungry. He was stuffy; and he wanted some fresh air. While he was completely confident in his abilities to sneak out onto the grounds, the feeling that the lack of food and the hovering groggy feeling left him clumsy kept him from actually attempting it.

Without thinking, he began up a staircase, careful to make as little sound as possible. As he approached the second-floor corridor, he stopped to listen for Peeves, the school's resident Poltergeist. A cackle from the first floor explained to him that Peeves was taunting the house elves in the kitchen, thus it was better to not travel down there. Instead, he ascended the next flight of stairs, and then another.

Moonlight poured into the voluminous windows of the fourth floor, and he frowned. Had he only been sleeping for a few hours? Or had he slept through the entire first day, and it was now nighttime again? He inwardly groaned in frustration, reminding himself how disorienting it was to wake up in a room with no windows. The manor was practically made up of windows; sometimes, it felt like there was no privacy.

He felt compelled to go up to the abandoned Western Astronomy Tower. There, the windows were easily opened and closed without risking being caught. Hardly anyone ever ventured up there; too many ghost stories of people jumping to their deaths and rumors of gigantic spiders that even Filch refused to go up there.

The halls were eerily silent as he ventured through. Eerily silent, that is, until he heard the sound of a tiny breath – it could have been a sneeze – from behind him. He turned around, only to see a flash of red disappear behind a doorway.

Panic struck him.

She was screaming, screaming, screaming as loud as she could, but there wasn’t any voice to scream with. Her eyes were locked in a wide, horrified expression. As he leaned in close to kiss her forehead, (to abate the silent screaming? To calm her down?) he noticed the stains of wiped blood from her cheeks, from her lips. She had been bleeding one point; whoever had killed her had wiped her clean...

The wide, terrified eyes appeared in the darkness of the hallway, and he bolted through the nearest door he could manage.

Blaze of Glory (Zombie Apocalypse) Drabble

2007-10-11T21:17:32Z

Title: Untitled Zombie Drabble
Rating: PG13?
Characters: Original Characters
Summary: Two companions watch as their bitten comrade save them from a swarm of bloodthirsty Infected Ones.

The walkie talkie crackled violently.

"...bastard.... bit... m-me... of a bitch!"

I could feel the bile bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

The reinforced truck rocked over the gravel, and Ethan scrambled to keep it on the road. It felt as though the truck were about to flip as he hit a turn too fast, and he cursed loudly before bringing the walkie talkie up to his lips.

"What was that, Brian?" He sounded like he was checking to make sure he had heard Brian right, as though he hadn't believed what Brian had said.

".... son of a.... fuckin' bit.... arm!"

"He was bit..." I added quietly. The truck came into a clearing where the Manchester Bridge crossed The Crevice. Ethan stole a quick glance back at Brian's truck, which was lurching dangerously from one side of the road to the other. I watched Ethan's face masked behind an expression I wasn't familiar with on his features: fear.

Ethan pulled the truck to a stop before the bridge and watched as Brian's truck came to a stop behind us. I could barely make out Brian's face in the windshield. He looked like he was in pain. I watched him slowly pull his walkie talkie to his face.

"Go..." Our walkie talkie crackled. It was odd seeing his mouth move before hearing the words on our cheap piece of machinery.

Ethan snapped his walkie talkie to his lips, "What? No! Are you fucking crazy?"

"Just.... out me.... are coming."

"Brian!" Ethan sounded on the verge of panic. He jumped as though to open the door and dash out of the truck, but I grabbed his arm.

"No, Ethan, don't..."

Ethan pulled out of my grasp. I watched Brian lift his walkie talkie to his mouth again.

"Go.... got you guys.... they're fuckin' coming..."

There was a scream from outside our truck, and I could see the first of the mangled bodies dashing from behind the trees. Ethan cursed and hit the gas. The tires squealed, and the truck lurched onto the bridge through the barricade. I whirled around in my seat.

"Brian..."

"Damn Canadians... better... safe..." The walkie talkie crackled.

I can't be sure now, but I could have sworn I saw the flicker of a lighter. As though Brian had lit something up in the cab. I could hear his tires squeal as he pressed down on the gas and followed us onto the bridge.

Our truck lurched onto the dirt road on the other side of The Crevice. Ethan squealed to a halt, and wheeled the truck around just in time for us to catch a front-row view of the largest explosion I'd ever seen.

"Brian..." I whispered. His name felt strange on my lips.

Out of Order blurb

2007-09-27T05:31:50Z

Title: --Ting Room (blurb)
Rating: G
Characters: Original Characters
Summary: "... but, vending machines don't talk!"
Author's Notes: Original fiction that I'm reviving. This is a key point in the story that I'm in love with, though I desperately need work as to how to get into the mind of an eleven-year-old boy.

--Ting Room
The red-headed nurse that walked out of the elevator was nice-looking. Maybe even pretty. She had even smiled at him as they walked passed each other. Michael’s ears felt very warm as he watched her disappear through the closing elevator doors.

He looked at all of the buttons, trying to decide which floor he wanted to go to. He figured the best place to go would be the cafeteria, but then decided against it. The cafeteria was too boring. Despite how hungry he was, he preferred to roam around the hospital looking for random vending machines and eat soda and candy, rather than going down and getting a sub or a slice of pizza. Anything to prolong having to go back there and sit in the stupid room looking at his stupid vegetable brother.

Without thinking, he pushed the button for the tenth floor, the top floor.

“Man, someone needs to have a lesson in good music,” he mumbled as the elevator began climbing the floors. The music sounded like a combination of light jazz and polka.

The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors opened. Michael stepped out into the hallway and looked around. Unlike the rest of the bustling hospital, or what Michael had seen of it, this hallway was very quiet, and very still. It seemed dimmer, too. He tried not to step too quickly through the still halls. For some reason, and Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on why, he didn’t want to disturb the surreal peace by stepping too fast and squeaking the bottom of his sneakers. His sneakers had a nasty habit of doing that.

It seemed like there weren’t any patients on this floor that cared much for their privacy. Almost every room’s door was wide opened, and he was free to peer inside at his leisure without his mother jabbing him and telling him not to stare because it was rude. She had done that when they first started coming to the hospital to visit Jeremy. Nowadays, she didn’t really seem to notice. Or care.

In room 1007, the blinds were shut and the television was on. A woman was weeping dramatically over a crescendo of music. A soap opera. Michael hated soap operas. He thought they were boring. Through the dimness in the room, Michael could see a little old lady sleeping in the bed.

As he passed room 1013, he could smell what he thought was very old hash browns. Hospital food. If there was anything he hated more than sitting in a hospital room watching his mother pet a rotting vegetable as though it were a pet cat, it was the smell of hospital food. Michael scrunched his nose and kept going.

He turned a corner, and continued down the hallway. It was a dead end, but he kept going anyway. The tenth floor was fascinating to him, for some reason. It was so much more peaceful than the floor that Jeremy was on. He wondered if it was possible to get Jeremy to be moved up here. As he approached the end of the hall, he was very happy to see that the second-or-third-to-last door on the right was a waiting room. Where there was a waiting room, there was a vending machine.

Out of all the other doors he had passed, this door was the only one on he had seen that stood ajar rather than wide open. A blue rectangular sign in the center of the door that was supposed to have read ‘Waiting Room’ was crooked; half of the word ‘waiting’ was also missing, so that it actually just read ‘ting Room’.

He hesitated before pushing the door open. There was something jarring about the door with the crooked half-sign mounted on it. HE glanced up and down the hall, making sure there wasn't anyone watching him.

It's like being a secret agent on a very important, very secret mission, he told himself, hoping to find comfort in his thoughts, thought he jarring feeling didn't lift.

The hallway remained dim and desolate. A nurse glancing down at a clipboard slipped into a patient's room, she hadn't bothered to even cast him a sideways glance as she did so. There was the soft hum of multiple televisions emitting from the dark rooms. Aside from that, the hall was empty.

Asserting himself, Michael pushed the door open and stepped inside, reminding himself to set the door ajar, just like it had been before he went in.

Very important, very secret mission.

The waiting room was very small. Against the wall to his left, there were two chairs that actually looked rather comfortable. The first was a very old-looking, tattered, red chair with a dark stain on the arm, possibly a pepsi stain. The second was an even older-looking green chair. Between them was a small table with a few magazines. Mostly extremely worn copies of Time plastered with the smiling faces of celebrities he didn't know.

Michael sat down in the green chair. It wobbled under his weight. The legs were uneven. But unlike other hospital chairs, it was comfortable. If he had wanted to, he could have fallen asleep in it.

In the middle of the room was a large table that stood eye-to-eye with Michael as he was sitting in the green chair. He noticed a sloping bend in the middle of it, as though someone had put something so heavy on it that it actually bent the table-top. Michael wondered what someone must have put on the table to make it bend like that.

At the back of the room was a soda machine. A Pepsi machine, really, with a dent in the ‘E’ that usually was the result of someone delivering a punch after the machine ate his money. Michael put his hand in his pocket and pulled out fifty cents.

He walked over to the Pepsi machine and dropped his money in. He listened to it clink around inside, and pushed the button for Pepsi. Nothing happened. He pushed the button again, this time harder, in case the machine was just acting up, but still nothing happened. Sighing, he hit the coin-return button, and ran his fingers through the coin-return slot. No money.

“Damn,” he muttered, glad that his mother wasn’t around to hear him cuss. He knew she wouldn’t like it at all if she knew that he cussed.

Just as he turned around, he noticed a piece of white paper on the floor. He picked it up and turned the paper over, realizing that it said in big, bold letters:

Out of Order.

“Everything in this room is broken,” he murmured, looking at the old stained chairs, the bent table, and then to the punched machine. Sighing, he put the paper on the table and began to make his way out of the room.

From behind him the machine rumbled and sounded like it was it was about to regurgitate a can of Pepsi. Michael turned around and walked back over to the machine, brow furrowed, and felt around in the tray. Nothing.

“Stupid piece of junk,” he grumbled, kicking it. He began walking away.

“Hey! I’m not stupid!”

The voice startled Michael. It was the voice of a girl who sounded like she was a few years younger than himself. He turned around, thinking that a girl was behind him, somehow, but to his dismay he found the room to be empty.

“...huh?”

“I said... I’m not stupid!”

The...vending machine?

“Did you say something to me?”

“Yes I did! You called me stupid. I am not stupid!”

Was he losing his mind? “You’re a vending machine. Vending machines don’t talk.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not a vending machine! You’re the vending machine!”

Michael stood dead in his tracks, trying to assess the situation. Here he was, in a waiting room on the top floor of Memorial Hospital, talking to a broken Pepsi machine with a dent in the ‘E’. And the vending machine was actually talking back to him! This didn’t make any sense at all.

“Excuse me? I’m not a vending machine.”

“Well if you’re not a vending machine, then how come your voice is coming out of one?”

“How should I know? You’re the six-foot box that serves Pepsi. Not me. I’m just a kid.”

“I’m a kid, too!”

Michael noticed that the voice seemed to be coming from the machine’s tray. He stooped down to look at the tray at eye-level. It looked like a every other vending machine tray. Small, rectangular, it was kind of hard for him to fit his hand inside if he were to retrieve a soda -– everyone had always said he had large hands, he got it from his father’s side of the family -– there was even an old Scooby-Doo sticker that someone had stuck on the very bottom at some point. It was faded and peeling. But other than that, the tray looked normal. No girl's face poking out from it or anything.

Michael craned his neck to try and peer up into the machine. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for -– there was no possible way that a little girl could be living inside the vending machine, although it would explain why the vending machine was out of order –- but in the end, he found nothing but the part of the machine that spat out the soda cans.

What in the world was going on?

“Well... what’s your name, Mr. Vending-machine-man?” The machine asked.

