|films, 20 fave HP stories, nsync au and Jayne is hot.
||[24 May 2003|04:47pm]
1. Himmelfall (Sky is falling) -- Joner is still great. *happy sigh* Bizarre film about the patients at a mental institution. Low-key, pretty enjoyable (did I mention Kristoffer Joner's in it?), ensamble. Norwegian.
2. Footloose -- Still horribly gay in parts. I keep rewinding the scene where Ren teaches Willard to dance. Teehee. It's a bit dumb and silly 80's movie, but hey, it's enjoyable, and some of the characters even have layers! And did I mention the gay?
the fics I love and are the reason I haven't abandoned the fandom completely. Because, you see, I don't really have that much interest in it, but fics like these just make me come back for more. I'm such a fic-slut, yo.
1. The Curious Vengeance of Draco Malfoy by Halrloprillalar.
"This is a good place to think," Cho said. "Today I'm trying to work out what to do when I leave school."
"Mmm," said Draco.
"It's only a few more months and I still have no idea. It's very worrying." She frowned, then turned to him. "I suppose you have it all planned out already, for next year."
Draco realized he'd never actually thought about it much. He assumed his father would find him something suitable to do. Maybe he'd travel first. "I suppose," he said.
They sat a while longer, both looking out into the trees. Then Cho jumped up. "I've got to go." And then she smiled at him. "You know, you're nicer than I thought."
"No, I'm not," he said, but she was already taking off.
2. Draco Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing... Rat? and epilogue by Maya.
The Slytherin table was bare. Draco had no idea of how to get coffee. And Draco absolutely, positively had to have coffee.
Granger took a sip from a cup.
Draco only just stopped himself from going completely feral. He took several deep, calming breaths.
I will not torture the information out of her. I will not seize the cup and try to lick the bottom. I will retain some aspect of my dignity.
I want coffee I want coffee I want coffee!
"Oh, Granger?" he drawled in his most unconcerned tones. "How would one go about getting served at this damnable hour?"
Coffee, wailed his utterly spoiled inner child. Right now!
Granger was looking up at him with a slight frown. "In six years, you've never once gotten up early to study? How in the name of God did you get to be a prefect?"
Why are you wasting my time, woman? Give me coffee!
"I study like a normal person," Draco said between gritted teeth. "At night."
"Yes, I can see you're not exactly an early bird," she sniffed. "Are you aware that your robes are in a state and you haven't brushed your hair?"
"And yet it still looks better than yours...Look, Granger, I don't have time for this. I just want some coffee! All I want in the world is some coffee! If I had one wish, it would be for coffee!"
That wasn't dignified.
3. Flame and Shadow by Maya.
Ron was woken by the sound of someone knocking on the door. He knew it was probably Miles with the offer of a lift to work. The bastard kept muttering about incognito and Muggles in the block and how taking the car with him was better than Flooing every day, and he never realised that Ron came close to murder every Monday.
"Go AWAY!" he bellowed, keeping his head under the covers.
The knocking continued. Damn Miles.
Which was when the covers moved.
"SHOVE OFF!" screamed a female voice.
The knocking stopped abruptly, but that didn't help as Ron moved abruptly and then a tom-tom started up in Ron's head.
Trying frantically to think past the blood pounding in his ears, he stared down at the cross, screwed-up face of Pansy Parkinson.
Last night. Oh, God. Oh, hell.
Pansy looked up at him, blinked in brief confusion and then grimaced.
"Oh, no," she said. "Oh, my God. I did Ron Weasley! How am I going to look anyone in the face ever again?"
4. The Revenge of Lord Vodkamort by LizBee.
"You could ask Professor Snape," suggested Hermione.
"Or I could poke my eyeballs out with a spork."
"Well that won't be helpful. How will we deal with the wardrobe then?" Hermione lowered her voice. "It's probably tasted human flesh."
"I know it's tasted my favourite violet cloak," sighed Lavender. "And I got a really nasty bruise when Harry pulled me out."
"We could chop it into firewood," Ron suggested.
"That won't release the curses on it, though," said Harry.
"It'll be evil firewood!"
"For evil fires!"
"And evil guys on Guy Fawkes Night!"
"Coming to life … lurching through the streets of Hogsmeade … eating Snape's brain with a spork…"
Hermione stared at them. "You and sporks, Harry. Is this something I should be concerned about?"
"I have a problem."
"We knew that," said Ron, "but it doesn't explain the sporks."
