hexan_brat

Writing.....

Sat, 06 Oct 2007 10:58:42 GMT

God, I haven't posted here for a while. I figured i ought to. I've started a general journal, the traditional pen and paper type. The idea is to improve my writing and to make writing easier (ie make me forget the write-work associations ((which I don't have anyway)) and make me assume that any time is writing time ((which it used to be naturally, but that has waned over the past years))).

I've been reading up on authors for a bit and realized that I haven't had the compulsive, crazy, hell-bent need to write for a long time. Too long almost. It sort of scares me. Ok, it really fucking terrorfies me. I hate it. It's like I haven't felt ALIVE for that long. That sounds crazy, even to me, but it IS that strong. When I started DCL I wrote non-stop for about seven hours. Seriously. I took the stupid book to the bathroom when I needed to go. I wrote at the table during dinner. I churned out about 20 pages in that time and it HURT to tear myself away from it to go to bed finally at 3 or 4 in the morning. Then I woke up and went to school and wrote. Art and drama were the only classes that I didn't write through instead of studying. And during that time if I didn't have a book I used to have to write on napkins, or receipts or the back of my hand. I've been known to use eye-liner when I don't have a pen. I'm not saying that my writing was great then, but I could FEEL it. Every time I stopped writing then it hurt. I missed it when I wasn't writing. I couldn't stop when I was. I haven't felt that for far too long, but I want to. And I'm jealous that other people do. And I don't KNOW how to get that back. Which sort of sucks. Anyway, I think I'll read about my authors and try to live vicariously through their compulsions some....

Story...............finally.

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 06:47:06 GMT

Hi, I'm back again finally. I've been trying to post this all night, it's just being difficult. So, if there's a double of it somewhere or something, blame my computer. Just a fanfic this time. I will try to update it regularly, but can't promise much. Don't worry, the title's only a working one and hopefully at some point I'll replace it with something brilliant. As always, I'll apologise in advance....;) Oh, and I should warn you, this isn't edited at all....

Veritas vos liberabit: The truth will set you free.

It started with a snow-ball. Such an unfamiliar sensation to Draco that, for long moments, he didn't know what had hit him. Literally hit him. Then he saw a shortish, plump girl slip out from behind an oak tree and stroll past him with a smile on her face, and another snowball in her hand.

Incredulity froze him. Froze him long enough for the girl to escape unharmed. If it had been Potter - or any of his pratty friends - that would have been one thing; but this girl? Jesus, she was in some of his classes - a House-Elfie little nothing of a witch. He didn't think he'd ever even heard her speak. And she'd thrown a snowball at him. Him; Draco Malfoy. It was not to be borne. He would not tolerate it. He would have torn her down if it had been a mistake and she'd stammered out an apology; but that smile. That calm, confident, infuriating, inviting smile. He would demolish her.

He was at the Slytherin common room before he remembered the letter crushed in his hand. The latest from home. The only one from home this year. Not that that was particularly unusual. Winter had come a bit early this year. It had snowed heavily through the night and morning had arrived, bringing with it a vastness of white and a letter from Narcissa. It was not long, her letter. Her letters rarely were. Draco would not be going home for Christmas. No one would be there. With Lucius in Azkaban and aurors watching the house around the clock, Narcissa had decided to take a cruise on a seventeenth Century Spanish Galley. Draco couldn't blame her. After a summer of suffering the indignities of surprise raids and the like, it seemed the sensible course of action. But he resented it. He really did. He'd been resenting it out in the court-yard when he'd been hit with the snowball. So in a way perhaps the girl had been doing him a favour. It had taken his mind off things, if nothing else.

He asked Blaise Zabini who she was at lunch that day.

"Who?" he asked.

"The fat one. Beside Dean Thomas," responded Draco evenly.

"Oh, her. That's Eloise Midgeon."

Draco had a hard time convincing his jaw not to drop open just then. "That's Eloise Midgeon?" he finally inquired frostily.

"I just said so," replied Zabini.

"You mean the same Eloise Midgeon that hexed her nose off trying to get rid of her spots?" queried Draco.

"Yeah, her."

Something in the construction of Draco's world tipped out of kilter. How did a girl who feared her own looks to the point of self-harm, not fear him? He scowled across the Great Hall at her. "She doesn't look spotty enough to take such drastic measures," he finally objected.

Zabini gave him a blank look. "What?" he asked.

