A piece of the universe more fit for princes and kings

Fic: Real Life (RPFS, Stephanie March/Tina Fey, R)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 02:36:35 GMT

Title: Real Life
Fandom: RPFS
Pairing: Stephanie March/Tina Fey
Words: 1400
Rating R, for sex
Notes: Not mine, really not mine. Most of this is not true. Except for the things you can find on IMDb and Wikipedia.
Summary: Nobody seems to know that Stephanie March knew Tina Fey before her guest appearance on 30 Rock. But she did. It has been more than five years since that first night.

Real Life

Nobody seems to know that Stephanie March knew Tina Fey before her guest appearance on 30 Rock this fall. Stephanie knows that nobody knows this because she does that thing that actresses are not supposed to do: she gets online, Googles her own name, and watches as all kinds of weird things pop up on the screen. She realizes that this little habit may be shamelessly self-centered. Strangely, though it makes her feel less confident, rather than more.

It has been five years since she attained something that might be called fame, and yet she's still amazed and shocked at what she can find out about herself with a few quick keystrokes. Her name is Stephanie Caroline March. (True.) She was born and raised in Texas and attended the same high school as Angie Harmon. (Also true.) Her connection to Angie Harmon was the reason that she was hired to play ADA Alexandra Cabot on Law & Order: SVU. (Not true.) She is married to Bobby Flay. (True.) Bobby Flay's marriage to her is his third. (Not true; he had a brief, silly thing in high school that was promptly annulled, but really, Stephanie sees no reason to enlighten anyone or any webpage with that information.)

Here are the things that are not on IMDb or Wikipedia:

It is true that she began acting the way most high school students do, in plays, but it wasn't the only thing she considered doing. Her freshman year of college passed in a blur of sociology, then broadcast journalism, before she decided on theater and Hispanic Studies.

Despite the fact that she and Angie attended the same high school, Highland Park, Angie is three years older, so they barely knew each other before they both ended up in New York. Their respective tenures as ADAs only overlapped for a year. Still, Angie called her -- or rather, Angie called her agent who called Stephanie's agent who called Stephanie -- after the role of Alexandra Cabot had been cast and the announcements had been made. They met for a drink, because that's what you do when you're practically long-lost neighbors from Dallas. That was in 2000. Neither of them was married then. Stephanie tries not to think about the rest, about how quickly Angie cemented her engagement to Jason. She knows that Angie pretends -- or worse, has convinced herself -- that it never happened.

During the period that Stephanie never wants to think about, Angie introduced Stephanie to Tina Fey. Angie and Tina had made some horrible, hilarious TV movie in which Angie played herself -- looking slender, cool, and collected as ever -- and Tina played Bjork -- looking and sounding stoned -- and that's how Stephanie likes to think of her, the night she was introduced to TIna at the party. There are no red carpets and crowds and flashbulbs for the premieres of TV movies, but there was a party in a lavish apartment with champagne and cubes of fruit that were drained of all calories and taste. That was in early 2001. Tina was not married then either.

She did have a boyfriend, Jeff, her husband now. But at the time they were just dating, and Stephanie rationalized it all to herself as she called a cab, scanned into her building, and led Tina to the elevator. By the time she was unlocking her apartment door, neither of them was thinking about Tina's boyfriend or Stephanie's nonexistent boyfriend.

It has been more than five years since that first night and the following month. Then Stephanie smashed her face up against Tina and Jeff's wedding date. That was in June 2001. Stephanie tries not to think about the rest, the intervening five years until she landed this guest spot on Tina's newest project, 30 Rock. Adam Bernstein, the director, loved working with her; he told her so. Audiences loved her; she knows this because she Googles herself. Tina apparently loved working with her; she hopes so, at least, because now Stephanie has her hands on Tina's hipbones and Tina's tongue in her mouth.

"This isn't right," Stephanie says, which apparently isn't enough to stop her hands from sliding upward, toward the second button on Tina's white shirt.

"You're right," Tina agrees in a way that must be completely disconnected from her mouth, because she keeps kissing Stephanie.

Stephanie means to say a lot of things as she unbuttons one iridescent button, then another. Things like You're married and I'm married and You have a baby, because the baby is much more and much worse than both their husbands put together. Instead, what comes out is "I'm not sure when Bobby will be home."

"Oh," Tina says, and now she sounds sure of herself, like her brain is in control, because she stops kissing and places her hands on top of Stephanie's. "Then this is really happening."

Stephanie feels a sinking in the pit of her stomach, because apparently Tina employs the same kind of selective memory that Angie does and that Stephanie herself does, until Tina says, "Again." It comes out like a question.

Stephanie spreads her palms over Tina's flat stomach, small and circled in the waistband of her jeans, and when Tina doesn't stop her, she goes back to the buttons. "Again."

"You're married," Tina says as Stephanie finishes with the shirt buttons and turns her attention to the two metal hooks at the back of her bra. "Your husband is famous too."