Michael figured it couldn’t cause too much trouble to tell the machine his name. What was the machine going to do? Chase him down the hall and into the elevator? Michael briefly imagined himself running through the halls with a huge Pepsi machine bounding after him.

“Michael. Michael Clarendon.”

“That’s a pretty funny last name, Michael Clarendon.”

“Well what’s your name, then?”

“Sarah Elizabeth-Reneé Tucker,” the voice sounded proud. Like the kid liked to boast about her name. “But I just go by Sarah.”

Michael couldn’t think of a comeback. Instead, he just sat down the rest of the way and looked into the machine’s empty tray. “That’s a pretty cool name, Sarah.”

Abra Kadabra - The "Spell Gone Wrong" Challenge

2007-09-20T07:00:06Z

Title: Abra Kadabra "A Spell Gone Wrong Challenge"
Rating: G
Genre: Humor, and Fatherly-Angst
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Summary: Before I could stop her, Nicola pointed the wand at my baby girl sitting in my lap and yelled, “Abra Kadabra!” Nicola gave the wand a quick wave, and a puff of smoke billowed around us.
Author's Note: I originally wrote it as one of my other aliases, hearts_n_spades in response to 30minutefics's Oops! Challenge. The original author's note went like this, Meh, this one had a lot of background information that I found extremely hard to incorporate without going over time limit. Just remember that this is told from Draco's point of view, and he tried once to escape the wizarding world. Comments and Crits are appreciated.

This is the heavily-revised version.

Abra Kadabra
Rule Number One in the Big Book of Parenting Rules states: "If you tell a child not to do something, chances are they are going to turn right around and do it."

So it's a well-known fact that I should have done something with my suspicious-looking wizarding instruments after the first time I caught my eldest daughter, Nicola, snooping around in my side-table drawer after I had specifically told her not to mess with those things.

I had always made it perfectly clear to her that mummies and daddies didn’t like it very much when their children rummaged around in their side-table drawers. When she had asked “How come, daddy?” I simply explained that there were some things that mummies and daddies had that their children weren’t allowed to play with until they were older.

At that point, she asked me if it was kind of like the "Trojan Man." I said yes, although I hadn't understood what Nicola was talking about until later, when my wife, Annesley, blamed me for Nicola's emphatic explanation to my mother-in-law that she "was not allowed to play with the Trojan Man in daddy's drawer until she was older," when the commercial had briefed the television screen during supper a few nights later. (I still cannot watch that little Spartan warrior climbing out of a man's side-table drawer and announcing the benefits of wearing condoms without cringing.)

The suspicious-looking wizarding instrument that I particularly wanted to keep Nicola away from was my old school wand. Every little girl, at one point in her life, wants to be a fairy princess. What better way to do that than to have a magical wand that you could turn old chairs into ponies?

Merlin knew I should have done something with the damn thing, anyway; I hadn’t touched it since I had moved from England to America two years before Nicola was born. And now that Nicola had taken to rummaging through my and Annesley’s things, I should have taken that as a sign and hid it in a more secluded spot... like my sock drawer, for instance. But, like most men who thoroughly enjoy coming home after a hard day's work at the office to relax on the sofa with a couple of beers and a game of muggle football, I got lazy, and I didn't.

In a way, I felt like if I had even brought myself to wrap my fingers around the end of my wand again, it would make me want to go back to the life that I had really wanted to just leave behind in the first place. Growing up in England, I attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and wizardry was exactly what I had learned there. In what I now think was a massive rebellion against my father, I left for America, where I started a family with my very beautiful, and very muggle wife. And so far, in my seven years of marriage and six years of parenthood, I had done a damn good job keeping my wizarding life locked far, far away, right where I wanted it.

Away.

So, of course, I didn’t touch the wand, and it wasn’t until one morning when my darling six-year-old daughter came skipping into my office while I was going over some business transactions that I realized how big the mistake of not relocating the wand had been.

“Look daddy!” Nicola sang, twirling around my desk, wearing the little ballet dress that I had bought for her after she had insisted upon taking lessons. At first, I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. My daughter really liked dancing, and she did it all the time, “I’m a fairy princess!”

“That you are, Pumpkin,” I said, not looking at her, but leaning over in her direction so that she could plant a wet kid-kiss on my cheek, as usual. Instead, I felt a puzzling tap on my shoulder.

“Now you can fly!” She chirped.

I looked over at her, and much to my horror I noticed that she had tapped my shoulder with my old wand, and she was now turned toward my bookshelf, lightly tapping one of my marble, horse-shaped, paperweights and commanding it to fly. I swallowed hard, and tried to keep the calmest face possible. Panicking would only worsen an already pretty bad situation.

“Where did you get that, Pumpkin?” I asked.

Nicola’s dancing and ‘enchanting’ immediately halted, and she whirled around to face me, hands behind her back, “Nowhere. The back yard.”

I knew she was lying. Her eyes were too innocent, and her voice was too sweet.

“Nicola, are you sure you got that from the back yard? Where did you really get that stick?”

“The back yard! I promise!”

“Did you get that out of Daddy’s side table drawer?”

“Nope.” She stood about as straight as a soldier. I would have found her expression almost comical, if it were not for the dire situation at hand.

“Nicola... what did I tell you about snooping through Daddy’s side table drawer?”

"Daddy!" I heard the sound of tiny feet tapping against the hardwood floor, and suddenly my youngest daughter, Jessica, barely three, was in my lap.

“Hello, Bunny,” I greeted, running my fingers over her soft blond curls before looking back at Nicola and holding my hand out. “Can I have that back?”

Nicola took the wand out from behind her back, and held it in front of her face, inspecting it closely. “But what’s so special about it, Daddy? It’s just a stick...”

“Well,” I racked my brain for a reasonable excuse. Six-year-olds were not the easiest to fool, “It’s my lucky stick. Now give it back, Pumpkin.”

“A lucky stick? Can I give Jessica some luck first?”

Before I could stop her, Nicola pointed the wand at my baby girl sitting in my lap and yelled, “Abra Kadabra!” She gave the wand a quick wave, and a puff of smoke billowed around us.

My mouth dropped.

Magic. My beautiful, sweet, darling baby girl was... a witch.

Oh hell.

Jessica squealed in delight.

Nicola was beaming.

"WOW! It really is a lucky stick!" she turned around and was about to give the wand another quick wave, but I jumped up, clutching Jessica awkwardly against me, and snatched it from Nicola's grasp before she could do any more damage.

“GO!” I yelled. Nicola jumped, and I took a deep breath. “Go... ask mummy what’s for breakfast,” I tried to keep my voice down. Nicola stared at me for a few seconds, hurt sweeping across her little face, which resulted in the immediate desire to introduce my foot into my arse. Finally, she sighed and slowly trudged out of my office.

Jessica looked up from my lap with big brown eyes, “Can I go too?” She asked quietly. I smiled at her and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Of course you can, Bunny.”

Jessica slipped off of my lap and began bouncing toward the door.

Everything was quiet again, and I gingerly slipped my wand into the bottom drawer of my desk. Nicola would never think to look for the wand there. Slowly, I let my head fall into my hands and took a deep, long breath. How was I going to break this to Annesley? She didn’t even know that I was a wizard, much less her own daughter!

The silence was unmercifully broken by a piercing scream from the kitchen. Quickly, I jumped up from my desk and raced to the top of the stairs.

“What happened?” I called.

“DRACO!”

Annesley appeared at the of the staircase, cradling a hysterically-laughing Jessica in her arms.

My brow furrowed. No one was crying, no one was bleeding to death, and no one was dead. I scratched my head, “What happened? Anne?”

Annesley didn’t have to say anything. She just turned herself around so that Jessica’s backside was facing me, where a wagging little pig’s tail stuck out of the seat of her pajamas.

Turning into a Vampire Blurb

2007-09-20T05:24:39Z

Title: [Title Pending]
Rating: N/A
Genre: Angst
Characters: Edward/Bella, though indirectly
Summary: Following the strange sense of rebirth from the ashes of exhaustion, there had been the feeling of cold, gentle, yet strangely marble-like hands, and fluttering lips.
Author's Note: I don't know wtf this is. It seems like its the description of turning into a vampire. But it's rather cool, I think.

Death and Fire
There had been many speculations as to what death was like.

As to whether or not death was a painful or painless experience, whether or not one’s life truly flashed before his eyes before the lights popped out, whether there really was an army of virgins waiting patiently before the pearly gates of heaven for the soul of the deceased.

Or simply whether or not there really was a heaven (or a hell) for that matter.

In truth, there was nothing but fire. Death and fire.

There had been death and the feeling of it: it was a feeling of exhaustion, of hunger, of thirst; it was the feeling that every part of the body and soul had been completely drained of everything.

Following the strange sense of rebirth from the ashes of exhaustion, there had been the feeling of cold, gentle, yet strangely marble-like hands, and fluttering lips.

Then came the fire.

The fire was what had hurt the most.

From the tips of the fingers, to the tips of the toes, to the top of the head, it felt like there was fire; a churning inferno, writhing like a snake in the deepest pit of hell. It burned and burned, and it scorched and scorched until it felt like veins were going to burst and skin was going to rip into smoldering shreds.

It lasted for the longest time; for what felt like forever. Long hours of churning and writhing, of crying and screaming and cursing.

Lunch Hour - "Broken Wand Challenge"

2007-09-17T06:58:43Z

Title: Lunch Hour
Rating: R
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Author's Notes: GASP! That's right! This is a slash! This is actually my first and (so far) only slash piece. I originally wrote it as one of my other aliases, hearts_n_spades in response to 30minutefics's Broken Wand Challenge. The original author's note went like this, "So I'm not too pleased with this one. For one, I have never in my life read slash, nor have I ever written it. So this is the first time I've done male-on-male action. For two, it's quite half-assed. Definitely not the best thing I've ever written. But it was fun to play around with.

Because I've never written/read slash before, it took me longer than 30 minutes to write. Let's be honest, it took me an hour, more for editing than for writing. It only took me about 20 minutes to write. But I really, really tried!

Anyway. Constructive criticism is allowed. Just wanna be sure that everyone knows this piece actually really sucks. It's actually embarrassing."

Despite that this is a revision, I still don't think this is as good as I could have made it, considering I rarely read or write slash to begin with.

Lunch Hour
His bare back met the dungeon’s cold, damp floor just as his shirt fell into a rumpled maroon pile next to him. The dungeons were always cold and damp, the atmosphere especially. It made traveling down there almost unbearable because He had always felt completely unwelcome. Unwelcome, and followed. As though whatever it was down there that made the dungeons seem so unbelievably cold and damp and unwelcoming was following him, stalking him, watching his every move. He shivered, a sudden chill raced down his spine all the way down to his toes, where it tingled and prickled with excitement.

Of course, there wasn’t any such lurking beast in the dungeons. The Headmaster would have never allowed that, especially after the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. But there was something there, and its eyes watched him with the utmost scrutiny. It watched his chest rise and fall with every ragged breath; watched his muscles ripple beneath his skin; watched his fingers rake through his messy, ebony hair in pleasurable agony; and watched him bite his lip hard enough to draw the smallest trickle of blood.

And, Merlin, its eyes. They were gray. Silver, really. A haunting, silvery color which flickered maniacally with a look of silent disdain. They taunted him, prodded him.

And their owner, that something was taunting him. Taunting him not only with that scornful look, but also with a wand balanced loosely between its long, slender fingers. He felt the wand brush his skin; it was dreadfully cold. If the wand could talk, He imagined it was laughing at him, taunting him just like that something was taunting him. ‘Does it feel good, boy?’ He imagined it was saying. ‘Tell me, does it feel good?’