The Draco of fifth year would have been content with making a few well-placed, cruel remarks about Eloise's spots but the Draco of sixth year was a slightly altered creature. Vengeance was finally starting to make sense to the Draco of sixth year. In previous years he had been cruel, yes, but his heart hadn't been in it. It was expected of him and he'd lived up to expectations, marvellously. But now, he was finally starting to understand that hurt could be delegated. That he could lessen his own by giving it to someone else. And he wanted to lessen his own.

So he was content to sit back and watch, and wait, and plot. Eloise looked different when one watched her, Draco noticed. Or maybe not when one watched her, but when one actually looked at her rather than assuming what her looks were. Her hair was a mass of black silk, secured in a severe bun and her eyes were far more lively than Draco would have assumed. Almond shaped eyes, light brown in colour. Draco started wondering what sort of name Eloise Midgeon was for an Asian girl.

After three days of watching Eloise, Draco realised that Eloise was watching him. It wasn't altogether a shock. He was entirely used to girls looking at him and this development did no more than start to suggest to Draco a plan of revenge. He spared Eloise the smallest smile that he could manage. She didn't look thrilled, but she didn't look disconcerted either. She looked distinctly puzzled. And that puzzled Draco. Usually girls would simper when he smiled at them. He knew this because he'd spent the last term trying his smile out on girls. He still hadn't been able to shake Pansy Parkinson off from that particular exercise. Experimentally, he widened his smile and watched as Eloise's puzzled frown deepened. She turned away from him finally and didn't look at him for the rest of the potions lesson.

That posed a problem. How was he meant to use Eloise's hormones against her when she was too awkward to follow up on her hormones? He thought that, given time, she'd cave. She'd yield. But she did not. And the holidays were drawing in.
Then, on the last day of term, Draco found a way to draw her in. It was in the Herbology class that Professor Sprout was conducting on the Hogwarts grounds because the winter frost had brought some magical property to the bark of a certain breed of beech tree. Draco didn't particularly pay attention to the details until Professor Sprout said;

"Now, you'll need to sort yourselves into groups of two or three for the assessment next term. Please leave your group details with me before you leave."
Everyone in the class immediately began to sort themselves out.

Draco, however, crossed to Professor Sprout and said imperiously: "Eloise and I will be doing our assessment together."

Professor Sprout's mouth fell open. That irritated Draco.

"Will there be a problem?" he inquired coldly.

"Er..." Professor Sprout shot a look across at Eloise who was still studying the bark of a nearby beech and did not seem to be taking any notice of the fact that the rest of the class were now forming groups. "No, that's perfectly all right," she concluded weakly and made a notation on her clipboard.

The lesson concluded better than Draco could have hoped, without Eloise having even discovered who she was to be working with. And Draco's holiday started as well as could be expected seeing as he was confined at school.

When Draco strode into the Great Hall, on the first morning of holidays, his stomach flipped feebly in gratification. Eloise was sitting at the Gryffindor table, a distance away form all the other Gryffindors discarded for Christmas. Draco crushed the sudden feeling of vindictive euphoria that swamped his stomach back down into himself and took up a seat at the Slytherin table. He glanced at Eloise a few times before she turned to look at him. He liked the way she looked at him, in a way. The looks she always gave him were pensive and inquiring. Pleasant - sort of curious. Not demanding. Draco wasn't used to having people around who were undemanding. He'd never met anyone who hadn't expected something from him. But with Eloise he felt almost like a blank slate. Like she was waiting for him to fill in the gaps. Draco turned away and set to re-arranging his revenge plans given the new circumstances of Eloise staying on for Christmas.

It wasn't as easy as it seemed though, catching her at all - let alone on her own. Three days into the Christmas break Draco finally ran into Eloise as she was coming out of a doorway in Hogsmead.

"Sorry," she said, looking slightly breathless. She began to edge around him, shifting her bags so that they'd fit past Draco through the door's alcove. Draco gave her an imperious look and let his body fall against the alcove wall so that he was leaning in her path.

She stopped and raised her head to look at him. Her nose was pink with cold and the colour in her cheeks was up. Draco smiled disarmingly.

"Good morning, El. You don't mind if I call you El, do you?" he inquired.

"Not particularly,” replied Eloise. Her gaze was steadier than Draco had anticipated. Not really an adoring, House-Elfie gaze at all. It made Draco falter. He was rather glad that he'd draped himself in her way or she would have certainly taken the lull in conversation as her cue to leave. She was eying escape possibilities as it was.