Stephanie is fairly sure that Tina meant to list a bunch of reasons that they shouldn't be doing this, but instead, it's coming out more like a list of things you can find out by Googling Bobby Flay. "I'm not famous," she says against the soft skin in the center of Tina's throat.

"Sure you are," Tina says. Without bothering to strip off Stephanie's stretchy shirt, she pushes it up just enough for her fingers and wrists to fit underneath. "Fans love you."

"Not as much as they love you," Stephanie says, kissing her way down Tina's chest, and she means it. For someone who was only well-known in a small niche of the entertainment world a few years ago, Tina has accomplished a remarkable amount in a relatively short time. When Stephanie met her, she was working on Saturday Night Live, but that was about it. Now she's been celebrated for her work on Mean Girls, her gutsy launching of 30 Rock, the upcoming project she's starting with, once again, Amy Poehler. She's been lauded by publications and writers from Bust to afterellen.com.

Stephanie knows this because she's capable of Googling people other than herself. Tina is, like, every gay person's number-one straight person. This is possibly because she is making delicious noises as Stephanie licks her way around one nipple, and because she has one jean-clag leg shoved hard and fast between Stephanie's. This is not something that you can find out by Googling either one of them.

She would be hard-pressed to share with anyone the slick heat inside Tina's sensible, high-cut black underwear, the exposed curve of her throat when Tina throws her head back, the fact that the barely manages to hold on until Tina gets Stephanie's jeans down and her fingers on Stephanie's clit.

Stephanie blinks when she finishes, spots swimming before her eyes, trying to remember why Tina is standing in the spacious living room decorated in way too much white, her shirt draped over the arm of the couch and her jeans pooled inelegantly around her ankles.

Tina borrows her hands back from Stephanie's body awkwardly. "That ... just happened," she says.

"Yes," Stephanie says. She takes a step, or two or three, away from Tina. "Again," she says, for good measure, just in case Tina plans on trying to forget this as well.

Tina nods. She tugs at her jeans. She turns away while she buttons them. "Adam would like to work with you again."

It is such an abrupt change in topic, a casual mix of business and chitchat, that Stephanie stops straightening her own clothes and stares. "Adam Bernstein?"

"He loved working with you. And the fans, the fans loved you." Tina shrugs, stares at the floor, looking like Liz Lemon for a second. "But you know that. So." She puts on her bra in an equally undignified way, buttons her shirt. "Maybe next time will be a little less than five years."

finis.

Fic: Communion (Harry Potter, George/Fred, George/Charlie, R)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 21:43:18 GMT

Title: Communion
Date: August 2007
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: George/Fred, George/Charlie
Rating: R
Warning: Slash, incest
Words: 3000
Disclaimer: I don't own. They're over eighteen.
Summary: Things come in pairs; George has been taught this all his life. Trousers. Parents. Ears. Twins.

Communion

Things come in pairs; George has been taught this all his life. Trousers. Parents. Ears. Twins.

Even after more than a year, he cannot get used to the way it feels to hear with only one ear, sound filtering across half his head, twisting as small as a whisper into the solid whorls of his remaining good earlobe. He still has part of his eardrum, the Healers at St. Mungo's have told him, but without the outside of his ear to trap the sound, without the tiny bones to turn it into meaningful sound and speech, he will never hear properly with that side of his head again. Most hours of the day, he feels rather than hears a hollow sort of ringing. The Healers have told him that that is a phantom pain, but he knows better; it is a quiet, constant memorial to the halves that he lost in the war: his ear, his twin.

Even after almost a year, he is still not used to the way it feels to be the one left, the survivor of the two, a new kind of boy -- no longer, and never again, boys -- who lived.

Not that the Weasley family has any shortage of boys who survived the war. There is Bill, still horribly mangled, his face scarred like a patchwork quilt; when he smiles, the quilt folds itself up. There is Percy, who seems to shrink three feet every time he steps into the Burrow, where he finds some little thing to do for Mum and Dad at every visit. There is Ron, who goes everywhere with Hermione on his arm, his grin constantly amazed as he blinks at the witch beside him. There is Charlie, who looks normal on the outside -- two eyes, two arms -- and seems normal enough on the inside as well, except that he refuses to go back to Romania.

Instead, he stays, and when George wakes five, ten, twenty times in the night, straining for the sound of equal breathing in the bed next to him, he can see the outline of Charlie on the mattress.

* * *
In the weeks immediately following the end of the war, Mum and Dad, of course, are thrilled that Charlie wants to stay in Britain. George can tell by the way Dad shakes Charlie's hand and claps him on the back, then comes back for another round of clasped fists and half-hugs every few minutes. Mum is easier to figure out. She reaches high on her toes to hug Charlie and beams and even cries, a mirror of the tears that she sheds every day for Fred.

At first George isn't sure about Charlie staying in the country, and is even less sure about Charlie staying in his flat with him. "Floored" might be a better word. He sits at the supper table with his mouth hanging open in his lopsided head when Charlie says, with struggling casualness, "I thought I might hang around for a while, now. Help Bill get things back on track around Gringotts."