“Feels… so good,” He managed, ignoring the fact that He was answering an unasked question from an inanimate object. He shivered, and writhed. This was wrong, so wrong. And as wrong as it was, as dangerous as it was, He hadn’t lied: so good, it felt so fucking good.

”You are always so fun to watch when you writhe,” the owner of the scornful silver eyes, that something lurking about the dungeons, sounded as though there was a smirk in his voice.

He felt the wand dip between his sweat-drenched thighs and jumped; a moan escaped his mouth, and He closed his eyes in hopes that the darkness behind his eyelids would make the wrongness of it all feel even better.

“And you... are always so fun... to watch when... you’re... screaming,” He managed between gasps as the wand silently traveled back up from his thighs, to his chest, to his throat, behind his ear, and back down to his slightly-stubbled chin. The smell of sweat and musk filled his nose.

“You are so fun to taunt.”

“As are you... Malfoy.”

That lurking something, the silvery-eyed Malfoy, chuckled, leaning over so that their noses were just barely touching.

“What do you want to do to me, Potter?” Malfoy took the wand off of his skin, the pleasurable feelings lost among the stillness of the dungeons.

He looked up at him questioningly, begging him with his eyes to put it back. Malfoy gave his wand a little swish, and an exciting prickle rippled over his body. He clutched the damp fabric of his shirt next to him on the floor, biting back a groan. The tip of the wand was hot, so hot that it caused Him to suck in a quick breath through his teeth, making a fast hissing sound. It trailed down his side, and then down between his thighs again.

“I don’t... I don’t...” Unable to finish his sentence, and unable to suppress anything anymore, a loud groan escaped his throat. The hot tip of the wand was moving in slow, tantalizing circles around his growing hardness.

“You don’t know?” Malfoy taunted quietly. The scornful look in his eyes never dwindled, and his voice remained low and husky.

“I don’t...” He felt what he could only describe as a bolt of adrenaline race through every vein in his body, and suddenly, He couldn’t take anymore of that blasted wand’s taunting.

In a rapid, fluid movement – much like a Seeker diving after the Golden Snitch – He lashed toward Malfoy, wrapping his thin arms around the boy’s neck and capturing him in a crashing, desperate kiss that pulled Malfoy down onto the cold, damp floor with him.

Malfoy seemed stunned at first, but in an instant regained his composure and broke away from the kiss, trailing other hungry kisses and savage nips down His neck.

He reached over and ran his hand roughly over the front of Malfoy's pants, the heat from his member radiating beneath the fabric. That was the one thing he loved about taunting Malfoy – he grew hard so easily. He pulled Malfoy’s face back to his own, trapping his cheeks between his hands. His lips descended down on Malfoy’s own, his tongue begging the silvery-eyed boy to open his mouth, to which Malfoy complied. The kiss was crushing, suffocating, addicting. He pulled away from it just long enough to push his fingers under Malfoy’s belt. The skin there was so very soft under his fingertips, much unlike the cold, scornful look that normally adorned his eyes.

“Potter...” Malfoy’s voice was trembling more and more with each touch, with each fumbling stroke. Despite the awkwardness of his pants still being on, he was close. He was so close. “Potter...”

He pulled his hand from Malfoy’s pants, and yanked the boy on top of him.

A sudden snap! suddenly sent the boys jumping away from each other. Potter dashed to yank his shirt back over his head, and pulled his trousers back onto his hips. Lunch hour was over, and Potions class was getting ready to start. This was what made his rendezvous with Malfoy so exciting; the thrill of knowing it was so easy to get caught. But he could not think of that now. He had to get dressed before someone saw him.

“What was that?” He asked Malfoy, trying to straighten his tousled hair the best he could. It was no use. His hair was always so messy. He quickly made to put on his shoes.

Malfoy didn’t say anything, just calmly rose to his feet and dusted off his robes. His brow suddenly furrowed, and he leaned over to pick something up off the floor.

“Malfoy?”

“My wand, you dolt...” Malfoy looked up. He wasn’t angry, but there was definite annoyance in his eyes. “You rolled on top of it.”

Malfoy held up the long, slender piece of wood. Half of it was dangling over his knuckles, held together only by a few black strings.

Both He and Malfoy glanced at their own watches. It was time that the Potions students began filling up the classroom before their class could start. He jumped to his feet just as the classroom door swung open, and a frazzled-looking Professor Snape gliding in with his cloak billowing behind him.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked suspiciously, eyeing them with one cocked eyebrow. “I should not have expected you to be here until after lunch...”

Without missing a beat, Malfoy flung a glare in His direction, and He returned the glare right back. This was how it always was: enemies by day, lovers by night.

“I decided to leave lunch early, Professor, in order to catch up on my Potions notes before class,” Malfoy replied. Though it may have sounded truthful in the Professor’s ears, the excuse was very far from the truth. When He had found Malfoy, he had left early from lunch, but it definitely was not to study notes. “When I came in here, I came face to face with Potter, in which I am not sure exactly what his intentions were, but I am sure they were not good.”

“Potter!” Snape growled, making him jump. “Just what were you doing in my classroom?”

He held up a notebook. “Potions notes. I needed a quiet place to look over them before class.”

“And you couldn’t go into the library?”

“I figured it would be more prudent on my part to just look over them in here, Sir.”

Snape glared at the two boys, his eyes picking apart their brain, as though trying to catch either boy in a lie. But, none could be found. Upon his rendezvous with Malfoy, He had become an expert at hiding the truth. Finding absolutely nothing to prove their stories false, Snape grunted and whirled around, making his way toward the front of the classroom. He waved his wand in the direction of the chalkboard, and the chalk magically began writing directions for a Pimple-removing Solution in neat, perfect cursive.

He glanced back at Malfoy, his eyes demanding that they pick up where they left off later in the night, when the chance of being walked in on was less likely. The corners of Malfoy’s lips tweaked in the tiniest smirk – always smirking, never smiling – though his eyes remained scornful and unchanged. Just before the two boys could move to opposite sides of the room in order to sit down, Snape piped up from behind his cauldron at the front of the room.

“If I may be so kind as to ask,” he said casually, crossing his arms over his chest, and eyeing Malfoy curiously. Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks, and was now looking at the Professor calmly, though his insides were actually swimming with nervousness. “If you just so happened to see Potter in the classroom, and your intentions were only to study notes, just how did you manage to break your wand?” The professor pointed at the broken wood poking out of the pocket of Malfoy’s robe; the splintered half dangled listlessly at his side.

Malfoy didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say that would sound convincing enough. All he could do was stare up at the teacher watching him closely.

The smirk on the professor's face was absolutely horrifying.

The Way of the World blurb

2007-09-16T17:01:25Z

Title: The Way of the World (blurb)
Rating: G
Genre: General? Angst?
Characters: I think this was originally written as a Draco/Ginny, but in reality can be anyone.
Summary: "It's not the way of the world..."
Author's Note: This was randomly found in my ficlets archive on my hard drive. Don't know what it was for, can't remember what it was for, however I really liked it. The file says it was created on April 15, 2005 0.0 So it's old.

The Way of the World
Snow.

Soft, tiny flakes of snow drifted from the deep gray sky to their final resting places in the frozen, pristine world around her. The air was quiet and still, breathing in the soft, far-away voice of the snowflakes falling to the earth. The trees were bare and white, aside from the occasional raven whose ruffled feathers kept him warm, and the lake was frozen solid; so solid that a stray fox unhesitantly tiptoed across into the forest.

And for a moment, everything was peaceful. For a moment, everything was perfect.

He made no sound as he approached her, only watched her intently through the falling snowflakes. Her forest-green robes were wrapped tightly around her little frame, and snowflakes dotted her hair like ivory freckles. She did not flinch when he finally came to stand beside her. She did not move at all, in fact, aside from the slight smile that tweaked at the corner of her mouth.

“Hullo,” she said softly, not taking her eyes off of the beautiful, snowy landscape.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked, his eyes scanning her tiny frame.

She shook her head, snowflakes falling from her curling red hair. “No. I like the cold. I find it rather peaceful.” She smiled at him, her glossy lips shimmering in the light of the snow. Her eyes traveled back out to the countryside. He watched those eyes, very carefully. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you.” The comment sent a rosy blush into her face. She let out a half-giggle, and looked down at the snow piling around her.

“I’m not beautiful,” she finally said. Her voice was soft.

“Of course you are.”

“No. You must be mistaken. There’s no way that plain, poor, boring me can be beautiful.” Her eyes traveled up to his. “People like me are not beautiful. It’s just not the way of the world.” She spat the words as though they were poison. A look of pain flashed across her eyes.

“The way of the world? What are you talking about, love?” He was confused. Where had she gotten that idea from?

There was a long, long silence that felt like an eternity. He watched as a single glassy tear slipped down her cheek. “Because people like me aren't supposed to be in love with people like you. It's not right.”

The words echoed with familiarity in his ears, however he was having trouble in remembering where he had heard them before. People like us...

"This isn't love." She added, sighing. Her breath lingered in a white-gray fog in the wintery air.

“Now why would you say that?” He asked quietly. He watched as another tear fell down the same watery trail as the first, and he brought a gloved finger up to brush it away. She tilted her head against his fingers, closing her eyes.

“Because love isn’t supposed to make you feel this way.” Her bottom lip was trembled. “Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this.”

“Like what?”

She didn’t say anything for a very long time. When she finally spoke, it made him jump, slightly. He supposed it was the snow. Hearing its whisper as each and every flake fluttered to the ground easily could fill one’s ears. But when the whisper was broken, it made the world slightly... disjointed.

“Broken.”

The word was simple, and yet carefully chosen. His brow furrowed, as if asking her to elaborate, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, her soft brown eyes turned back to the pristine landscape before her, and sighed, hastily rubbing at the tear stains that streaked down her cheeks.

“Broken.” he muttered. The word felt funny on his tongue. Like it hadn’t belonged in his mouth.

She nodded, “Broken.”

And the snow continued to fall around them, the flakes gently, quietly drifting to their resting spots. Their voices as they hit the ground were many, but many and soft. And while their voices were comforting to him, he felt strangely numb. As though his heart had been wrenched from him, and had left a bloody, crimson trail to the lake where it had dived right in. Only, the lake had frozen over, and he wasn’t able to retrieve it.

“Is it my father?” He guessed quietly, his eyes now trailing to the landscape. He could see why it was so captivating, now. He could see why she hadn’t wanted to look him in the eyes, even though she had.

She hesitated, “No.”

“My mother?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Me.” Again, she spat the word out like a nasty taste. He wondered where he'd heard the tone before.

“You?”

“Yes. Me.”

At Midnight - Chapter One

2007-09-15T08:07:13Z

Title: At Midnight
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, Romance
Characters: Draco/Ginny
Summary: “If there was one thing you could have,” she whispered, “what would it be?” Draco’s forehead dropped to hers. “You.” His eyes clenched shut, and he let out a shuttered breath. “Freedom,” he finally whispered.
Author's Note: Written before HBP. But, I thought it deemed worthy to be pulled out of the vault.

Prologue

Chapter One
Early September, 1997

1

This couldn’t be any more perfect.

His eyes sparkle mischievously in the fading sunlight. The corner of his mouth twitches into what can only be described as a very naughty grin.

He pulls out his wand from deep within the pockets of his torn black robes, mottled with dirt and dust, and gives it a graceful flick. A large, lavender-colored flower sprouts from the tip of the wand; he plucks it and twirls it childishly between his thumb and fore-finger. A warm breeze picks up, rustling the weeping willow’s long, draping leaves that surround them like a clandestine forest throne. He returns his wand to his pocket, and delicately nestles the flower behind her ear.

Here he is, right here, in front of her. He’s alive; exhausted, but alive. And that’s all that matters. She wraps him into a tight hug, happy to feel him in her arms. He hugs her back, pressing her face into his shoulder. She closes her eyes, taking in his scent. He has a very masculine smell; it’s the smell of dirt and sweat.