5. Lust over Pendle by AJ Hall.
"Can we get on?" Rita Skeeter asked irritably. "Would you say, Narcissa, that Draco's inclinations are a result of the influence of his father?"
Mrs Longbottom nodded sagely. "Wouldn't surprise me. After all, they invented it, didn't they - the aristocracy?"
She pursed her lips.
"Homo-sex-u-ality, of course."
Rita Skeeter bit completely through the end of her quill, Narcissa gazed into the middle distance with the Look that Celestina Warbeck had once described as 'having the serene remote beauty of an Alaskan peak" and Rita had dubbed "the stunned albatross expression", and Camilleri bent over his photographic kit, apparently suffering from an acute sneezing fit. Mrs Longbottom straightened the vulture by half an inch or so, smiled in a satisfied way, and said
"Anyway, I mustn't interfere. Do go on."
6. Lustre by Calico and Julad.
Draco stretches out his arm languorously, fingers spread wide, enjoying the way Crabbe and Goyle flinch and back away. They have no appreciation for the truly aesthetic. Draco closes his eyes briefly as the cool silky weight around his neck shifts, gliding down his arm and weaving round his fingers. This is beyond wonderful.
"Isn't she marvellous?" he murmurs, and hears Crabbe gulp. "My father sent her. Very rare, of course. And extremely expensive."
"Great," Goyle blurts, and Draco smiles to himself. It truly is. He becomes aware of other interested Slytherins casually turning up at his table to hover, and pretends not to notice them just yet. It's surprisingly easy to ignore them, as he lounges in an armchair with a corculus anguisa wound lovingly around his fingers.
He turns his hand over and admires the silvery shimmer as the snake winds itself over his palm to rest her little wedge head on the back of his hand. She's long enough to wrap five times around his wrist, or twice round his neck with a curl of tail trailing against his collarbone, and she's slender as his thumb for the most part, tapering down to a single scale's-width at one end and a tiny snub muzzle at the other.
7. Potio by Seeker.
Keeping his head down, hair falling over his face, shielding it from the passers-by, he kept as much in the shadow as he could. It was a weekday, the foot traffic was light, and he went unchallenged by any strangers who might have known him from his old life. The one he didn't know, and was determined to discover. A creaking sign above the walk declared one tall dusty building a bookshop, and he decided that was as good a place to begin his search as any.
There were newspapers in the front, with pictures whose inhabitants peered and made rude gestures at him. His brow wrinkled as he stared down at them. Did everyone hate him? Perhaps it was as well he didn't know who he'd been, if that was the reaction he got. Still, he couldn't begin to build his new life until he knew what he was leaving behind, so he headed for the shelves. Perhaps his books, the ones they'd not let him read, would give him some clues.
He couldn't find them. He tried fiction, since the doctor had said they were, but there were no Lockharts to be found. He tried humor, since so many people laughed at him, but they weren't there either. Staring around at the various categories of non-fiction, he sighed. He had no idea where to start.
"Help ya, sir?" a thin voice piped up behind him. He turned with a grateful smile. The proprietor of the bookshop, a very tall, very thin man wearing a black gown, winced and glanced away.
He knew why. The scars along the side of his face were a constant ache now. Trying to ignore the book seller's reaction, he asked tentatively, "I was looking for books by Gilderoy Lockhart. D'you have any?"
The man's laughter sounded genuine. "Looking for a good laugh, eh? Right you are then, they're back here with the remainders. Sell you the whole series for dirt cheap. Nobody wants 'em now it's out what a fraud he was."
He swallowed heavily. He was a fraud? Biting back the questions bursting at his lips, he simply picked up one of each of the severely down-marked books from the huge pile and stuffed them into his pack. The proprietor rang up his purchase, less than three coins to pay for the lot, and waved him on his way without ever looking at his face again.
Not that it would have mattered. Settled at a table in the back of a dark pub, staring at the photograph smirking and winking at him from the back of the book, he knew no one would look at the wreck he was and see the golden beauty he had been. Although from what he'd heard, from several sources, that beauty was as false as the scars on his face were real.
The waitress came over, took his order, tried not to make it obvious that she was disturbed by his face, and left without attempting small talk. It was just as well. He had a lot of reading to do and was in no mood to see any more pity from anyone.
8. Transfigurations by Resonant.
He looked past Malfoy to Hermione. "Gryffindor kids look good," he said.
"Yes," Malfoy said before she could respond, "nearly all of them look sensible enough not to jump off a roof on a dare."