Percy's mouth drops open, too, and he says stiffly, "It's hardly likely that the Gringotts goblins will believe they require the assistance of wizards, you know -- " He stops when he realizes that everyone at the table is looking at him, then closes his mouth. Once, the attention of all the family would have spurred Percy on with a tirade of pompous speech.

Bill shrugs, pressing his flank of steak firmly onto his plate with his fork, and a stream of bright red juice oozes out. "We can use all the help we can get, I'm sure. Harry says that dragon that escaped was blind and pretty old."

"Oh, this is wonderful!" Mum beams. "Wonderful! Our boys -- working together -- "

"I thought I'd stay with you, George," Charlie cuts in, not even bothering to look at him as he sends the potatoes zooming down the table toward Ginny. "That'll put me right there in Diagon Alley, near Gringotts, yeah?"

"Yeah" does not sum up George's feelings, as he sits there staring into the untouched pile of vegetables on his plate, but Mum is practically melting with the joyful thought of three of her boys living together, working together, so he keeps his mouth closed and nods in the direction of his food.

It takes him three or four weeks to understand why, in the bewildering postbellum, as wizards and Muggles and creatures alike struggle to make sense of their new world, his brother puts aside his world and comes back to this one -- London, his family, his brothers and sister.

George is not a blind, aging, angry dragon, but to Charlie, George is someone who needs help.

* * *
In the beginning, it is -- there is no other word for it -- it is awkward.

Charlie has lived alone for years, George knows, since leaving Hogwarts. George is concerned that Charlie will appropriate parts of the flat, the bathroom, the couch. It turns out that it is the opposite. Charlie asks before he hangs his robes in the closet. He asks before he moves a loaf of bread to the other side of the breadbox. He hesitates, then asks the first night as he tucks George into bed like a child.

"There's only one bed," he says, his voice shaking like a teenager's.

George feels his entire chest compress like a used Portkey.

"Yes," he says, knowing that his voice is shaking too.

"It's – I – do you – " Charlie falters, looking to the other side of the room while George pulls the blanket up to his chest defiantly. "Can I get in with you?"

It is awkward to bump up against someone who isn't Fred, to mumble an apology every time, to wonder whether he should issue a blanket "I'm sorry" for every shove and poke and whimper throughout the night. Fred would have laughed at his apologies. Fred would have pushed him back. Fred would have pretended that he was moving in his sleep as well, deliberately crowding and nudging George, and said in a too-casual voice, "Oh, 'ear you are!" Charlie, on the other hand, mumbles an increasingly sleepy "S'okay" every time.

For years, sharing the same narrow bed with Fred, George did not remember his dreams. It is awkward, now, to wake screaming from them, to fight his way out of a dream of perfect black emptiness and claw his way back to wakefulness and reach out for Fred, only to find that in fact, even with Charlie in bed beside him and taking up more room than Fred used to, he is still alone.

In the mornings, Charlie's thighs and stomach and back are frequently black and blue from where George kicks him in the middle of the night. George has to ask Hermione what she knows about healing spells.

It takes five weeks, but George's body learns to remember that Charlie is in bed next to him, sleeping on like a boulder, waiting for George to jerk awake from his dreams.

He doesn't stop dreaming about the emptiness, but he does stop kicking his way out of sleep.

* * *
George has never felt more alone, even though he shares a flat with his brother, even though he is surrounded all day by customers and other shopkeepers and owls and Verity and a new, capable young wizard called Aurelio, who has the unfortunate job of testing the very newest Wheezes.

He wishes that he could feel a phantom Fred, like the phantom noises that he hears in his ear. He imagines Fred watching him as he pours doxy venom, interfering as he tosses a Pygmy Puff from hand to hand, laughing as he absentmindedly stuffs a Puking Pastille in his mouth -- he thought it was a piece of Drooble's.

If Fred were here, they, not Aurelio, would be testing their new prototypes themselves. It was always a game, full of bets and dares and cocky confidence that nothing could really go wrong, and if it did, well, it would be a good laugh.

If Fred were here, they would get in fights every day about their newest bestselling project. Fred had been sure that there was a market for an Extendable Eye. ("Lengthening Lips! Mushrooming Mouth! Swelling Sniffer! What do you think?" he'd said. George had raised an eyebrow. "Swelling Sniffer?") George had proposed expanding on the Canary Cream; he already had a great plan for a Parrot Pasty. ("Turns your head into a parrot's, see?" he said, demonstrating bravely on himself, always a risk when you weren't sure how a new product was going to turn out. It was Fred's turn to look skeptical. "You look more like a macaw.")