“It’s been a very long time,” he says. His breath carries the very faint traces of cinnamon-scented firewhiskey. ‘Half a drink before battle,’ they say, ‘half a drink to return home.’ She nods into his shoulder, not wanting to break their embrace. “I missed you more and more with each passing day.”

She reluctantly tears herself away from his shoulder and looks up into his tired green eyes. Before she can speak, his mouth catches hers in a tender kiss. His lips feel rough and slightly chapped as they dance against hers, and they taste fresh from the battlefield. His arm tightens its grip around her middle, and his free hand cups her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. He traces her lips with the tip of his tongue and pulls back. There is a brief moment when he does nothing but look at her before smiling and stroking her hair.

“Ginny,” he says. The sound of her name on his lips send happy tingles down her spine.

“Yes?” She smiles up at him.

“Ginny! Wake up! Or else you’ll be late!”

Ginny rolled over in her bed and opened her eyes. Harry, the weeping willow, the grass between her toes, the flower in her hair… everything instantly faded away into oblivion, gone for forever. Instead of the secret hiding place amongst the willow's hair-like leaves, she found herself buried comfortably in her blankets. Her bedroom light was on, bright and offending, and the first whispers of dawn were peeking into her room from her window.

It had all been a dream; a very, very, vivid dream. A tiny, sad feeling briefly swept over her, and she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Mum?” she mumbled.

“Yes dear, it’s me.”

Molly Weasley was busily hurrying around Ginny’s bedroom, tossing fresh, clean clothes onto her bed and picking up the used dishes that she had told Ginny to bring down to be washed the night before. As she made her rounds around the room, she mumbled quietly to herself about having the chance to do better things with her time than washing dishes once the children were at school.

“What time is it?” Ginny asked, confused.

“It’s 6:30, dear,” Molly answered, balancing the plates on her hand and adjusting the burgundy-colored apron she usually wore when she cooked breakfast. “You’ve half an hour to dress and eat breakfast before we leave for the train.”

Ginny scowled as she sprung out of bed, gathering her clothes and a spare towel, “How come you didn’t wake me sooner? Now I won’t have time to shower, and you know how I hate that.”

“You looked like you were having a good dream, dear,” her mother said, smiling gently. Ginny's scowl remained unmoving. “Oh Ginny, don’t look at me like that. It isn’t like there aren’t any showers at Hogwarts for you to use once you get there. Now, hurry up. Breakfast, and then you and your..."

Her mother's voice trailed off, a far-away look washing over her face. She was about to say that Ginny and her brother were off to King's Cross Station in order to take a train ride to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, despite knowing that it would just be Ginny, this year. No Ron. No Harry. No Hermione.

It had been about two months ago that the three of them had disappeared from the wizarding world. According to the papers, they had gone into hiding. But Ginny and her family knew better; they were off to find him. The Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort. The thought intrigued, angered, and sickened Ginny all at one time. It had been known for years that Harry was to be the only one to defeat the Darkest Wizard of all time, but did he really have to go and drag her brother and Hermione in it alone? Just the three of them? Couldn't he have trusted the Order of the Phoenix to help him?

A pang of guilt raced over Ginny, and she ambled over to her mother. The scowl that had been on her face vanished instantly, as though it had also been part of the dream. She gently removed the plates from her mother's hands, put them on her bedside table, and then pulled her mother into a hug, "It's all right, Mum, I'll be ready."

Molly's distant expression quickly came into focus, and she smiled lovingly at her daughter. "Right then," she picked at an invisible dust bunny on Ginny's shoulder, "A quick shower, breakfast, and we'll pack you up."

Her mother was in such a haste to close the bedroom door that she forgot the pile of dirty dishes on Ginny's bedside table. Ginny cast them a sideways glance, and told herself that she would make her mother's life just slightly easier by helping her bring the dishes downstairs. It was bad enough her brother had to go and be a hero and run off with Harry...

The anger and the worry had lingered about the house, much like the smell of burnt cooking, ever since the morning that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had run off. Not like the anger and the worry hadn't been there before they disappeared. Dumbledore, possibly the greatest wizard of the age, was gone, disappeared as well. To the papers, he too had gone into hiding. However, it was likely he had vanished to assist the three. That was the only thing keeping Ginny's mother from going into hysterics over the wellbeing of her son, her future daughter-in-law, and the boy who might as well have been the seventh son she never had.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Dumbledore was even assisting Harry, though Ginny dared not bring that up to her mother, for fear of her mother's already unstable sanity. She had been cooking Ron's, Harry's, and Hermione's favorite meals every single evening for the last month, in hopes they might come home and be hungry.

Ginny swallowed the feeling of rage, and quickly changed out of her pajamas. Though she desperately wanted to take a shower, she did not want to keep her mother waiting. Her mother was right, after all, there were bathrooms at Hogwarts to shower in once she got there. As soon as she was dressed, and looked mildly presentable -- save for the one bump of hair that wouldn’t quite stay down the way she wanted it to -- she left her room and headed down the stairs to the kitchen, remembering to grab the pile of dishes on her way out.

Molly was already cleaning up the kitchen; a sponge was furiously scrubbing a used pan over the bubbly sink when Ginny stepped in. Smiling in an attempt to lighten her mother's mood, she slipped the dishes into the water and took a seat next to her father at the kitchen table. A feeling of emptiness hovered over her. It had been ages since her rather large family had crowded around the table. The last time they had sat down as a family, her elder twin brothers, Fred and George, were testing out a new candy that was supposed to change your hair color every half hour to a different color of the rainbow.

Ginny picked up a piece of toast from a plate in the center of the table and bit into it. She looked around for her mother's brand new edition of Witch Weekly.

“Now, isn’t that quite a shame,” Arthur muttered, placing a crisp copy of The Daily Prophet down on the table and pointing at a small article in the corner of the page. Ginny leaned over to get a better look:

-

BODY FOUND IN REGENT’S CANAL
Steven Ore, Staff Reporter
September 1, 1997

The body of an unidentified witch was dragged from the Everstill Basin of Regent's Canal early yesterday morning after having been discovered by a muggle walking his dog.

The witch’s body was discovered by William Striker, 45, while he was taking a walk with his Springer spaniel, Pugsley, when the dog picked up a scent and darted to the edge of the canal.

Claire Cooper, a London resident, also a muggle, was just yards away when the man made the grisly discovery.

“I was quite shocked; it isn’t every day that a body is found in the canal, of all places. It’s not the sort of thing that happens often around here,” she said, as reported by the muggle newspaper, the London Daily.

“It is very disconcerting,” says Mary Ewes, a wizarding London resident, and mother of three, “Very, very disconcerting; the idea of finding a body in the middle of everything. This sort of thing is not an every day occurrence.”

It is unknown as to the cause of death at the present moment, and the muggle police are treating the death as suspicious. The body has been taken to the Lewisham Public Mortuary in London for an extensive post-mortem examination; it will be examined by wizarding coroner Lyle Batemen.

-

“Everstill Basin? Isn’t that in the middle of London?” Ginny asked through a mouthful of toast. She had expected her mother to chastise her for talking with her mouth full, however when she looked at her mother through the corner of her eye she realized that Molly was absently stirring the soapy water with the end of her wand. Ginny forced herself to look back at her father. Arthur nodded at her grimly, the expression on his face dark.

Ginny reached into the plate of bacon and took a bite, only to grimace. She normally took her bacon on the chewy side, and this morning her mother had almost burnt it to a crisp. She cast a quick glance at her mother again, who had stopped stirring the water and was mechanically flicking her wand around, magicking a dishtowel to dry the newly-cleaned dishes.

“I wonder who it is,” Ginny said quietly, putting her bacon down and taking a bite of eggs, which were much more to her satisfaction.

Arthur shrugged and also grimaced when he took a bite of bacon.

“I don't know, but I don't like it. That's the fourth body in two weeks.”

2

“It’s all so… odd… isn’t it?”

Neville looked worried. He always looked worried, nowadays; it was as though the worried look had been permanently etched on his face. He was nervously swiping his hand through his hair, and taking long, preoccupied glances across the Great Hall. Ginny’s brow furrowed, and she followed Neville’s gaze, though she was unable to tell what exactly Neville found so odd. Students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were sitting at their respective tables, each chatting excitedly with friends and classmates. A couple of Ravenclaw girls were waving their wands over their fingernails, experimenting with different colors. A few Slytherin brats were casting haughty looks at a pair of Hufflepuffs who were giggling behind their hands, as though telling each other a juicy secret.

“I’m sorry, but what’s odd, Neville?” Ginny asked.

“It’s so… empty,” Neville briefly glanced at Ginny before looking down at Harry’s old seat between her and him. It had been difficult keeping fellow Gryffindor students out of Harry’s seat, but Neville had insisted, promising to hex anyone that moved to sit in his spot. Whether they were afraid of Neville's capability in hexes, or lack thereof, Ginny didn't know; however, it had worked.

She didn't know whether to feel honored or feel embarrassed by his insistence of keeping Harry's seat empty. Did he think that Harry would come back?

“It’s like many people disappeared," Neville finished.

Ginny cocked an eyebrow at him, and took another glance across the Great Hall. A chilling feeling crept into her spine as she realized that Neville was right; there were many students missing from the start-of-term feast. Michael Corner was missing from the Ravenclaw table, his spot taken up by a rather large, pimply third-year boy with stringy blonde hair who was talking animatedly to a skinny black boy with a crooked tie. Ginny felt a nasty pit in her stomach; it was almost as though the Ravenclaws didn’t even realize that they were missing someone.

Hufflepuff didn’t seemed to be missing many, if anyone at all, but the house was few in numbers and therefore Ginny wasn’t surprised to not see a large group of them.

And of course, Gryffindor was missing Harry. The-Boy-Who-Lived. But that wasn’t anything surprising to anyone. He had said it himself at the very end of last term that he wasn’t even sure if he was going to return to Hogwarts for his seventh year.

I don’t think Hogwarts will be safe if I return, Harry had said, running his slender hand through his tousled jet-black hair. The memory made Ginny smile, but only slightly; Harry had this knack of scratching his head and looking completely clueless, even when there was absolutely nothing to be confused about. Someone has to defeat the Dark Lord.

No one in Gryffindor had been surprised that Ron had disappeared off of the face of the planet with Harry; he was Harry's best friend and confidant, after all. It had sparked some rather interesting rumors, though nothing much else. Hermione's disappearance had been completely different, though, and had come as a rather big shock to everyone. She had been nominated as Head Girl during the Summer Holidays. When she had failed to owl her response, the position had been passed down to a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl whose name Ginny couldn't remember.

“I heard the children of Death Eaters have been taken into questioning at the Ministry,” Seamus Finnigan said, his eyes looming over the Slytherin table. Ginny noticed that Slytherin seemed to be missing the most students. Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott’s places were now empty, save for a rather spiteful-looking black girl sitting in Malfoy’s usual place beside an unusually quiet and scowling Pansy Parkinson. The Slytherins were rather quiet tonight, most just quietly talking amongst each other, or silently waiting for the start-of-term feast to end.

“Serves them right, yeah?” Dean Thomas piped up, “The whole lot of them deserve to be in Azkaban with the rest of their parents.”

“Why is it so empty this year? Surely last year’s Seventh-Year class wasn’t that large,” Ginny asked, ignoring Dean's comment. Dean shrugged.

“Most of the students who are not here have been moved to other schools, because of their parents. Well, students like Michael Corner, at least. Who knows where the Death Eaters are..."

Before Ginny could say anything, the Great Hall grew deathly silent, and the first-years piled in. This group, too, was remarkably small, considering the previous years’ numbers of students. She recognized the little sister of Helen McDonald, a friend of hers in Hufflepuff. Many of the younger students were staring wide-eyed at the hundreds of candles floating in the air above the tables.