"Christmas shopping?" Draco inquired, smoothly drawing her attention back.

"Not really, no. Uhm... have a good Christmas, Draco," responded Eloise. Giving him a vaguely puzzled look, she started to edge around him again.

Draco turned fluidly, almost lazily, extending his hips just enough to thwart Eloise's second escape attempt. Well, she could escape, but only if she was willing to press up against the entire length of him. Not that Draco found that notion particularly appealing but he was willing to risk it. She flicked her gaze down his form, briefly. Her face broke into an amused - somewhat curious - smile.

"Draco, you're blocking my path," she pointed out, rather dryly.

Dry, Draco decided, was not an attitude that he'd expect to find on her. But, he was surprised to discover, it fitted her like the proverbial glove.

"So I am," he purred rather carelessly, not budging an inch.

Eloise, however, did not seem an impatient girl. She waited for him, looking only vaguely expectant.

"Come for a walk with me," Draco suggested with the air of commanding it.

Eloise laughed. The sound seemed to melt the crisp air with its warmth. Draco gave Eloise a stunned look, which he quickly quelled to an impassive one. But she'd pulled his guard down. Quickly, effortlessly, without even a trace that that was what she was trying to achieve.

"I'm sorry, Draco, I don't mean to be rude but, up until about a week ago, I was basically the amazing, invisible girl to you. In fact, I don't think the term 'girl' even computed. I was the amazing invisible thing. So what on earth makes you think you can tempt me into a walk now?" she inquired. Her tone wasn't accusing, wasn't even morose. Her tone, as well as her eyes, was light and amused, warm enough still to be pleasant.

Draco fought to keep his guard up before she tore it down completely - and succeeded, this time. She had the capacity to shock, mostly - Draco thought wryly, due to her apparent lack of capacity to even surprise.

"I notice you now - so come for a walk," he said coolly.

He'd expected compliance the first time. Had been 100 percent sure of getting it. He was 120 percent sure this time.

Her smile wasn't impolite. It was even apologetic - if only slightly. "Maybe another day," she suggested.

It was a brush-off. An unrepentant brush-off. No one; NO ONE had ever given Draco a brush-off. Not even the general populace of girls who thought that playing hard to get was hot. Draco's indifferent reserve was not up to dealing with this third, and largest, assault.

He raised an eyebrow and said, in a tone that would have done the December frost proud, "Alright, I'm not interested in you in the least. Nothing to be interested in, is there? I just need to get my Herbology assignment done, and seeing as yours is done already..."

He watched her patiently, waited for her face to crumple. He hadn't been so cruel, but cruel enough for the likes of Eloise Midgeon, he expected. She merely looked surprised.
"Oh," she said. "Well, why didn't you just say so? Have you been to Hogsmead Park ?"

Hogsmead Park was nestled up a staircase between two shops. It was far larger than Draco would have expected.

"How did you know about this?" he asked as the two weaved their way into the bamboo grove.

Eloise paused mid-way through plucking her gloves off. The frigid English winter was being held at bay for the moment with magic and winter-wear was unnecessary. "Oh, it's in tourist literature, obviously," she said.

"Right," said Draco, snapping off a sprig of small white flowers from a nearby shrub.

Eloise smiled. "Star Jasmine," she said. "It's Chinese. I miss seeing it."

"You're Chinese then?" asked Draco.

"Half. On my mother's side," replied Eloise.

“I wondered how you got a name like Eloise Midgeon,” said Draco.

“Heloise, actually. From my grandmother on my father’s side. It was easier for most English to deal with Eloise.”

“Right,” said Draco, bored. He was starting to think that it would be a better idea to find a gorgeous person to transfer his hurt on to. Gorgeous people, he decided, were more capable of feeling. Of strong, pure feeling at least.

He helped Eloise – or Heloise – off with her cloak almost absent-mindedly, as she was having too much trouble with her bags to do a graceful job of it.

“Thanks,” she said. “So what part of your Herbology assignment do you need to get done?”

Draco blinked. He’d been going through the possibilities of gorgeous people he could hurt. “I’ve already done my assignment,” he said eventually.

Eloise gave him an absolutely baffled look. “What?” she asked.

“I’ve already finished,” repeated Draco coldly.

Eloise simply stared at him.

“No one turns me down, Hel. And certainly not a nothing little Gryffindor like you,” purred Draco smoothly.

Eloise laughed again. Her laugh hadn’t lost its warmth – at least not much of it.

“Have a good Christmas, Draco. May I have my cloak back please?” she inquired.