Harry felt his mouth tighten. He really wished Malfoy would give it a rest; he was worn out from travel and his control of his own temper was uncertain.
Hermione, though, picked it up as though it was a continuation of an earlier conversation. "Oh, Draco," she said. "The Slytherins will be all right. They're young, that's all."
"Young," he said contemptuously. "Look at them. Sneaks, paranoiacs, and Type A high achievers."
Harry followed his gaze to the Slytherin table. Most of them really did look as though they had something to hide, but what was new in that?
"There was a time," Malfoy went on, "when Slytherin attracted serpents -- not jackals."
"Not when you were there," Harry said before he could stop himself.
But Malfoy didn't even pause. "It's not just the Slytherins, either. Look at Ravenclaw. Nothing but precocious smart-alecks. And Hufflepuff -- they're about to expire from sheer earnestness." Harry could hear Hermione trying to stifle a giggle.
Now McGonagall was giving the students the usual cautions -- no going into the Forbidden Forest, no venturing out after curfew. Rather more than the usual cautions, in fact. "You'll see barriers in places which are still considered unsafe. In particular, the old Potions wing is off limits to all students and staff as well. I cannot stress strongly enough how important it is to heed any barriers you see. Any student caught trying to cross a barrier will be expelled immediately." Harry looked around, hoping the barriers would be easy to spot; he hadn't seen any yet.
"The Gryffindors are all right -- as all right as Gryffindors ever get, anyway," Malfoy went on, nodding at Lupin, "because Fenris understands the history of the place." Harry set his teeth at the cruel nickname. "But the rest of the houses -- look at them. I told you so, 'Mione. They're parodies of themselves."
Hermione shot Harry a fondly impatient look over Malfoy's head. "Draco believes the Sorting Hat is somehow reacting to the wishes of the Heads of House," she said. "And he's not happy with the Headmistress's choices for Heads."
There was no need to wonder who Malfoy thought was a better candidate for Slytherin head, Harry thought as the table was cleared for dessert -- no, wait, pudding.
A Malfoy was out for himself, first, last, and always. It was strangely reassuring to know some things hadn't changed.
9. Harry Potter and the Polka Dot Plague by Mariner.
A number of people were talking excitedly in the next room. Harry couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but he could make out Madam Pomfrey's voice, and Professor Dumbledore's, as well as two others he couldn't recognize. Everyone sounded extremely upset. Harry was just starting to wonder if it was worth the effort to get out of bed and try to see what was happening, when the door flew open. Madam Pomfrey rushed in, followed by Dumbledore, followed by - Harry sat straight up in shock - Crabbe and Goyle, supporting an extremely disheveled Professor Snape between them.
Snape's black hair looked greasier than ever, and his skin was streaked and shiny with sweat. He was wearing his robes over a gray nightshirt, both of which were rather singed, and there were black smudge marks on his face, as if he'd once again stood too close to one of Neville's exploding cauldrons. Crabbe and Goyle dragged him over to the empty bed and lifted him up onto it, grunting in unison. Madam Pomfrey immediately herded them toward the exit, muttering about quarantine again. They went obediently enough at first, then stopped in the doorway and glanced back over their shoulders with identical frowning expressions.
"He'll be all right," Goyle said, "won't he?"
Harry couldn't help but stare. In the four years since he'd first met Crabbe and Goyle, this was the first time he could recall hearing either one of them speak. Usually they just stood around and sniggered while Malfoy did the talking.
"Of course he'll be all right," Madam Pomfrey said firmly. "Now go and tell that to the rest of the Slytherins. And tell them absolutely no visitors, so it's no use anyone trying." She pushed them out the door and hurried out after them.
Snape fell back onto the pillows with a groan. He looked really awful. His nightshirt gaped open at the throat, revealing a dense and extremely colorful pattern of polka dots.
"Potter…" Snape's voice was slurred and his eyes looked dazed when he glared at Harry across the gap between their beds. "Fifty points from Gryffindor."
"There, there, Severus." Dumbledore patted Snape's shoulder sympathetically. "Don't mind Professor Snape, Harry, he's delirious."
10. L'Heure Bleu by Dale Edmonds.
"Again," snaps Draco.
Riley concentrates. It's like an itch at the back of his head, as if his hair wanted to sneeze. His fingers tingle and blue-white light pours out of them. He's stripped off his clothes and is standing barefoot in his boxers, sweat dripping off him. He's been practising the damn spell for two hours now and when the light streams out, it's a rush, a low, sweet rush that sends his heart racing and leaves him feeling like he's run a marathon.