If Fred were here, he would not go home every night and stare dumbly at his brother for a few seconds before he remembers who Charlie is and why he, who looks so much like Fred, is standing in George's flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

If Fred were here, he would roll over automatically at night and kiss the strand of freckles that decorate the top of his spine, feel for the jutting bones of his hips, wind his fingers through a hank of ginger-coloured hair. These are things that George has learned over the years. He scrambles now to unlearn the muscle memory of love. The first time he licks the pulsing vein in the corner of Charlie's elbow, he feels his own face turn red-hot with embarrassment.

It takes him six weeks, and a lot of struggling and pinching himself unceremoniously, before he learns to wake himself, so that he never touches Charlie accidentally.

It takes another six weeks for Charlie to kiss the back of his neck and tell him that he doesn’t mind.

* * *
Now George hopes that there is no phantom Fred watching him, following him, sticking to his profile like a shadow. He never wants Fred, real or ghostly or otherwise, to see him with Charlie, doing the same things that he once did with his twin.

The first time with Charlie is nothing like the first time with Fred, when they were twelve or thirteen, fooling around at first, wrestling on one bed or another. They were just starting to learn that although they were identical, they were not the same. "You have a mole here that I don't," George said, pointing to the lowest part of Fred's ribcage.

"Your legs are scrawny," Fred said, eyeing the tapers of George's ankles.

George flushed, yanking at his socks to hide the knobby little bones. "Your stomach looks different from mine," he said, resting the palm of his hand on the hardening muscles, the thin vertical dusting of hair that disappeared into Fred's shorts.

"Nah," Fred said, rolling on top and touching George's smooth skin. George felt an odd little jump at the bottom of his belly, and he began to shift uncomfortably, sure that any moment Fred was going to see his stomach, or something lower, leap out of his skin. "Yours looks different from mine."

George held his breath and tried not to move. He could hear something roaring in his ears -- wind, the ocean, embarrassed horror. He concentrated on making his entire taut abdomen go soft. "Think we can still fool Mum?" he asked, praying that his voice sounded normal.

"Oh yeah," Fred said, and traced the edge of George's thigh with his palm.

But now, with Charlie, there is none of that. He is different from Fred, and from George, too. Charlie is quiet. His stomach bulges a little. His legs are strong and sprinkled with hair that is thicker and softer than the hair on his head. The trail of hair that starts below his navel is sparse and dark, almost brown.

It is strange, because Charlie looks like the twins -- like George, George corrects himself. Bill and Percy and Ron look alike, long and lean with large hands and gangling feet, but Charlie and the -- and George have always looked alike.

And yet Charlie is not much like Fred. His hands are gentle on George's shoulders, like George is a baby dragon. His hair is shorter and doesn't flip over his eyes when he bends his head. His mouth is cold every time it first meets George's, like he hasn't spent a lifetime in bed next to his brother.

George lists these things in his head every time, as if to prove to a phantom Fred that his new lover is nothing like him.

But it takes him seven weeks to stop looking over his brother's shoulder every time Charlie's mouth stalls between his legs. It takes another seven weeks to stop wondering whether a Fred, in some form, is watching him.

* * *
He may be transferring, the Healer tells him sternly when George mentions that there is someone new in his life. Who is this new person? the Healer asks, as George waits for Bill to finish his appointment on the First Floor of St. Mungo's. If it's one of his brothers, it's lovely that they're all getting along, but it's too early for him to think about developing the kind of relationship that he had with Fred. If it's a friend, it's too early for him to think about developing the kind of relationship he has with any of his brothers. And if it's a young witch -- the Healer winks -- well, take it slow, and has George got any of those brilliant Muggle handkerchiefs that just grow and grow?

He isn't transferring, George tells himself firmly as he follows Bill out of the hospital -- Bill, who received a clean bill of health, who has been told his condition should not affect the baby that he and Fleur expect in eight months. He knows the difference between Fred and Charlie. There are many differences, in fact, including the things they like to do with their tongues and hands and fingers.

But is he replacing?

He starts watching Charlie when they're alone, watching him when they're in a group. He tries to line up memories of the way Charlie used to treat Fred when Fred was alive, and the way Charlie used to treat George. He compares notes, strings together recollections, remembers his childhood, thinks about his brothers, until they blend together and he's not sure where Fred leaves off and Charlie begins, which doesn't help the situation any.

He has stopped looking for Fred over shoulders and around the corners of mirrors, stopped expecting to see a glimpse of eyes and hair identical to his. Now he looks for him inside Charlie all the time, until finally they're in bed one night, sweaty skin sticking to skin, and Charlie asks him why he's been acting so odd.

"It's … Fred," George says, and the name hangs weightily in their shared silence. They almost never talk about Fred. He is there in everything they do, everything they are -- he is the missing ghost of George -- but they never talk about him. "He was like you."

Charlie shakes his head. "He was like you."

It's a daft thing to say because twins, of course, are alike. But is George still a twin? Is he a twin if he no longer has one?

No matter how similar Charlie is to Fred, he is not Fred, and he is not George's twin.

George can't begin to explain how this came about, why he was talking to the young Healer in the first place, so instead he stammers, "I know you're here -- for me. But why … why are you here?"