“When we finish our walk,” responded Draco flatly.

Eloise grinned dangerously. It was the first time Draco had associated danger with Eloise. But danger, like dryness, fitted her.

“Have a good Christmas, Draco,” she said and wove her way back through the bamboo grove.

Sun, 07 Jan 2007 12:31:28 GMT

Ok, it's been ages since I updated any of my journals and, truth be told, I wouldn't be updating this one now if I hadn't had to write a story for my sister's x-mas present. There are probably a multitude of gramatical errors, which I am carelessly apologetic about. This is one of those overly egotistical works as it is actually a fan fic of my own work. So, merry x-mas allecto, and everyone else enjoy (or try to).

She was the most beautiful thing V had ever seen. But that was beside the point really. There was nothing in either of them that cared about beauty. It wasn't beauty that jolted bolts of heat down V's spine and flooded it into her stomach when she looked at Cloak. Cloak with eyes the colour of a blue-green sea as deep as it was clear. It was power. Power and strength so pure and undiluted and alive that it really shouldn't have been described in such destructive terms.

They lay in the tangle of warm bracken; curled in their own little corner of the world. They talked. They talked often. Talk alive with feeling. Not all of it good. Not all of it; but most of it. They fought sometimes; like the world was going to go on forever. V cried sometimes because she knew it would not.

V watched Cloak sleep sometimes, as she watched her sleep now. Curled into V's lap as though everything was well in the Universe. And perhaps everything was well - in the Universe. The Universe had very little to do with this patch of sunlit paradise betwixt sky and earth. A near silent paradise, broken only by the soft sound of breathing that came from Cloak. A sound infinitely precious to V. A sound that she was aware would eventually cease. But that was gloom in a happy world.

V was aware that her friends watched her like Cloak would be a memory spoiled. Irrevocably. A memory not worth the memory. Tainted before she had even started to fade. They thought of her as an entry pencilled into V's life. Pencilled because she would and must be erased.

But she was not a memory spoiled; Cloak. Not for V. She was as perfect a memory as one could ever have. And it made no difference that she would be dead in three months. Cloak was fast becoming an entry lovingly scrawled in ink. Ink the colour of a blue-green sea as deep as it was clear.

The sea called and V would go down to it gladly, would drown in it gladly. She could not fight that sea.

Cloak stirred and V looked down to see blue-green lazily gazing back at her.

" I wish I could fly," she said, without knowing why she said it.

Perhaps Cloak knew however, because her eyes clouded with thought. " You cannot win this fight by beating back the earth," she said.

"But I feel like I could," replied V.

Cloak wriggled into V's lap further and turned her gaze up at the azure skies.

"How long have we been here?" asked V.

"Not long enough," said Cloak.

They no longer operated within time because they did not want to measure it. Quite simply there was not enough time. They both felt so keenly but neither broached the subject. The matter of time constraints did not, should not, could not, would not arise because V and Cloak felt too deeply that it was wrong to complain about what would be when they so enjoyed what was.

Action, reaction. Action, consequence. And V was willing to shoulder the consequence for this. Surely the consequence could burn no deeper in her marrow than this action burned. And if it could; let it burn and let her burn with it.

There were cracks already in Cloak's skin. Cracks of death and hell shone through them. V ran a finger over them, experimentally. Testing to see if she could smooth them away. Smooth death away. But fate had never quailed before V and would not now.

"I'm not angry, Virgo," said Cloak.

And V was surprised to find that she wasn't lying when she said, "Nor am I. And whatever happens, I won't be sorry."

Cages

Fri, 30 Jun 2006 13:55:57 GMT

I've finally put together an lj for my stories. This one's my first short story so bear with the poor thing. It's also my first real attempt at a female queer relationship (probably shouldn't have tried both at once but there you are). I know there are gender problems, I usually get to flesh the stories out a bit more and so I can usually work on it.

Oh, and with the user name, I've stolen this one off my poor little sister as well. She's probably most unhappy...

Anyway on to Cages.

The cages seemed tight. The cages always seemed tight when a fight was impending. Fletcher’s throat was thick with it. She looked across at Verax. Steady red-haired Verax who Fletcher had never once seen ruffled. And she was not ruffled now as she stroked nimble, white fingers through her dead-straight, long hair. Fletcher paced. Paced the cage restlessly, ruthlessly, hotly and furiously. She had paced the same path many times. Too many times. Too many fights. She hated the tightness of the cage on nights such as these. Hated the smell of it – the feel of it so close to her. Creeping closer.