Draco does this without any visible effort. Waves his hand and incinerates the target. So far, Riley's singed the edges.
The light fades. He drops his arms and collapses on the floor. The stone flags are blessedly cold. He's thirsty, hungry and the Army never said this was going to be so fucking difficult. Military advisor to a group of English wizards. He'd always thought Giles was weird, and now he's convinced they're all freaks.
"Get up, Riley." Draco toes him in the side. He opens his eyes and looks up. Graham, the fucker, assigned himself to Harry Potter. Flying around on broomsticks and drinking butterbeer, he said. Gossip added a Ms Granger to the list, while Riley's stuck with Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and private army.
Two weeks he's been trapped in the rambling castle, unable to wander about on his own. House-elves shadowing him everywhere, locked doors and paintings that not only watch him, but scream at him. He's taken to showering in the dark.
The first day, Harry Potter, a skinny dark-haired kid who looked strung out on nerves or crack, had been there to talk to Draco. Riley wishes he'd paid more attention, but he'd been a little on edge himself. No broomsticks, but Draco's driving was worse than Buffy's, and there'd been a damn dragon on a leash outside the front entrance.
Arguments the first day with names he didn't know, half of it just plain hissing that the two of them looked like they understood. A disappearance before dinner that left them dishevelled. Riley could put two and two together. It helped that Draco was so fair that his stubble burn could be seen across the room.
Potter had stormed off after Draco tried again to get rid of Riley. Draco, whip-tight with tension, had waited at a window. Riley waited a while, then went back to his room to check his email.
Two hours later, a sharp rap on the door and he'd staggered out of bed to open the door. Draco, a silver-scaled hood drawn over him, and a softly growled command. "Come and learn. If I have to keep you, you'd better be good."
11. Scrabble by MartianHousecat.
Malfoy sneered at his competition and drew his wand. He shifted his gaze from the others and turned it to the difficult task at hand - getting new letters. The gold letter bag sat quiescently for now, so he slowly inched his left hand towards it.
A hush fell on the spectators and some vainly tried to push closer, but were neatly stopped by Crabbe and Goyle, who, like always, worked the crowd.
"Come on," he whispered under his breath. The game had been underway for several hours now - the scores only as low as they were due to the usually counter-cheating - and the bag was getting testy. This would take finesse, but luckily he'd enough of that to charm every girl in the year, and enough left over to start in on the boys. Assuming that Parkinson didn't gut him after the first.
His fingers brushed against the shiny fabric and it rustled restlessly, still playing coy. In one smooth, practiced motion he brought he hand down against the bag, hard, and shot off a stunning spell. The bag, being sneaky, managed to curl enough of itself away just in time, and flapped in his grip, trying to break free.
He managed to wrestle it flat against the table, one handed, but it successfully dodged his every spell.
Then, every Scrabble player's worst nightmare happened - the bag went on attack.
He shrieked in fright, as it slipped from his fingers and launched itself at his face. Oh no, he thought. Not the face. Ruthlessly, the bag scratched its rough side against his delicate complexion and its corners smacked him like four tiny, embroidered fists. In panic now, he tried to rip it from his face, pulling and tugging and even trying to shred it with his short nails. But all was to no avail.
Finally, admitting defeat, he signaled that he wanted to take his last time out, by waving his hands madly and kicking his feet. A gong sounded and the bag hopped off his face. Malfoy, by this time half-suffocated, sucked in a long, shuddering breath and glared at it. It just waved a corner and toddled off, back to its resting place.
He fell back to the floor and lay still, not capable of much else. Madame Pomfrey rushed to his side and quickly checked him over, all the while muttering about Mad Snakes and silly games. "You seem to be fine, Mr. Malfoy, but I wouldn't suggest another go with the bag."
"How do you suggest I play, then?" he sneered. "Oh I know, maybe if I ask it nicely, it'll give up letters!"
"Perhaps," she said, clearly short of patience. "You should stop playing." A collective gasp sounded from the crowd.
"Are you mad, woman?" Zabini jumped to his feet, waving his letter holder. "We are Slytherin, and therefore we play!" Cheers sounded, all over the common room and chants of 'Go Malfoy' and 'Za-bi-bi' swelled. Bulstrode and Parkinson's supporters, not to be outdone, added their voices to the clamor.
12. the Familiar by Resonant.
Snape set the frog on the table in his sitting room. It regarded him through its ridiculous spectacles.