Charlie doesn't answer. He kisses George. He touches him until George is sure his bones will grow too big for his body. His hands skim George's skin in ways that Fred's never did.

"He was my brother too," Charlie says at last, his voice gentle, sliding hard against George's hot inside flesh.

It takes eight weeks before George begins to understand what Charlie has lost as well.

* * *
Survivors come in pairs. George has been learning this over the past year, the one in which he is the solitary twin, a distinction that will be his for all the years of his life.

It is not the only true thing; survivors come in trios, in sets of ten, in teams of wizards and Aurors who sweep the country and rebuild the Ministry. Survivors come in threes, in which Ron and Hermione and Harry have been celebrated up and down and around the Wizarding nations. Survivors come in families, in which Mum and Dad beam proudly and tearfully over their brood. Survivors come in ones, in which Percy has admitted he was wrong, in which Kingsley Shacklebolt has emerged as a proud new leader, in which little Teddy Lupin will grow up with the knowledge of a happy world instead of happy parents.

George still can't sleep through the night. His first waking breath is always a gasp, a little hitch as he rushes to catch up to his brother's. He still hesitates when customers chattily ask how many siblings he has (Si-- he always starts out, then cuts himself off and finishes, Five). He still hears ghost hisses and whispers and rushes on one side of his head, and a couple of times a month, bringing his twin home in his heart, he tells himself that those noises are Fred, following and teasing and pushing him back onto his side of the bed and maybe smiling as he keeps watch over the twin who remains.

But when he wakes and Charlie is awake beside him; when he hears his breathing fit into the same pattern as his brother's; when he listens to Charlie say that he has fi-- uh, four brothers; when he feels Charlie kiss the temple above the hole in his head -- when George remembers these things, he remembers that Charlie has lost things too. It's just that they're invisible on the outside.

fin.

Fic: All Night (Harry Potter, Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Hermione, NC-17)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 03:36:43 GMT

Title: All Night
Date: June 30, 2005
Words: 3301
Pairing: Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Het
Notes: Written for the June round of the Fantasy Fest, for mortegami, who requested: Harry/Ron/Hermione. Ron/Harry already know how they feel. This time Hermione’s out of the loop. Kink/Smut. Year 6 or older. If angsty, happy ending please. Light bondage & spanking okay, if you want. This is ridiculously vanilla, so I hope it's okay.

All Night

He's been thinking about it all night, as he kissed Ron and yanked the curtains shut, as he found the hollow spots above his hipbones and below the notch of his ribs, as he licked the salt from the side of his cock. He's been thinking about it all night, but now, as his fingers tighten in a circle around Ron's thigh and he crawls up the bed, scrubbing at his mouth and looking at Ron's eyes, heavy-lidded with freckles, he's not sure how to say it.

Ron kisses the corner of his mouth, quickly, as if he doesn't want to think about what Harry was just doing with it. He rolls onto his back and puts his hands behind his head, staring at the curtains that are stretched across the top of his bed, making a warm little nest. Harry glances at him and then follows suit. Ron in the dark looks so different from Harry, with thicker, speckled arms and a tuft of red hair under each armpit. Harry tries not to feel self-conscious about his skinny torso and flat stomach.

Ron glances over at Harry briefly, then returns to studying the curtains intently. "We have to tell her," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word like he's twelve again.

He's been thinking about it all night, but Ron was the one to say it. Harry figures he's okay with that. He's sick of being the one with the ideas, ideas that turn out to be wrong. Like the time they thought Snape was going to steal the stone. The time he thought Cedric was just a thick pretty boy. The time he thought Voldemort had Sirius last spring, and his chest tightens.

He's been thinking about it all night, but if Ron says it, it must be true.

Harry makes himself nod. "We have to tell her," he agrees, going for calm and casual, but instead his voice comes out nervous and thin, like air through a pinched hose.

"Think she knows already?" Ron asks, so hopefully that Harry wants to laugh.

He thinks about Hermione, who's probably sitting in the common room right now, with a scroll of parchment and her books, ink flying across her nose and the table. Hermione, who is always giving lengthy lectures on how people must feel and punctuating them with, "You two have the emotional intelligence of an envelope, don't you?" He can't imagine what Hermione will say when she sees them like this, when she finds out what's been going on.

He'd like to say sure, Hermione knows already, but he bets she doesn't. Hermione's not too great with anything that doesn't come out of a book.

He glances at Ron. "We have to tell her," he says again.

Ron nods and rolls over onto his stomach, exposing the planes of his spotty shoulders and the circles of his muscles. It's a long time before Harry hears him breathing evenly, up and down, and realizes that he never answered Ron's question.

* * *

It was all well and good to sound confident and heroic about telling Hermione, but now that it's actually time, now that she's standing there, staring curiously at the way they're sitting side by side on Ron's bed, he feels very non-heroic. Harry clears his throat and nudges Ron to get him talking.