Neville leaned over into Ginny’s ear, “Look at that! Look how few of them there are!” He pointed at the first years as Professor McGonagall, in her brilliant, emerald-green robes, walked to the center of the Great Hall. She placed a four-legged stool in the floor, on top of which she put the tattered Sorting Hat. It was looking more and more worn as the years went by.

"That looks about half the amount of students in my year," Ginny whispered back to him as McGonagall explained the Sorting Ceremony to the first years. Neville didn't have much time to say anything back to her. The hat, as though it had heard its cue when McGonagall had finished explaining the Sorting Ceremony, twitched and let out a loud ripping sound that echoed through the halls. It burst into song; drowning out any chance of a conversation at all.

McGonagall called the first name out, though Ginny ignored it and took to toying with a loose thread on the cuff of her sleeves. A blond-headed girl with elf-like ears practically skipped to the stool and sat down, nearly cramming the Sorting Hat onto her head.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Hat shouted after only a slight.

There was a roar of cheers from the Hufflepuff table, followed by the sound of clapping from the other students. Ginny glanced over at the teachers’ table. The central chair, which was the most ornate, was empty. She felt a pang of sadness course through her as a smirking toad-faced boy was placed into Slytherin.

Professor Dumbledore was supposed to be sitting there, in that chair; his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and long beard nearly spilling out onto the table. She wondered where he was now. Was he with Harry? She hoped so. It made her feel comfortable knowing that Harry was at least that much safer, wherever he was.

After each student had been placed into their respective houses, McGonagall walked up to the Teacher’s Table and sat in Dumbledore’s Seat. Ginny grit her teeth, and thought she heard Seamus grit his too. She felt Neville’s hand fall over hers. The pair exchanged a knowing glance. It was obvious that McGonagall was trying to hard to fill in Albus Dumbledore’s shoes; however, she really only seemed to be filling up just the toe of his boots.

“These are very dark times,” McGonagall said carefully, her nose twitched beneath her spectacles. “But in these dark times, we must persevere; we must find a light in the darkness, and use that light to drive the darkness away. That light will be the education that you receive here. For those of you joining us, for those of you returning, and for those of you here for your last term, I beg of each of you to use the knowledge that you receive here for good. I beg of each of you to make the right choice. It is up to you to decide what that right choice is.

“Due to the current circumstances, I will ask each student to respect the new bedtime curfew of 9 o’clock.” Whispers rose amongst the tables, and McGonagall tapped her goblet with her fork. The whispers halted. “Any student caught wandering the halls past the 9 o’clock hour without special permission will be brought to me, and will be dealt with accordingly.”

The tiniest grin spread across her lips, and she continued.

“As always, the Forbidden Forest will remain strictly forbidden. I am also reminded by Mr. Filch that, in your dormitories, there is an updated list of banned items, which will be confiscated if caught. And now, may I introduce your new Transfiguration teacher, Professor Zimbardo.”

A tiny man, he almost reminded Ginny of a very large gnome, waved from the head table. Even with his short stature, he was quite built, and his emphatic grin was wide and bright enough to light a room. Ginny couldn’t help but grin at him.

“Students, I would like to introduce to you your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and new head of the Gryffindor House while I am residing as interim Headmistress. This is Professor Upperman," a tall, skinny witch with arrow-straight blond hair beamed down from the table. She had a round, yet sharp, face, and large blue eyes, but her nose was slightly crooked and seemed to throw off the balance of her face. She gave a slight bow of her head as a few students clapped, "I encourage all of you to show her the same respect and civility that you have shown me during her time as your Head of House."

A few sixth-year boys from Gryffindor cheered loudly, sending the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables into additional cheers. McGonagall tapped the side of her goblet with her fork again, and the Great Hall silenced.

“Now, let the feast begin!”

The plates flourished with copious amounts of food, and Ginny surprised herself when she found herself wolfing it down. Despite the last thing she had eaten had been the piece of toast and the few bites of eggs at breakfast, she hadn't thought she would actually be hungry.

Neville, however, still looked unnerved. He picked at his food with the end of his fork. “Where do you suppose Harry is?” He asked quietly, taking the tiniest bite of potatoes.

“I dunno,” Ginny muttered, swallowing a bite of her dinner roll, “He hasn't posted me at all since he left..."

"Do you think he's all right?" Seamus squeaked.

“I don’t have a clue,” she answered somberly, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice, “I hope so.”

She glanced over at the nearly-empty Slytherin table, and sighed, feeling much like the people occupying the seats there. Like a big part of her was missing, and she had no idea where it was.

The Start-of-Term feast ended sooner than expected; although maybe it wasn’t very unexpected at all, given the near-emptiness of the Great Hall. The House Prefects gathered up the students from their respective Houses, and lead them to the house dormitories. Ginny felt strangely numb as she followed the bustling group, Neville at her side. The somber look on his face told her that he was thinking the same thing she was, that they were both hoping that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore (wherever he was, anyway) were safe.

If they were here, she told herself, following the pack of Gryffindors to the Fat Lady portrait, we’d be walking together, now, laughing, talking about how ridiculous Ron looks when he talks with his mouth full, and making fun of first years.

A few first-year Gryffindors stifled gasps of awe as one Prefect said the password and the Fat Lady portrait swung forward.

Before stepping through the portrait hole, Ginny glanced over her shoulder at one of the rotating staircases, half-expecting to see an exasperated Ron waiting for it to swing around to him again.

Where are they now?

She felt Neville squeeze her hand in encouragement as they stepped through the portrait, and into the warm, comfortable common room. He pecked her forehead in a friendly way, bidding her good night before they retreated to their respective dorm rooms.

She had a dream of Harry wandering around in a dessert, lost for eternity with not even a single drop of water. She awoke around three o'clock, drenched in sweat, feeling like she was about to vomit a stomach-full of the same sort of sand that the dehydrated Harry in her dream had been crawling through.

Sleep did not come easy for her after that.

3

It was dark. So dark. Black.

It was so dark and black, that it was nearly impossible for him to distinguish the outline of Hogwarts castle nestled in the mountains under the crescent moon and twinkling stars hanging lazily in the midnight sky. So dark and black, he could feel the breath of the wild things hiding and waiting with watering mouths to eat him alive on the back of his neck. So dark and black, he felt like he had been walking in disoriented circles for hours, despite the four wizards leading him to Hogwarts Castle.

His feet felt like they were getting heavier and heavier with each step he took. The pounding of his footsteps sounded louder and louder in his ears.

Somewhere, deep from the dark depths of the Forbidden Forest, he heard a sad, longing cry. At first, it sounded almost as though it could have come from a wolf, but as the sound rang through the air again he realized that it was the sound of a horn.

“A mourning horn,” the young witch with the blond hair and piercing eyes in front of him said softly. She had been introduced to him as Professor Gabrielle Upperman, new Head of Gryffindor and Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. “The centaurs are in mourning.”

Her words sounded funny in his ears, as though his ears had been stuffed with muggle cotton balls. He didn’t bother to ask her to repeat her words, however, as even the sound of his own breathing was magnified to impossible decibels in his head. Instead, he just held onto the arm of the witch beside him. Never before in his Hogwarts career had he ever been this close to the former Head of Gryffindor house (and now Interim Headmistress of Hogwarts) -- however he felt strangely relieved that she was there. The Potions Master and Head of his own house, Slytherin, sauntered silently on the other side of him, his hands deep within the pockets of his black teaching robes. It was obvious that he showed no signs of wanting to display the same kind of support.

“I heard that some… sacrifices were recently made,” the tiny wizard behind him added solemnly. He had been introduced as Professor Aegisius Zimbardo, the new Transfiguration teacher. “The centaur clans are in great conflict, right now. No need to elaborate as to why, it’s plainly obvious.”

The walk up the winding path to the castle was a long, tiring, and for the most part silent, one – save for the haunting calls of the centaurs’ mourning horn. With each step, he felt like he was stepping deeper and deeper into a dream – nightmare – that he couldn’t seem to wake up from.

Her face.

Her face had been so… unearthly. It was one thing to speak of seeing the dead, to hear stories of seeing the dead; it was a whole other thing to actually see it. Her face had been so white; she could have been one of the ghosts that roamed the halls of the castle. And her eyes had been so wide open that they could have very well popped right out of their sockets and rolled across the floor, had she been turned over onto her stomach.

But it had been the expression on her face that left him feeling like he was going to be sick. It was a blank, terrified expression. The expression of a person looking into the eyes of death itself; looking into the hood of the Grim Reaper; looking down into the dark barrel of a muggle gun; looking at the flash of a curse that separated them from pain and death at the tip of a wand.

Whatever had happened to her, it had frightened her. And it had been more painful than he could ever bring himself to understand. The image of her face, so unearthly pale and twisted into that horrid expression fell into his vision. At first, he tried blinking, trying to push it away and keep walking down the path to the castle. But even when he blinked it was still there, staring at him with those pale, dead eyes, and mouth opened in a silent scream. Despite the beautiful blanket of stars in the sky, and the fresh, crisp mountain air, a stinking, dead smell began to fill his nose – the smell of a corpse’s belly bloated with death and water – and his balance began to tip. He felt his throat constrict, and he halted in his path, clutching his stomach.

“Severus,” McGonagall said sharply, balancing the boy by his shoulders, but giving him plenty of room to relieve his stomach of its contents. Upperman turned around, but stepped a few giant steps backward, definitely not too keen on the idea of getting her shoes soiled.

He felt Snape take a hold of one of his shoulders and pluck the wand from his hand. He spoke with a calm, undeterred voice.

“Let it out, boy,” he drawled. “It certainly will not do you any good to keep it in.”

He looked down, and immediately regretted it. The ground below him spun in a circle; it was much like looking down directly at a spinning top. A dense fog filled his vision. He gagged, his mouth was suddenly filling up with a sharp, acidic taste. He gagged once more, his body heaving, before it all came out in a harsh retch. A frightening helplessness took control of his body. The world lurched, sending him stumbling into Snape.

“Stop fighting it,” Snape said, “Just let it all out.”

“My dear,” McGonagall added quietly, “The sooner you let it go, the sooner you can move again, the sooner you can rest.”

He heaved again, this time much more violent than ever before, and he choked, partly on the bile rising from his throat, and partly from the tears that had sprung to his eyes. So helpless… He had no control over his body, and he didn't like it. He felt so helpless.

“Hold him, Gabrielle,” Snape ordered gruffly. Upperman didn’t say anything as she walked toward him, taking his hand in one of her hands, and his shoulder in the other. There was a comical popping sound before Snape held up a tiny vial. “Drink.”

He let Snape press the vial to his lips and swallowed it back, relishing in the potion’s delicious cherry flavor. The fog in front of his eyes cleared, and he felt his body begin to relax. A silent, calming numbness began to buzz through his body, starting at his toes all the way up to the top of his head. It was an awful, sick feeling. He leaned against the Potions professor like a drunk leaning on his drinking partner for support after being kicked from a pub.

The rest of the walk was considerably easier, save for the strange sensation that he had no limbs, and that awful image of her silently-screaming face behind his eyelids. But to his relief, no matter how long he stared into the unearthliness of her, he could not bring himself to retch again.

The castle was well-lit, warm, and welcoming, a striking contrast compared to the cool, darkness outside. A few portraits, the ones that were not snoozing in their frames, offered a nod in greeting as the group walked through the Great Hall, into the Dungeons, and down a corridor. They stopped right in front of the trap door, which led to the Slytherin common room, but instead of taking him there, they pulled him into the alcove across the corridor, where they were met with a statue of a gargoyle with a lame wing.