He fetched the largest shallow bowl he could find, washed it well, and filled it with water. He lifted the frog in. It splashed into the shallow water and looked at him expectantly.
Snape sighed. "Accio housefly," he said, tapping his cupped palm with his wand.
The frog sat in the water and blinked at him. Oddly, the spectacles appeared to have lost their earpieces in the transformation. Just as well, as the creature now had no ears. Through the tiny lenses, the frog's green eyes looked at him moistly and without complaint.
"Hmph," Snape said aloud. "It's an improvement, if you ask me."
13. the Lodger by Mad Martha.
At one point the little witch managed to pull Harry to one side, whispering frantically that she was so sorry, she hadn't known what to do, it had been so difficult finding this gentleman somewhere to live .... It was Harry's private opinion that her employers were the most unprincipled pigs in the trade if they could drop a hot potato like this in a junior employee's lap and expect her to deal with it. It didn't take a genius to work out why Draco Malfoy was a difficult customer, after all. What Harry wasn't sure he understood was why he was looking for a room to rent in the first place.
The room in question was the big guest bedroom Dumbledore had stayed in once or twice. It was pleasantly furnished and had an en-suite bathroom. Digging his hands into his pockets, Harry watched Malfoy for a few minutes as he looked over it silently, then said "Well?"
Malfoy turned to look at him. His face was as mask-like and inscrutable as it had been at his trial. "Why did you set the rent so low? Who were you expecting to turn up?"
Harry shrugged, a little surprised at the question. "I'm not renting it out for the money. And I didn't really expect anyone to turn up."
Miss Gabelot made a tiny sound of protest which both men ignored. Malfoy seemed to be turning Harry's response over in his mind, silently digesting it. From the look on his face Harry guessed that he wasn't buying it, although it was, in fact, the complete truth.
Finally he said, "All right."
Harry nodded. "Good. I'll give you a set of keys and you can move in whenever you like."
"Now?" That was almost a challenge.
When Harry raised a brow at him, Malfoy pulled a small package out of his pocket; a spell-shrunken bundle of luggage. For a moment Harry was reminded of Ron's zipped cat. For all he knew, Malfoy's parcel could include a zipped House-elf; the idea was almost funny.
He nodded again. "That's fine." He turned to the relieved agent. "Do you have the contracts?"
14. Third Eye, Third Sister by Orphne.
Later, at Hogwarts, she lived in the dungeons, which felt much like a cave, she thought. When she spoke, the echoes returned in hollow whispers, but she never wrote down or spoke of what she heard. She dreamed too, back then--of Dark Lords and curses and the ruins of Hogwarts. In class, she sometimes spoke in tongues long forgotten and not yet born. In her bed at night, she would ghost her fingertips against the rise of her forehead, and feel the shadow of a third eye, dry and lidless. It never blinked, it never closed, and it never slept.
She learned that she could not change what she Saw, and had accepted it. Sixth year, after she Saw Myrtle Maltpress fall against the toilets, body stiff, she had helped her with Divination the day before she died. After she Saw Tom Riddle murder his Muggle father, she had told him that he could copy her Charms' assignment for that day since he wouldn't have the time to do it himself. Years later, when she Saw Voldemort fall by the will of an infant, she had sent him a note wishing him A Happy Halloween.
After Voldemort fell, she moved to the top of the North Tower.
She is old now. The smoke in her rooms sheathes a film over her eyes, and she rarely dreams. In her old age, she has taken up weaving. In the evenings, she presses her spindle-like body against the loom and runs her hands over the wooden frame, embracing it as an old lover.
In her old age, she has grown sentimental.
15. Dancing Queen by Maya.
“My, what a surprise,” [Draco] drawled, running a negligent hand through his hair. Harry noticed that his nails were painted silver. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m straight and I’m here nonsexually with my cousin,” Harry said promptly.
“Fancy,” said Malfoy, and his eyes were caught by something over Harry’s shoulder. Harry recognised the suddenly glazed look in them as the look of someone who had been blindsided by the pants.
“And this is my cousin,” he said wearily, preparing for the Great Mockery.
“Wow, Harry,” Dudley said in his ear. “You work fast, don’t you? What a pair. God, look at the blond!”
Harry numbly accepted the Bacardi Breezer, wondering if he’d feel better if he was drunk.
Dudley still had his eyes on the graceful line of Malfoy’s throat and – well, the graceful line of Malfoy’s everything, Harry supposed - and he said in awed tones, “Mmm, pretty,” which wasn’t something Harry had ever wanted to hear about Draco Malfoy’s anything.