Hermione's got her hands on her hips, and her hair is full of tangles, and with her feet planted wide apart and her skirt brushing her knees, she looks a lot like she did back in first year: annoyed, bossy, and suspicious. "I hope I don't have to say I told you so," she says, shaking her head. One wrinkled curl slides over another. "You two absolutely need to stop spending so much time on the Quidditch pitch and start doing more homework during the week. Harry, you know that Snape only lets the best into his NEWT potions class; McGonagall told you that last spring, don't you remember? And if you're really serious about being an Auror – "

"Hermione – " Ron interrupts, and then looks like he regrets it, because now she's got her attention focused on him.

"And honestly, Ron, I don't think you're much better off, not with how your Transfiguration's been doing lately, I've seen your marks, and they're not – "

"Hermione – " Harry tries this time.

"Both of you, there's more to life than Quidditch – "

"Hermione!" Ron practically shouts, and Hermione jumps and stops. "That's not what we wanted to talk to you about."

Hermione blinks, then sits down on the bed next to them. Harry has to look past Ron to see the expression on her face. "Oh. Well, I thought – well, you know, that's usually what you need – "

"Yeah, but, uh, not this time." Ron gives Harry a dirty look like he should be saying something.

Harry's not sure what to say. That's his problem, he knows. He can do all the thinking he likes, all the worrying and imagining and picturing how something should go, but when it actually comes time to do something – well, not so good. Sometimes he thinks it's horribly unfair that he's the Boy Who Lived. He became the Boy Who Lived because he lay there and looked up at a face he can't remember. His parents died because they tried to do something.

Hermione's back at Harry, and he gives a little cough. "Uh. Hermione. Well, what Ron and I are trying to tell you is that we're, uh, we're …"

"We're …" Ron fills in.

"We're, um …"

Hermione just sits there looking politely puzzled, a look that changes to less-than-polite suspicion when Ron grabs Harry's hand. "You're what?" she asks, her tone changing. A minute ago she sounded the way she sounds when Ron or Harry is about to add something explosive to a potion. Now she sounds the way she sounds when Ron or Harry has already added something explosive to a potion. "Wait a second. You two are – you two?" she asks, her jaw creaking open.

"Um." Ron drops Harry's hand and looks at his own. That doesn't make Ron look especially heroic, Harry thinks, but looking at his hands means Ron doesn't have to look at Hermione, so Harry does the same.

"You two?" Hermione says again, sounding perilously close to tears. Harry's equal parts horrified and concerned. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with a crying girl, as evidenced by his behaviour with Cho Chang last year. On the other hand, Hermione doesn't sit around on her rear crying all that much. It reminds him of Halloween, their first Halloween together, five years ago.

"I can't believe it," Hermione mumbles, and then she stands up and stomps out of their dorm in a flutter of skirt and robes.

Ron's still looking down at his hands, his head bowed, making a funny angle in the back of his neck. Harry glances over at him. "Well," Ron says, still not looking up, "I guess that went okay."

* * *

They're lying in bed three nights later, listening to the rumble of sleep all around them. Neville is snoring noisily, a raspy hmm-hmm. Seamus tosses and turns until dawn, his covers rustling. Dean is the quietest sleeper, except for when he talks aloud and mumbles things that all have to do with the Muggle world. Only Ron's bed is quiet, because he and Harry are still awake.

"Think she's mad?" Ron asks for what, Harry is sure, is the twentieth time in three days.

"Dunno."

"Think she's upset?"

"Probably."

"Think she's confused?"

"I guess."

"Well, thanks," Ron says, sounding very much like a huffy Hermione.

Harry crosses his arms over the cold round buttons on his pajama top and tries to put some of his thoughts into words. He guesses Hermione's a little mad, a little upset, a little confused, since she's been sitting with Ginny to do her homework and avoiding them in the Great Hall. Hermione's used to being the first and the best and the one with the answer. She's probably sulking because she wasn't the first to figure out what was going on between Harry and Ron.

It's a little too emotional of an explanation for Harry. He feels himself turning back into an envelope. "I guess she's mad," he says unhelpfully to Ron, who is now lying with his back to Harry.

"Hmmph," Ron mutters.

Harry puts his hand on Ron's back, teasing the skin between his pajama bottoms and top. Ron smells like grass and pumpkin juice and crisp winter wind from flying at practice today. His neck tastes sharp and bitter when Harry kisses a freckle right below his hairline.

They both jump when they hear rustling near the bed, and Harry nearly screams when the curtains shift and billow and shape themselves into Hermione.

* * *

He's been thinking about her all night, but he certainly never expected her to turn up here, looking small and cold in her nightgown and bare feet. Awkwardness keeps his mouth hanging open. Common sense makes him smack Ron into moving over in bed.

Hermione yanks the curtains shut behind her and steals most of the blankets for herself, looking petulant. Her feet are icy even though the material of Harry's pajamas, and he shivers and moves closer to Ron. "I'm rather mad at both of you," she announces, glaring with shiny eyes.