“May I help you?” the gargoyle growled menacingly. Snape glowered back at the gargoyle, unflinching.

“Serpente,” he said calmly.

The gargoyle stepped aside, glaring at them over its misshapen wing, which it cradled away from them, as though a child with a burnt finger not wanting to show his mother for fear she would touch it and make the pain worse.

“This is your room,” McGonagall said softly. “After yesterday morning’s incident, we felt that your personal room would accommodate you. Due to the current circumstances...”

Her voice kept rambling, but it was lost in his ears. He was too tired to listen, much less comprehend. It all sounded like soft babble that was supposed to be comforting.

It wasn't.

Beyond the gargoyle’s original post, there was an empty black doorway that looked as though it were ready to swallow him whole. Upon staring into the never-ending blackness, he almost fought against going inside; certainly if he hadn’t felt so numb he would have put up quite a fight. But Snape led him in by the shoulder, while the others stood by the doorway.

The room that almost seemed darker and blacker than the path leading to the castle. It was nearly impossible to see how Snape could make his way through the room without tripping on anything, especially with the numb and listless body balanced between his hands. Nevertheless, Snape succeeded, and the boy he guided found himself being pushed into a comfortable armchair. There was a brief pause before a fire roared to life in a small fireplace, lighting the room in a golden light.

“Classes start tomorrow,” the potions professor said placidly, his expression appeared unmoving in the firelight. “I will give you leniency for the next few days, and, should you not come to class, I will send Parkinson for your work.” There was a pause, “However, after three days, if I do not see you in my class, you will be held accountable. Am I understood?”

He only nodded in response.

“Good. Now sleep. I’m sure you will feel more… yourself, after some rest. The Calming Draught ought to be taking effect now.”

And it was. Though Snape's bidding was muddled and confusing in his ears, he had understood. He found himself wanting nothing more than to sleep.

Snape left through the doorway into the considerably lighter corridor. The gargoyle stepped back into place and shut the door behind it.

Though her face still refused to leave his vision, the Calming Draught he had taken refused to let him be so sick again. He fell asleep right where he was, unable to contain the energy that would require for him to walk anywhere in order to find a bed to sleep in.

Elizabeth Caellum Malfoy-Weasley

2007-09-06T05:19:25Z

Just for my reference:

Elizabeth Caellum Malfoy-Weasley

At Midnight

She was waiting for him, wailing with that newborn trumpeting sound at the top of her little lungs, her face scrunched up like a shriveled up grape. He lifted her from the confines of her crib and took a seat in the nursery’s rocking chair, cradling her protectively in his arms.

He rocked gently, listening to the chair creak against the hardwood floor beneath his weight, each creak reminding him of how he should really get around to applying silencing-charms to them. He looked outside the window at the black Arizona sky filled with millions of stars. Never before in his life had he’d seen so many stars; not even when he was still living on Hogwarts grounds. Unlike America, England was always so dim and drizzly, that there was hardly any reason to pay attention to the sky.

When her trumpeting had died down to nothing more than steady breaths underneath the rocking chair’s creaking, he cradled her body in his arms and peered down into her face. She returned his gaze with inquisitive, and yet content, blue eyes.

“You don’t mean to tell me you woke me up at midnight because you were lonely, do you?” he asked.

She hiccupped and emitted what sounded like an indignant sigh in what he assumed was her response.

How would you feel if you woke in the pitch black at night all by yourself in an otherwise empty cradle? Her eyes seemed to tell him. He smiled at her, and lovingly ran a finger over her cheek, tracing over one of her tearstains. She hiccupped again.

“Don’t worry, I know what it feels like to be lonely.”

It was impossible to think that he could love her any more, and yet he knew that with each passing day his love for her grew by leaps and bounds in ways that he had never dreamt was possible. He wondered if his father had ever felt the same way for him, even the tiniest bit. A vague feeling of anger crept into him as he quickly dismissed the thought; he knew it was not possible for his father to ever truly love him as he loved his little girl. It was not as though the feeling of love for one’s child could ever be a tiny feeling, it was either there or it wasn’t.

He looked down into her face, wanting nothing more than to hold the her in his arms forever.

He had wanted to change his last name as soon as he had entered into the United States. Something nicely similar to his original, but just different enough that no one could go looking for him. Malleaux sounded nice. Back in England, there was a war raging, a war of epic proportions, and he knew that Potter’s army of Aurors would start looking for the Death Eaters, the blood-traitors, and the heirs to the Slytherin throne. But he had decided against it, instead agreeing that he would turn himself into Potter if it meant that Ginny and the baby could slip out from under his grasp without him knowing; without him knowing that Ginny had moved on without Potter. Elizabeth didn’t deserve to be thrown into the intricacies of war; she was too young, too innocent.

Her life, right now, was soley focused on her bottle of milk, and on her father, of whom she was staring at. He smiled down at her, brushing his fingertip over her nose. That bottle of milk was all she needed to be focused on.

“Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?” he asked her quietly, “I met her long, long ago, when I was in my second year at Hogwarts. That’s the school I went to. Her family and my family –- we didn’t get along too well.”

He glanced up through the bedroom doorway at Ginny’s sleeping figure and smiled.

“And then one day, out of the blue, she was sitting in the same Astronomy tower as me, and she just talked to me. And she was so beautiful. But we were in two different places in our lives, and were doing two different things. Not all of them were good. Your mother, she helped me see what was good.”

He looked back down into Elizabeth’s face. She stared up at him contently, as though taking in every word he said.

“There’s a big war going on in England right now. A very evil wizard is trying to rise into power. And everyone against him is trying their hardest to keep that from happening. I’m sure one day it will be in your history books. For a long while, I served on the wrong side of that war. Not because I wanted to, though, it was because my father did. Your mother, she also helped me learn to follow my heart and do what I want, not what other people want.

“Then one night, we decided that we just wanted out of the war, and everything that comes with it. I took a broom to her bedroom window, and we escaped. We came out here, and had you. You were the bet thing that ever happened to me. Ever. I want you to know that. And I want you to know that, whatever happens, I will always love you.”

- - -

Crumbling Dawn

Harry pushed the door to Madam Malkin’s robe shop, and found Malkin was tending to a little girl’s school robes. The measuring tapes were buzzing around her body, taking her measurements and, occasionally, ticking her cheek. She watched the tapes with rapt interesting, giggling whenever it poked her. Malkin was occupied with talking to a tall wizard, of whom Harry assumed was the little girl’s father. When the tapes were done, the girl stepped down and walked over to the chair next to Harry.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly. “I think you’re sitting on my robe.”

She had a strange accent, it was almost American but not quite, and she spoke with soft confidence. Harry mumbled an apology and stood up quickly as she tugged the arm of a very fine, forest-green robe out of his seat. As he sat back down, he looked at her, and was startled to find himself staring into a pair of large, silvery-gray eyes. She smiled at him.

“Thank you!”

He watched as she slipped her robe on and skip toward her father, who was paying for quite a large amount of school robes. He thought about returning to his book as he waited for Madam Malkin to finish tending to the purchase, but found himself unable to take his eyes away from the little girl.

She was the daintiest little girl that Harry had ever seen. Her hair was long, reaching down to the middle of her back, and was a blonde color touched with a hint of strawberry-red.

Madam Malkin folded the school robes and slipped them into a bag, upon which the little girl’s father cast a size-reducing charm on it and slipped it into his pocket. Malkin bid them farewell. As the little girl walked passed Harry, she sent him an impish grin that vaguely reminded him of Fred Weasley. She waved at him, and then took her father’s hand. Harry noticed that her face was dotted with a sprinkle of freckles. He waved back at her.

He glanced up at her father to give him a nod of farewell. Her father glanced back at Harry with what seemed like instinct, and ran a hand through a mass of very light, silvery-blond hair. His eyes were the same color as his daughter's. Harry froze.

No… it can’t be.

It took almost an instant for the girl's father to take his daughter’s hand and quickly disappear outside. Harry dropped the newspaper he was reading and ran for the door, hoping to catch another glimpse. Surely, he had been imagining things.

But as soon as he reached the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, the little girl and her father were gone, perhaps dodged into another shop. He could imagine the little girl indignantly asking her father why he so quickly pulled her from the robe shop, and her father answering her in an all-too-familiar, snide tone that Harry had grown up with back in his schooling years at Hogwarts.

“Malfoy,” he whispered after her father, who was probably now giving the brilliant little girl a lesson in knowing who one’s allegiances were. In an ironic way, it was much like the way that Harry had first met Draco Malfoy, almost twenty years ago, in the very same robe shop.

Newborn Vampire Blurb

2007-09-06T04:20:51Z

Title: [Title Pending]
Rating: N/A
Genre: Angst, I think
Characters: Edward/Bella, mentions of Alice
Summary: “Chamomile,” she whispered, bringing her nose to his throat and taking another deep breath, “Chamomile and Rose Water, that’s what you smell like. I’ve always smelled it and couldn’t figure out what it smelled like to me. Now I know…”
Author's Note: Found this lurking in my files. It's a very uncut blurb, and it's also rather vague. I suppose it's how I imagined Edward's turning Bella would be like before I was completely familiar with the canon. Warning: This is extremely, extremely unedited. I'm actually embarrassed to post it.

Silence could not overcome even the tiniest sounds of life.

There were little sounds, tiny sounds, insignificant sounds that drowned out the silence. The whispers of the wind in the trees, the breath of beating butterfly wings, even the flutter of eyelashes; the silence was no match.

She was not cold, nor was she sleepy. But she snuggled deeper into the blankets, and pushed her face even deeper into the pillows nonetheless. The movements, as tiny as the sounds that rang so clearly in his ears, caught his attention easily, and he looked at her.

There was a strange, dull, tugging deep at the bottom of his heart – What was left of it anyway, he told himself. He knew that she was mimicking the intricacies of life -- of sleeping, of eating, of snuggling for warmth -- it was a natural reaction. So easy it was to forget that there was no longer a need for sleep, nor a need for food, nor a need for warmth. It was an automatic reaction to try to continue to do these things, despite how uncomfortable and useless they were, now.

He lifted a hand to touch her hair, but stopped himself and left it folded in his lap.

It would be years before she would bring herself to fully adjust to the oddity of this new life. And watching her adjust was only going to get more painful to watch.

Her eyelashes fluttered against the pillow –- a deafening sound in his ears -– and she sucked in a ragged breath, letting it out slowly. He closed his eyes and imagined her frustrated expression against the satin of the pillow and the dark circles forming around her eyes, the color drained from her face as though the life had been sucked out of her.

Never mind that it had been.

“Edward?” the small voice that called his name was muffled against the pillow and was hoarse from the lack of use. He felt a funny tingle trace over his body at the sound of his name on her lips; her voice was different: confident, soft, much like silk.

She turned her head against the pillow, making only half of her face visible to him. Her expression was just how he had imagined it, frustrated and ragged. But her eyes remained closed.

He touched his fingertip to her lips. For a brief moment, he found himself surprised to feel that they were cold, having been so used to the being warm. At first, she tried to suck his finger into her mouth, and he yanked his finger back.

“I’m here,” he answered quietly.

Feeling awkward with his hand in the air, he brought his hand back to trace his knuckles along the hollow of her cheeks. He found himself, again, surprised at their coolness. The tug in his heart felt like it began to gain strength; like something was pulling now, rather than tugging. He missed the warmth in her cheeks.

He stroked her cheek again. She turned her face toward his fingers -– rooting for them like a babe at the breast. He jerked his hand back again, hardly perturbed, and rested it on the bed.

“No,” his voice is caught between soft and stern.

“You smell… sweet.” She frowned, her eyes still closed.

He furrowed his brow.