“Are you straight?” Malfoy inquired suddenly.
“Yes,” Harry said in fear and with all the vehemence he could summon up.
Malfoy beamed. “What a coincidence,” he said. “Me too.”
“Oh God, not another one,” Dudley said.
Blaise made an exasperated noise. “No you’re not, Draco.”
“Am too,” Malfoy asserted.
“Draco, you were just dancing onstage and being smeared with glitter as a drag queen licked your bellybutton!”
16. Thing by Cimorene and Wax Jism.
The frost-bitten morning turns into a rainy afternoon, pelting liquid ice into his hair, seeping into his boots and turning his hands into numb, useless clumps. The city is too busy for a dog; he can't hide in Padfoot's sturdy body, has to make do with this scrawny human shape that shivers and stumbles through the puddles. The rain is, at least, an excuse to keep the collar of his stolen coat turned up to hide his face from the cold, from curious eyes. There is a map on a wall, marked with an I, a small, red dot to say you are here.
"Thank you," he mutters at the map, but it's a Muggle map and doesn't reply. He follows the unfamiliar streets through unfamiliar neighbourhoods. He knows the Tube or a bus would take him closer, faster, but he has no money and no wand to charm the Muggles into giving him a ride, so he walks and walks. There are uniformed policemen in the streets here, and he doesn't dare steal anything. The papers show him no pictures of himself, so he walks taller. He's tired of cowering like a sick cur.
It's still hard to dig out the good memories - what the Dementors couldn't find he's hidden so deep that even he can't search them out. He'd rather not think than remember the bad things.
He notices jolly red and green and gold in the display windows along the street, and realises that Christmas is coming. Or here already. He's not even sure what month it is. He remembers another Christmas in London, a young, red-cheeked Remus next to him, James' laughter, cramming dirty snow down the back of Lily's coat, arms catching him and swinging him around.
James' voice saying, "Oi, Sirius, you slag!"
To stop himself from thinking about James - how can thirteen years disappear like a mist and the return pain bright sharp cold clawing through him - he thinks about Harry. Lily's eyes in a face that's softer and prettier than James' ever was, but the hair is Potter hair and those same glasses that Remus and Lily said made him look like one of the Beatles. Sirius can't remember the names of the Beatles. Remus must know. He can ask. Soon.
17. Playtime by Keieru.
Of a sudden, another boy appeared, crashing through the trees. He was a blur of wild sunbright hair, with dark clothes tailored to his slim young body. He didn't see Gregory and Vincent until he was almost upon them, and he fell heavily into the dirt when he tried to skid to a stop. "Ouch!" he cried, landing hard on his side. "Oh, look at that, my robes are torn already and this one is new, I bet Mother's going to throw an fit when she sees -- you must be Mr. Crabbe's son, and you're Mr. Goyle's, aren't you? You lot look just like them." He gazed up at them from the ground, pale eyes catching the afternoon sunlight. "Hi, I'm Draco Malfoy. This is my father's house."
Gregory stood silent, dazed by the sudden rush of words. Vincent was staring at the newcomer as well, his mouth gaping slightly open.
Draco Malfoy seemed to be in constant motion, looking around with quick shifts of his eyes, legs fidgeting, arms brushing off his robes, never keeping still. His quicksilver presence wrapped around them, animated and bright, bringing a curious sort of sparkle.
It was as if the world instantly became more interesting, with this swift-talking shining boy in it. Perhaps that was why Gregory reached out, holding out a heavy hand that somehow seemed too broad and solid, to help the boy up. Vincent reached out at the same time. Draco Malfoy accepted with a quick flashing smile, his slender hands grasping theirs, and together they pulled him to his feet.
"Your fathers are inside, with Father's other friends." Draco pointed towards the mansion. "Why're you two just standing out here? It's hot in summer."
Gregory blinked. He hadn't even considered moving.
"Da left me here," Vincent volunteered. Gregory nodded in agreement.
"They wouldn't mind if you came inside," Draco said with an engaging grin. "Come along, there's food, and I can't eat lunch by myself, it would be ever so boring. Mother says I never eat enough anyway, come on, besides it's too hot out here -" and before they knew it, Draco Malfoy was tugging at their hands to follow him.
Gregory exchanged a puzzled glance with Vincent. They followed docilely after the small talkative boy, who was babbling ceaselessly about cold drinks and sunburn.
18. the Almost Legend of Draco Malfoy by Zahra.