"Oh, yeah," Ron says unhelpfully.

"You didn't even tell me," she continues, looking at the Gryffindor crest on the blanket.

She certainly sounds mad, but her head is bowed, her bushy hair falling down across her cheeks. She looks alone, somehow, even though she's less than two feet from Harry. He and Ron are piled up like puppies on half the bed, and Hermione's by herself on the other half, and this bed is really too small to fit two people on one half of it. He reaches out to pat her shoulder. "We told you," he says defensively, which is a really stupid thing to say because she doesn't seem to be listening.

Hermione pushes Harry's hand away impatiently. "What, did you think I'd go to the library to find a book on wizarding homosexuality or something?"

Ron looks so horrified that Harry wonders if he's spotted a spider on the curtain or something. Privately, he thinks that that's the sort of thing Hermione would do – when in doubt, see how many books have been written on the subject – but she seems to expect a no answer. "No," he says.

"It's just – it's just," she shrugs, and this time she's looking at her hands. Harry has never really paid attention to Hermione's hands before, but they're small, with thin, short fingers, smudged with sand and ink and the printing from books. She rests them on the fiery blanket, and they look white against the red background. She doesn't seem to be saying anything else, and Ron's still sitting there with his mouth open and looking somewhat daft, so Harry does the only appropriate thing and yanks her toward them and hugs her awkwardly. He's not used to hugging girls, particularly Hermione. Most of the time he only hugs her when one of them's been injured or something.

She's crying for real now, not just looking like she might. Her cheek is against Ron's chest, so Harry can only feel her shoulders going up and down, like the rhythm of Neville's snores. Briefly he wishes he had a handkerchief or something, like the one Uncle Vernon always carries. It's the only time Harry has wished he were more like Uncle Vernon.

He gives Ron a shove in the ribs, hoping that Hermione doesn't notice. He just wants Ron to hand her a tissue or something, but instead Ron's fingers are curling gently under Hermione's chin, and he tilts up her glassy face and kisses her.

It's not what Harry was thinking of, but her tears stop against Ron's lips.

* * *

He's been thinking all night that this bed is not made for three people, and trying to maneuver themselves and get their clothes off only reinforces that thought. Harry ends up nestling at the foot of the bed and watching Ron undress Hermione, his hands wide and speckled and confident, her legs and stomach and breasts pale as they're unpeeled in the cave of Ron's curtained bed. When he has enough room, he unbuttons his pajama top.

Ron is always quick and serious with Harry, kissing his neck, stroking his back, finding his balls, like he knows what he's doing. Ever since he started sleeping with Ron four months ago, Harry has become more and more sure that Ron doesn't really know as much as he thinks he does, but he doesn't mind. It's nice to have someone not counting on him. He's learned Ron's swift, deep kisses and the short strokes of his hand up and down Harry's shaft.

It's strange to watch Ron straddling Hermione, his fingers slow and uncertain at her face and breasts, his dick half-hard and tilted to the side like it's not sure what to do. And it's even stranger to watch Hermione, who is always the first and the best and the one with the answer, looking hesitant and nervous and even still a little annoyed, as if she's not used to Ron being the first, the one with the answer.

Harry's hand glides over Ron's naked back, his arse, his kneeling legs, and he's surprised to feel a flash of something as Ron leans over and kisses Hermione more forcefully, the way he normally kisses Harry. He's the one left out now, outside the conduct of electricity between Ron and Hermione's naked bodies.

He's not sure what to do, so he plays with the line of freckles decorating Ron's spine, the pale curves of his rear, the shoulders that are tense where he's leaning on his arms. Ron and Hermione are kissing, and Ron's cock is gathering and stiffening over Hermione's stomach. Harry's seen that before, felt Ron grow hard and warm in his hand when it was just the two of them. He's still not sure what it means for Ron to touch Hermione like this, and he's fairly certain at this point that this bed is not big enough for three people, not the way they're situated now, Ron on top of Hermione and Harry unsure of how to reach both of them.

Harry watches Ron lean over Hermione, finding the circles of her nipples with his mouth and the lines of her ribs with his hands. Ron's dick is hard against Hermione's thigh, and it makes Harry aware of his own, thick and the color of a bruise between his legs. He squats back on his thighs and cups it in his palm, the way he has so many times on his own, in his own bed. As he teases the head, the precome fluid coats his thumb with shiny, clear slickness, and after a minute of consideration he leans forward to find Ron's arsehole with his thumb.

Ron makes a short, sharp sound, but his mouth is still on Hermione's breast, and it comes out muffled between their bodies. The little ring of muscle contracts against the intrusion of Harry's thumb, and then it relaxes and Harry pushes the end of his finger inside, and Ron closes dark and tight around him. Ron feels hot and dry, a strange sensation, not that Harry has ever really considered what it would be like to put his fingers up someone else's arse. When Ron relaxes again, he withdraws his thumb and then sticks his index finger in his mouth, coating it and the valleys between his fingers with saliva so that he can spread it along the circle of Ron's hole. This time his finger slides in easier, less dry around his skin, and when Harry finds a funny spot, like a bump inside him, Ron groans against Hermione's skin.