The dull, gray light shifted behind the curtains, and the room was suddenly brighter. The tiniest beam of light streamed through the closed blinds, bouncing and glittering off of her cheek like a perfectly cut diamond. He reached out to touch the glittering spot. And in an instant -– a very uncharacteristically graceful instant –- her hand lashed out and snatched his wrist, bringing his hand to her lips. She breathed deep, eyes still not opening, and ran her tongue over the tip of his middle finger. Although the sensation was delightful, he forced the animalistic wave of pleasure away and snatched his hand back.

“Stop,” he was not mad, this was to be expected. However, he had not counted her to be so persistent!

“But you smell so…” she sounded frustrated again. Her eyes were still shut. “… tempting. Delicious.”

“You must push that aside,” he told her softly. “Appreciate the bouquet, but resist the wine, remember?”

“Resist the wine,” she repeated, squeezing her eyes tight, as though she were thinking really hard about something, “I remember.”

He studied her face, unrealistic beauty lighting her features. She had been beautiful to him before, but now her beauty was unbelievable. It scared him. He watched her face intently. She squeezed her eyes even tighter, and buried it deep within the pillow.

“So hard to resist,” she sounded weak, drained.

“You’re thirsty,” he murmured. The pulling on his heart felt like yanking now, and he had to swallow to push his own pain aside. “When Alice returns… we will take you…” his voice trailed. Hunting. He had meant to tell her that he and his sister would take her hunting, to teach her. However, the word sounded wrong. Harsh. Uncharacteristic. Too harsh and too uncharacteristic for her...

“Say it,” she prompted. “I want to hear you say it.”

He sighed, taking her shoulder and pulling her to him, holding her close and not letting go. He kissed the top of her head, taking in her flowery, lavender scent, and pressed his cheek against her hair.

“We’ll take you out,” he finished, deciding that that sounded much, much better.

She snuggled her face into the crook of his neck, only to run her tongue up his throat. It did not feel pleasurable, more like she was trying to taste him. He cleared his throat loudly, and she froze, remembering how important it was to resist the wine.

Appreciate the bouquet, resist the wine...

“Chamomile,” she whispered, bringing her nose to his throat and taking another deep breath, “Chamomile and Rose Water, that’s what you smell like. I’ve always smelled it and couldn’t figure out what it smelled like to me. Now I know…”

He looked down at her, and found her looking up at him. The light outside the curtains shifted again, back to a dull, gray color.

“You smell delicious.”

He felt like he could fall into the deep, black pits of her eyes. The blackness was engulfing. The yanking on his heart seemed to snap, and the world around him spun.

“We can’t wait,” he realized. “It’s bad enough you’re trying for my blood… we can’t wait any longer. But we can’t risk going without Alice. She’ll want to be there for you.”

There was a helpless look in her beautiful face. The edge of blackness in her eyes was pulsating.

Mr. & Mrs. Smith blurb

2007-09-02T16:20:57Z

Title: [Title Pending]
Rating: N/A
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor
Characters: Draco/Ginny
Summary: “Since when had the Death Eaters become the wizarding mafia?," she demanded. At the mention of Death Eaters his eyes flashed with hatred. He pointed his wand at her. "Since when had the Order?" he spat.
Author's Note: Blurb

It was when she heard the pop! of one’s appration in the third study, followed by the thundering of feet sounding through the manor that she knew that he was home. While his footsteps were loud, crashing, and violent, she remained calm in a rather masochistic way. She hoped he would find her, sitting placidly in the library, a copy of Oliver Twist spread across her lap, sipping a hot mug of creamy hot chocolate. The only movement she made was of her turning the page in her book and glancing down to just double-check that her wand was sitting next to her in the seat.

He was menacingly calling out her name throughout the manor, demanding that she “make like a good wife and obey his orders.” She could just imagine his teeth gritting as it did while he slept. As he yelled and screamed, his booted feet crashing from room to room in the third and second floors of the manor, she inwardly sighed and wondered if he was actually going to tear her away from her book.

The thundering feet tramped down the main staircase and into the foyer, his shouts and curses louder than ever. This time, she actually did sigh out loud. Yes, he actually was going to tear her away from her book.

At a good part, no less.

“Do take the volume-charm from off your boots,” she said calmly, turning a page in her book, however she was not reading it anymore. She made a second double-check to make sure her wand was in her seat beside her, and continued as she heard his feet crashing into the library. “It’s loud enough to wake the neighbors, and you know how far away the next house is.”

“YOU!”

His voice echoed like the sound of a train wreck through the library. She glanced into a mirror on the wall in front of her, and saw him staring at her with a look of loathing that could have obliterated the many looks of loathing that he had given her when they were still schooling. If looks could kill, she would have died a thousand deaths. He was breathing heavily, the result of having screamed too much and stomped too hard, and his blonde hair was mussed and wild. It much reminded her of what it looked like after their first night together in Bocatoa. His pale face was a light pinkish color, however his features were still razor-sharp, as ever, his lips curled back into a snarl which showed off his sharp teeth.

“YOU!”

“Yes, I have a name,” she replied back. She pretended to be reading by flipping the page again, but kept a glance on the mirror in case he tried to do anything rash. “It’s Ginevra, in case you’ve forgotten. But I can also go by Ginny, Gin, Gin and Tonic, and sometimes Firepants, if I’m drunk enough.”

Instead of shouting “YOU!” for a third time, like she mused he would, she watched his reflection effortlessly grab a chair from the billiard table and he hurtled it at her. The few seconds it took to do this, however, was more than enough time for her to grab her wand, turn around in her chair, point it at him, and smile at him with that smug grin of hers that she usually reserved for one of her brothers when she caused one of their pranks to backfire on him

“Accio green chair!” She called, and the chair went from being hurtled at her, to being hurtled to her, stopping in front of her feet. She contemplated about propping her feet up on the chair, as it would certainly add to the smug grin she kept on her face, but knew if she turned around that she would miss the next chair thrown.

“Accio red chair!” She called again. This one landed placidly next to the green one. “Accio blue chair! Accio yellow chair!” When he ran out of chairs, she bent the corner of her page to remember of which one she was on, and sat it in the seat of the first green chair that he had attempted to throw.

She stood up and looked at the pile of chairs on her side of the room with a distasteful look, putting her hands on her hips.

“Oh no, dear,” she said casually, tisking, “Your rearrangement of the chairs completely throws off the feung shua of the room.”

"Wench!” he screeched, and began hurling the billiard balls at her. One by one, as they crossed the room, she gave her wand a swish, turning each ball as it hurled toward her into a bird. By the time he was done throwing them, there were a whole stack of multi-colored birds, which looked much like billiard balls that had grown wings, flitting around in the air.

“What are you going on about?” she snapped. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at her.

“You,” he growled. “Five million galleons. Million. That is how much you cost me tonight.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Not like it isn’t a large chunk of your family fortune. Maybe a nice chip of it. Shard, perhaps. But it certainly isn’t putting you in debt of anything.”

This seemed to anger him even more, and this time he decided to hurl a billiard stick. He flung it like a spear, and as it approached her it spouted wings and began flitting in the air along with the balls. As it did so, it began punting the white ball-bird with its nose.

“That isn’t the point!” he cried as he hurled the billiard stick. “You cost me 5 million galleons, knowing full well that McCarthy was my man to… to…” he paused for a moment, and she assumed that he was trying to think of the right word. He found it quickly, and she immediately recognized it as a word from one of the muggle cinemas. “To whack!”

She scratched her head with the tip of her wand, turning a second billiard stick into an oddly-shaped bird. “Since when did the Death Eaters become a wizarding mafia?”

At the mention of Death Eaters, his face paled and his eyes flashed with even more (if it were possible) hatred.

“Since when had the Order?”

She froze, feeling the world spin. One of the billiard sticks was chasing the poor queue ball-bird in the air. How had he known?

“Excuse me?” She squeaked. Now it was his turn to smirk.

Twilight Fics

2007-08-22T22:19:57Z

Hell freaking yes.

Meander - Chapter 1

2007-08-22T22:06:01Z

Title: Meander
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, Romance
Characters: Harry/Ginny
Summary: “Even straight roads meander," he said thoughtfully, looking into her eyes, "And while we have strayed very far off of our path..." His voice dropped to a low whisper. "I think that we’ve found our road again."
Author's Note: Written as therapy for a rough patch I had with my boyfriend. Kind of drones on in places, but has an ending that I like to admit that I'm quite fond of.

Prologue

January 14, 2003

Ginevra Molly Weasley Potter rolled over onto her stomach, and blindly groped around on the sheets for her husband, wanting to curl up into him and go back to sleep. She had expected her hand to fall directly onto his stomach -– and to hear the sound of a muffled “Oof!” -– but all her hand found was cold, rumpled bed sheets. Ginny lifted her head up, and peered at her husband’s empty spot on the bed.

‘He’s hardly ever here when I wake up these days,’ she thought bitterly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Ginny ran a hand through her messy red hair and looked around. Her husband’s wand, out of habit since his schooling days, was still lying on his bedside table right next to his glasses, which meant that he had not left for the Ministry yet. Outside the bedroom door, and in the dark hallway, a thin beam of light outlined the bathroom door. Harry was taking a shower. A smirked played across her lips. Harry had been working very hard lately, pulling in long hours and late nights. A day off at home and in bed, would do him some good, if only she could convince him to do so.

Ginny slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. A waft of hot, moist air greeted her when she let herself in. Just over the hiss of the shower, Ginny could barely make out the sound of Harry humming to himself, and she smiled. It was a habit that he had always had, and it had never ceased to make Ginny smile. Usually, his humming reflected how he was feeling that day. If Harry was in a good mood, his humming would be loud, and upbeat. If he was in a bad mood, his humming was soft, and slow. Today, it was somewhere in between. Ginny assumed he was still trying to wake up.

‘I could probably brighten his tune a little more,’ Ginny mused, quickly shedding her satin nightgown (Harry had gotten it for her for Valentine’s Day last year) and stepping into the shower.

Harry’s back was to her, water trailing down the length of his lean frame. Although Harry was tall and thin, he wasn’t gangly. Years of Quidditch and muggle football had sculpted his body into a sleek, chiseled masterpiece. Well, almost a masterpiece, anyway. His knees were a little knobbly.

Ginny quietly snook up behind him, wrapping her arms around his thin waist and pressing her cheek against his toned back. She felt him jump at her touch, and Harry quickly turned around to face her.

“Wha–-oh, hey Gin. You’re up early.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Ginny smiled and looked up into his eyes. They were unusually bright green this morning. “I thought it would be a pleasant surprise.”

“Well you were right about that, it is a rather pleasant surprise.”

She watched as his eyes traveled down the length of her body, the tiny smile on his face growing wider. He leaned down, and quicky kissed her. “But... you should really go back to bed. You have a night shift tonight.”

Ginny tilted her head and pouted. “Harry Potter, are you trying to get rid me?” She trailed her fingers down his chest, feeling him lightly shudder under her touch. Harry let out a deep breath. Her fingertips found the bud of one of his nipples, and she traced tiny circles over it. “I don’t see you that much anymore, Love.”

“I know, Gin, I know... but -- you know I like that a lot, don’t you?”

Ginny looked up at him, smirking. “Clearly.”

Harry smiled, and snaked an arm around her waist. He ran his fingers through her hair, which was now soaking wet. Ginny leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his chest, feeling him shiver underneath her lips. Harry’s grip around her waist tightened.

“You know I really like that a lot, don’t you?”

“Mmhmm...” She kissed his chest again, grinning against his skin. His grip around her was even tighter.

Harry wrapped her in a passionate kiss. His fingers traveled down the length of her body, sending tingles up her spine. Her breath quickened.

“You know... Gin... mmm...” he mumbled between kisses. “It would... be a lot more... comfortable... if we took this... somewhere... else... like our bedroom...”