Draco Malfoy never wanted to do great things: they required too much effort. Great things took time and dedication, and inevitably were extraordinarily messy. Voldemort had been required to kill several hundreds of people before anyone noticed him, and Draco wasn‘t interested in doing that much work. Blood was impossible to get out any sort of quality robes, and Muggles simply weren’t that important to him. Draco didn’t have any great cause that fired his blood or called for him to use the Forbidden Curses. He certainly never wanted to be anybody’s hero – the word alone had so many negative connotations that Draco would have been appalled if anyone had even used it in the same sentence as his name. All Draco really wanted was to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with the minimal amount of fuss on his part and the maximum amount of pain to everybody else.
Draco was never ‘good.’ He was never ‘confused’ or ‘concerned.’ He never had a crisis of conscience or faith.
Draco never had faith to begin with.
At the end of the day, he didn’t give a toss.
Draco looked out for himself, and everyone else was irrelevant.
19. Come Shots by Kate Bolin, art by Glockgal.
Parvati's getting dirt on her knees. That's the only thing Hermione can think about as she's gripping the edge of the table, nails digging into the humidity-softened wood. Parvati's getting dirt on her knees and Parvati's hands are pushing apart her thighs and Parvati's head is under her skirt and Parvati's mouth...oh...
She can hear the plants rustling in the pots next to her, and she wants to reach into their pots, lifting up handfuls of dirt and compost and squeezing squeezing squeezing as she comes, dirt under her fingernails and Parvati against her clit. She can't grab the plants, she can't do anything but grab the table, because the table's holding her up, her hands are keeping her up, she can let go with one hand and lift up her skirt and run her hand through Parvati's long cascade of hair and press her closer and to the left and just so and...and...and...
She falls back against the table, knocking over one of the ferns, arching her back and moaning loudly, leaves and branches tangling in her hair. Parvati is kissing her thighs gently, her knees still on the ground, dirty and bruised.
20. excuse me, but by Silvia.
Let me tell you a love story.
You think only pretty girls get love stories? There aren't enough of them to make the world go round. There aren't enough of them to fill a shoebox.
There's the rest of that want out there, nipping at smooth heels and calloused ones. Tightly strung wards and booby traps in the basement, just waiting for you to step into the parlor and sit your ass down. It'll settle if it needs to, will take your fingernails bitten and your toes packed in wrong. It'll whisper you promises.
There's enough for a pug faced girl, with thick thighs and broad shoulders; if love has time for Malfoy, it can fit in anyone.
Because Diamonde is very, very funny.
Postcards from the Animal House by Lennie.
Nick pulled out the prints and it occurred to Justin that he hadn't taken out the ones of the people.
"Ignore the ones of Lance. I brought those to show him so he can give me permission to enter them in a competition."
"They're good." Nick looked at the second one, taken just as Lance looked up, which JC had barely glanced at except to comment on his eye colour. "Fuck, he is a suspicious bastard."
"Hmmm." Nick looked at the two best pictures of Chris and AJ then flicked through the selection of animal shots.
Justin stared at the walls of Nick's office and decided that they were really boring. JC would have wilted at the sight of them. But then, JC thought that a bare wall was a crime against God and pieces of paper with writing on them didn't count.
"Well," Nick said finally, "I am impressed by your ability to make our staff appear photogenic."
"They are." He could take pictures of them all day. Preferably naked, but whatever worked.
"No, they're mostly minions of Satan sent to make my life hell. Kind of fun, though."
I like to call this collection "Jayne is hot, yo".
1. Big Damned Zombies, Sir by Shrift.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Mal asked, watching Jayne shuffle along real slow. He was looking more perplexed than Mal had ever seen him, although technically speaking, Jayne didn't look terribly perplexed all that often due to a significant lack deep thought on his part. The big guy lurched sideways and slammed his shoulder into the wall, then just kept going without making a sound. Mal winced; he knew Jayne was no sissy, but that one was definitely gonna leave a mark.
"Is he drunk?" Wash said, peering over Mal's shoulder.
Jayne muttered something real quiet-like and lurched again, narrowly missing putting his eye out on some metal pipe.
"What's he mumbling on about?" Mal said.
"Brains, sir," Zoe answered, easing along after Jayne.
Mal followed her, motioning at the others to stay back. "The who now?"
"Brains," she said again. "All he's said since I found him in the cargo bay, sir."
Mal stared at her for a good while, but Zoe's poker face didn't fold. "Huh. Well, ain't that something."
"Oh my god," Wash said in mock horror. "Jayne's been zombified!"