The nights after the fights she almost liked the cage. It was snug then, not tight. It hugged without squeezing. It held Verax close to her and her close to Verax. And she liked that it was there to do that for if it wasn’t Verax would never allow that closeness.

Fletcher leant against the bars of her cage, looking out. Not that there was anything more to see than usual. Hall, walls. The cell across from theirs was empty. Its occupants had been cleaned out two days previously. Verax had known they wouldn’t last. Not that she’d said anything, but Fletcher had seen the look she’d given the tall brunette. So she’d known.

Fletcher turned, still leaning on the bars and watched Verax smooth her hair. Theoretically she knew that redheads were meant to have God-awful tempers, but not Verax. She’d never even heard Verax raise her husky and arrogant voice. It had scared the hell out of her at first. And she was not a girl used to being afraid.

Her family consisted mostly of people with jet-black locks. Fletcher’s hair was cropped close now, but if it were long it would have a rather defined wave to it. Fletcher Had never heard that brunettes were renowned for their tempers but her family was sure as hell renowned for theirs.

The screaming at the Fletcher household never stopped, rarely waned, always roared. It was broken randomly by bouts of violence. In all it was a rather functional family, Fletcher thought. She assumed that Verax came from a disfunctional family.

“Tired?” inquired Verax, her tone as silky smooth as her hair.

Fletcher’s shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. A suffocated shrug. She loved for Verax to ask questions though. Loved to hear that cool, distant voice. It warmed her, embraced her; though Verax was by no means a warm or embracing person.

“Will you be able to sleep?” asked Verax in that same cool tone. Indifferent almost.

Fletcher thought about it. Would she? No, her mind was too much of a mess. No way would she sleep. She gave a tiny shake of her head in answer.

Verax, she knew, would already have some idea of how she’d sleep or she wouldn’t have asked.

“You’ll sleep on my bunk tonight,” said Verax in a flat, calm, authoritative tone that made Fletcher’s stomach flip over in pleasure.

Their relationship was mutual need. Fletcher was smart enough to know this. Verax would let Fletcher crawl into her bed on the night before the fights sometimes because Fletcher’s mind couldn’t shut down automatically like Verax’s could. But Fletcher’s mind did shut down if she was warm in bed and someone was stroking her back or pressing against her or holding her. And Verax was willing to do that because she needed Fletcher to be well rested and alert and awake the next day.

Fletcher was aware that her need for Verax was much more basic and instinctual and personal than Verax’s need of her, but most of the time that hardly seemed relevant. Verax needed her and it was ok that she only needed her for her abilities.

“Mind the hair,” said Verax as Fletcher crept into the lower bunk. It was a real warning. Verax wasn’t particularly interested in her looks but her hair – it was dangerous. She wasn’t allowed to cut it. The fights – pornography as Verax called them – were based around beauty. Based around sexy. Sexy girls fighting each other to death. It sold. It sold well. And Verax sold well too. Sweet, innocent-looking Verax with her huge green eyes, full kissable mouth and mane of red hair. The place sold out when she was on. And the patrons could go home with Firelocks posters, Firelocks calendars, Firelocks T-shirts. Pornography; as Verax said.

Fletcher curled into the bed, minding Verax’s hair. She tied blades into her hair before a fight. Small blades, like those in razors. Verax had a violent mind. Far more violent than Fletcher’s. Sure, Fletcher could kill in a rage, or to save herself, but Verax was the type that would be quite capable of plotting out a murder step-by-step and executing it. She was plotting a mass murder currently. Something that would shut the fighting down for good. She hadn’t said much about it but they both knew that when the time came Fletcher would be there.

Verax rolled into Fletcher’s arms.

“Won’t be long now,” she said softly – promised softly.

Fletcher sometimes – often – felt threatened by the idea of escape. Verax had guessed some time ago.

“Don’t,” she’d ordered tautly. “Don’t ever think badly of escaping. I couldn’t stand to see it in you. Someone this free should never be institutionalised. So don’t. Don’t you dare.”

And Fletcher had wanted to scream in anguish and frustration. She didn’t want to stay because she was afraid of outside; she wanted to stay because she was afraid of losing Verax. And she would lose Verax with no cage to hold her close.

“Where will you go after?” she asked now, forcing her agony to quell.
Verax smiled her most blissful smile. “Everywhere,” she said. “We’ll go everywhere.”

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