Ginny nodded against the kiss, wrapping her arms around him. He pulled away long enough to find the shower knobs to turn the water off. “You’re all wet,” he joked, tapping the end of her nose with his finger. Ginny brought her hand up to the back of his neck, and yanked him into another kiss.

“In more ways than one,” she growled.

Harry reached outside the shower curtain, trying to find a towel. The two had just gotten hardwood floors installed in their new London apartment, and Harry was weary about getting anything on the floor. Ginny sighed, and pulled the shower curtain open. She turned around, and pulled Harry out of the tub by his arms.

“Whoa! Gin!” He yelped as the two stumbled out of the bathroom door and into the hallway. Ginny’s back smacked against the wall, Harry pinned against her. She laughed.

“You’ve pinned me, Harry.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Just what in the name of Merlin has gotten into you this morning?’ Ginny cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him again.

The couple awkwardly stumbled into their bedroom. Ginny could imagine that, if a neighbor were to peak at them through the large wall-to-wall windows in their bedroom, that she and Harry looked quite silly attempting to step as one into the room, lip-locked. She quickly pulled out of the kiss long enough to dive onto the bed.

“Ginny! You’re going to get the blankets all wet!” Harry pointed at her dripping hair.

“Oh come off it, Harry, and get up here!” Ginny playfully snapped. Sometimes, Harry could be a pain. He slowly climbed up on the bed, and let Ginny pull him on top of her. “Now, for just one moment,” She whispered, pressing his forehead against hers lightly. “Stop thinking about the floors, stop thinking about the bed, stop thinking about work, and–”

“Work, oh Merlin, that’s right!” Harry yanked himself out of her grasp and smacked his forehead with his hand. “I had to go in early today. They really needed me for the follow-up report on the kitchen knives!”

“Harry...”

Harry fumbled around to put his glasses on, and grabbed a towel from the floor. “I’m sorry Ginny, but I have to go...”

Ginny watched as he raced to get dressed. For a moment, he looked like a muggle who was late for one of those airplane flights. She ran a hand through her sopping hair, and bit her lip. “So you’re just going to take off? Just like that?” She asked. She could feel tears beginning to prick at her eyes, but she forced them away. There was no use crying about it. Harry shoved his feet into his socks. “Harry, answer me.”

“Huh?” He looked up.

Ginny sighed and looked out the bedroom window. It had snowed last night; fresh, pristine white snow. The sky was still a deep, deep gray, as though it were promising to bring more. Outside, people were shuffling to get away from the cold. She picked up her wand from her bedside table, and tapped the side of her head, magically drying off. Pulling her blankets up to her chin, she laid down, making sure that her back was still turned to her husband. “Nevermind, Harry. Just... nevermind.”

“What, Ginny?”

“It’s nothing, Harry, go to work.”

“Ginny, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Harry! Now go to work!”

She could feel his eyes staring at her, but she didn’t turn around. She wasn’t about to give him that pleasure. After a long pause, she heard him shuffling to get ready. She heard the bathroom door open, and then shut. There was a quiet pause before it reopened. After a few minutes, Harry’s hand fell on Ginny’s arm. Before he could press his lips against her cheek, Ginny turned her head away.

“Aren’t you going to let me kiss you goodbye?” he asked softly. Ginny could smell mint toothpaste on his breath.

“No,” she snapped.

“Well why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Harry sighed, “Love, you know I need to go to work.”

‘Do you need to go to work? Or do you need to snog your new secretary?’ Ginny thought, but she didn’t say anything.

“If you need to go so badly, then why haven’t you left yet?”

There was a long pause. Harry sighed again, and Ginny felt his lips plant a kiss on the back of her neck. “I love you,” he offered feebly, but Ginny didn’t say anything. With that, the room fell silent.

‘How much longer is this going to last, Harry Potter?’ Ginny wondered. She looked down at her wedding band, and then suddenly regretted not kissing Harry before he left.

Ever since Harry had been promoted a year ago, he had been taking late-night shifts on assignments that, Ginny knew for fact having lived with a Ministry of Magic employee for all of her life, never would have required such late-night work-hours. Assignments such as exploding kitchen knives and singing tapestries.

And then, Harry had invited her over for dinner. Her being Cassandra Wilt, his new secretary. Her being his new secretary who was absolutely gorgeous compared to plain, boring, ordinary Ginny, with her long blond hair and her astonishing blue eyes. Her being the wench who had proceeded to explain that if Ginny had added a little more salt to the roast they ate that night, it would have made the sauce ‘absolutely superb.’ Oh, how Ginny hated her!

Ginny sighed, and crawled out of bed. She wondered what her sister-in-law, Hermione, was up to.

- - -

“Oh look, Ginny! Isn’t this lovely?” Hermione held up a tiny, velvet purple dress up to her stomach. The two were in Teeley Gray’s Baby Shoppe, which was a new shop in Hogsmeade that sold clothing for baby wizards and witches and expecting mothers. Hermione had wanted to take a look at it. She had found out seven months ago that she was pregnant, and was due to have her first child with Ginny’s elder brother, Ron, in a little under a month. Ginny toyed the tiny little handbag that came with it.

“It’s absolutely adorable.” Ginny knew her voice sounded strained, but she forced a smile anyway, hoping that Hermione didn’t notice. She probably would, though; Hermione was an Auror, and it was nearly impossible to get anything by her. The two had been looking at baby clothing for almost an hour and a half, and Ginny was starting to feel tired.“But what would a baby put in a handbag?”

If Hermione noticed Ginny’s feigned interest, she didn’t say anything. She shrugged. “A pacifier, maybe?”

“Do you know if it’s going to be a girl or a boy?” Ginny peered over at another dress which was blue, and came with white stockings. She ran her finger over the soft fabric.

“Ron is absolutely convinced that it’s going to be a boy. I think it’s going to be a girl. My mum and Molly think so too.” Hermione held the dress out and cocked her head to the side. Her brow furrowed, as though she were thinking very hard. “I don’t know, though, Ginny. If the baby has red hair, it would just clash with the purple.”

“Then go with the green one,” Ginny pointed at dress similar to the purple one that Hermione held, except it was a deep, forest green color. “That way if the baby has brown hair like yours, it would still look nice.”

Hermione nodded, and she took the green dress off of the rack, putting back the purple one. Ginny wondered what Hermione would do if the baby was actually a boy, and not a girl. Then again, Ginny’s mother had enough experience bearing children after having seven of them and Ginny was sure her mother’s predictions as to Hermione’s baby being a girl and not a boy were dead-on.

It was hard to believe that her first niece or nephew was soon about to enter the world. It seemed not so long ago that Ginny had just learned of the pregnancy, and that the birth of the baby seemed so far away. New babies were something that Ginny had always enjoyed. She loved taking care of them at St. Mungo’s.

“Are you all right, Ginny?” Ginny looked up at Hermione, who looked concerned.

“Yes, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

‘About Harry. About this thing we call our marriage.’ “Nothing, Hermione. It’s just been really stressful lately at St. Mungo’s. It seems like everyone in wizarding Britain is having a baby.” Ginny forced a smile, and eyed an adorable maroon dress directly behind Hermione. She lifted it off of the rack, and held it out. “How about this one? I can imagine a little red-headed, curly-haired Weasley girl crawling all over the floor in this one...”

Hermione touched her finger to the tip of her nose in thought. It was a strange habit that she picked up sometime after learning she was pregnant. “Maybe you should buy it.”

“What?! Why?!” Ginny exclaimed. She held the dress out to get a better look at it.

“For when you and Harry have children.”

Ginny stopped and stared at the dress in her hands. For when you and Harry have children. It was as though the words had smacked her in the face. She and Harry had never talked about having children before. They hadn’t even talked about getting a puppy to keep in their flat, much less about having children. And yet, while the idea seemed so alien to Ginny, it seemed so right.

For when you and Harry have children. For a moment, she tried to picture what her daughter (if she were to have one) would look like. She would probably have Harry’s colored hair, but Ginny’s curls. And her eyes would be just like Harry’s: green as emeralds, and shaped like almonds. She would definitely have the Weasley cheeks, but she would have the Potter smile.

Ginny sighed and put the dress back. She eyed the mischievous smile on Hermione’s face. “I don’t know, Hermione. We’ve never talked about having children before. I don’t think we’re ready yet.”

“Oh, don’t let your mother hear you say that!” Hermione rolled her eyes, “As though one grandchild isn’t enough. She’s been asking me if you’ve... you know...”

“For the lack of a better term, Hermione.... gotten knocked up?”

Hermione nodded and laughed. Her laugh made Ginny chuckle. That was always something that Ginny loved about her sister-in-law; she had an infectious laugh, and she could always brighten the room. “She mentions it at least once in every conversation.”

“I still don’t know. Children. That’s permanent. I wouldn’t be able to throw them away if I got tired of them,” the witches laughed, “And Harry’s always so busy...”

“I know what you mean, with Ron working for the Ministry and all.” Hermione let out a little sigh and rubbed her stomach, “But he still always finds time to come home and tell me how his day went.”

Ginny held back a sigh. She wished she could say the same about Harry. She wished she could tell Hermione that they were expecting a child. She wished she could be getting excited about picking out names and buying clothes and toys and all kinds of baby gadgets and gizmos. But she couldn’t. All because Harry was too busy at the Ministry to start a family. There was no expecting a child, there was no getting excited about names, and there were no toys, no gadgets and gizmos.

“Here,” Hermione took the dress off of the rack again and handed it to Ginny. “I really think you should buy it. Who knows? Maybe it will inspire him.” Hermione looked down at her belly. “Do you want to go to The Three Broomsticks after this? I’m in the mood for some hot cocoa.”
Ginny nodded and followed Hermione to the cashier. As Hermione dropped a few galleons and sickles onto the counter, she smiled at Ginny, “Harry would be a wonderful father.” Ginny smiled in agreement and looked at the shelves of baby trinkets behind the cashier. Mainly they were picture frames and charm bracelets. The kinds of things you bought a baby, but didn’t give to him or her until after they were older.

“Ginny?” Ginny looked up at Hermione, who was holding her purchase bag. “Are you going to stand there, or are you going to buy the dress?”

Ginny looked down at the little maroon garment. She had forgotten that she had even been holding it. She remembered the image of her imaginary daughter wearing the dress and smiling up at her. Nodding, she smiled. “I guess I’ll buy it. You can never be too prepared.”

- - -

When Ginny came home from the Leaky Cauldron, she found a Ministry Owl happily stealing food from Harry’s old school owl, Hedwig’s, dish. There was a small piece of parchment tied to his leg. Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes, sitting at the kitchen table and pulling out the new book she had bought. She didn’t want to read the letter. She knew it would be from Harry. I’m going to be late tonight, it would say. Don’t leave any dinner on the table, I’ll just grab something at the Leaky Cauldron before I go home.

The owl noticed that Ginny had blatantly ignored him, and he gracefully flew from his perch in Hedwig’s cage to the tabletop. He proudly stuck out his leg and waited for Ginny to remove the parchment.

“Go away! Shoo!” Ginny waved her hand at the owl, who ruffled his feathers and kept his leg outstretched. “Just take the damn thing back to Harry. I don’t want it.”

The owl didn’t move. Ginny huffed, and took her book into her bedroom. Maybe if she ignored the owl long enough, he would just leave. Ginny sat down on her bed and crossed her ankles, opening her book. It wasn’t two minutes later that the owl flopped down on her bed, and stuck out his leg.

Sighing, Ginny untied the parchment, and watched as the owl took off in satisfaction. Not wanting to read it -– what was the point in reading the letter if she already knew what it said? -– she kicked it off the bed and opened her book. She really wished Harry wasn’t such a pain sometimes.

Meander - Prologue

2007-08-06T04:28:58Z