"C'mon, Wash, that's just --" Mal started to argue, then stopped right quick when Zoe quirked an eyebrow. "Zombified?"
"Don't rightly know," Zoe said, watching Jayne raggedly turn the corner that led to the crew quarters. "Could be he's been zombified."
"Ain't no such thing," Mal scoffed.
"Braaaiiins," Jayne said, and fell down the ladder leading to his quarters.
Mal stood over the ladder and looked down, his head tilted in sympathy. "Okay, so maybe Jayne got himself zombified. Is his neck supposed to bend like that?"
Mal climbed down the ladder when Jayne managed to get to his feet and shuffle into his room. Zoe dropped down beside him, and they found Jayne kneeling on his bunk and clutching his gun to his chest like a teddy bear.
"Look at that," Mal said, grinning at Zoe. "Guess Jayne came back for Vera. Suppose there's no reason he'd wanna leave behind his favorite lady just 'cause of a nasty case of zombification."
2. Unchained Melody by Bonibaru.
You're more devoted to Vera than you've ever been to anything in your poor-ass excuse for a life. You can feel through your fingertips when she needs extra attention. You take her apart with gentle hands, reverently laying each piece out on the bed. You dip a cloth patch in cleaning solvent, fix it in place, then push the jag slowly into her barrel. You swirl it around, feeling your way down the tight length. The better you make it fit, the more firing residue you get out, so you make sure it's always as tight as you can get it because your life depends on a gun that fires clean. Ten times you slide the lubricating patches through in a firm, steady rhythm, loosening the copper fouling and making her insides all slick and shiny smooth again. In and out slowly ten times more with a clean, dry patch finishes her off and she shines like new when you put her back together again.
3. Tetchy by Debchan.
Jayne smirked at Simon all through lunch and asked pointed questions about how he found his chair. Not too hard, was it, and did he need a cushion, and hey, was that epoxy he smelled?
He stopped smiling about four bites into his stew. He was mid fifth bite when his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched face first into his plate.
Everyone at the table paused and stared, first at Jayne, then at Simon, who carefully set his fork down and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Oh dear," he said casually. "Stew must be off."
Once Jayne regained consciousness, Simon anxiously waited for the other shoe to drop. But when nothing unusual happened for a few days, and he began to allow himself to relax. This, he realized, was a tactical error, when he found the door to the head in his berth had been welded shut while he'd been bathing.
"You shouldn't have drugged him," Kaylee told him through her welder's mask two hours later.
Barely covered by a towel and shivering, Simon brushed past her and grabbed a robe from his bed.
She must have missed the sarcasm, or else his teeth were chattering too much to make it comprehensible, because she nodded and added, "Too nice. Guys like Jayne need something a little stronger. You know, to make a point."
"Like a spanner to forehead?"
She tilted her head, then said, "That might do it."
4. In the Before by Kirby Crow.
"You were going to shoot my sister?"
"She was gonna kill me!" Jayne presents his bloodied arm for evidence, but the doctor is unconcerned as he mutely offers a long strip of dermal weave. His posture and attitude say what he will not; that he's bled for River before and would do it again. Instantly. Without question.
Jayne realizes that Simon expects the same from him. He stares. "Well. That's a helluva lot to ask."
Especially from me, goes unsaid. Too, there is the niggling truth, shredding away at him with spiteful little fangs, that Simon would rather see him shot than River. Perfectly understandable, yet bitter all the same. Not that they had ever agreed on terms anyway, and the word love had yet to take the stage and make a bow, but it hurts to see yourself ranked and fall short.
He nods slowly, his mouth curled in, the lower lip tucked in his teeth as if retreating from harm. "I gotta think about this."
"I can't..." The short protest dies. Simon's shoulders move in a useless gesture, fatalistic acceptance of what he can't change. "She's why I'm here."
He whispers it like it explains everything, then sees that Jayne needs more, needs words, memories, fragments of a past he's trying to bury.
Again, he turns away, ignoring the rasp of Jayne's surprised intake of breath. That is, until Jayne seizes the edge of a surgical tray and sends it spinning across the lab, smashing, leaving glass shards and strewn metal implements in its wake. There is success in rage -- something a mercenary already knows -- because it does make Simon turn back.
Jayne breathes hard as he gazes down on Simon, scanning his features for any trace of emotion. Finding none. His hand half-clenches into a fist and the moment seesaws on the edge of becoming dark and ugly, and then Jayne spins on his heel and stumps out.