The tip of Harry's dick is slick with his fluids, and he holds his breath as he pushes against the resistance of Ron's arse, easing inside. He rather thinks it would be better to do it quickly, like taking off a plaster, but the pattern of contractions around the head of his cock convinces him otherwise. He slows down, using his spit again to coat the rest of his shaft and Ron's rear again, and then he can't breathe because he's inside and Ron is tight and hot and almost painful with the pressure all around Harry.

Harry has to shift with Ron when he pushes into Hermione, and she gasps, and so does Ron, as however Harry moves seems to be a good thing. It's hard to keep his balance behind Ron because he's moving inside and into Hermione's cunt, and Harry feels strange, because he's able to move much less inside Ron than Ron is in Hermione. Still, he doesn't seem to mind, and Harry's sliding in and out of him just barely, slick and slow, his hands against Ron's back to steady himself. One hand slips down Ron's sweat-flecked back and bumps against Hermione, her breast and shoulder, and it feels strange to be holding Ron between them like this, strange to hear Hermione's gasps and sighs that are so different from any other sound she's made when it's been the three of them.

Ron's still pushing inside Hermione, slower than Harry thinks it's been with him, and he takes his cue from Ron's pace. His hipbones are brushing up against Ron's arsecheeks with each small thrust, and the heat and friction on Harry's dick is almost beginning to hurt when he comes. It's slippery now inside Ron, and he eases out of him slowly, which gives him the opportunity to watch Hermione's closed eyes and rumpled hair and her fingers clutching at Ron's arms as his cock disappears inside her, beneath a tangle of brown pubic hair. Ron's eyes are closed too, and he looks different from any way he's ever looked with Harry: softer, with wrinkles up and down his forehead and gentle fingers on the circles of her nipples. It seems strange that Ron looks so concerned about upsetting Hermione, and then as Harry listens to the sounds that she makes when she comes and listens to the sounds Ron makes, sounds that are different from the ones he makes with Harry, he thinks he understands.

Ron might be an envelope, but he knows how to do stuff.

* * *

For fucking, this bed might be big enough for three people, but for sleeping it's definitely not. Harry offered to go back to his own bed, but Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, and Ron insisted that they could find a way. In the end, they sort of piled themselves, Harry tucked up lengthwise against Ron and Hermione lying half on top of both of them. Harry feels like a puzzle piece in a fire. He moves his head so he can get a breath of cool air and listens to the sounds of Ron and Hermione's sleep, even breathing, snorting snores, soft little sighs that probably mean Hermione's dreaming about parchment.

It's horribly uncomfortable wedged in between his two best friends. Harry considers wriggling away from them, and then he stops, because as tight and warm and sweaty as it is, their bare skin on his is like a comforting hug, when for once none of them is injured.

He's sure he'll be awake all night, but that's his last thought before he falls asleep.

fin.

Drabble: The Art of Flying (Harry Potter, PG, gen)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 19:11:40 GMT

Title: The Art of Flying
Date: April 30, 2003
First posted at: hpdrabble
Length: 425 words
Rating: PG
Warning: None. Some sadness, maybe.
Pairing: Mention of Ron/Hermione, a tiny bit
Notes: I was actually surprised that I never brought this over to my old fic journal -- I remember liking it when I wrote it.

The Art of Flying

Sometimes, when he sleeps, Harry dreams of flight. Of the smooth, glossy handle of a broomstick pressed against the vein below his thumb. Of the sound of pure, smooth air twisting itself around the curves of his ears. Of broomsticks.

He knows it's a dream, of course. Always a dream. There are no brooms anymore. Voldemort has delighted in enchanting them all with horrible curses, incantations that break every bone in your right leg and left arm, charms that render you blind just long enough to go insane before your sight returns, spells that turn the broomstick into a Portkey so that you are transported directly and instantaneously under the icy curved fangs of a great serpent. It is his idea of sport. Buying a broom is like playing a game of Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. No maker, merchant, or buyer can be trusted, so no one flies anymore. Better to be safer, aching to fly but safer, than to … well, no one mentions what might happen if you touch a broomstick.

No one flies anymore. Quidditch is a thing of the past. The babies that have been born in the years of war, and the babies who will be born in the years before they defeat Voldemort, will grow up hearing lectures on the evils of deep water, steep cliffs, and broomsticks. They will never know the exhilaration of flight, will never hear the glittering sound of a Snitch beating its wings faster than a hummingbird in the air. The art of flying will fall and crumble to other talents that tired professors will teach to first-year students at Hogwarts: swimming, perhaps, or singing. Perhaps one day someone will reinvent the flying carpet that was banned so many years ago. Only time will tell.

Several years later, after Voldemort has been defeated, after the forests of Albania have withered and turned themselves to dust and a gigantic snakeskin has been flung deep into the waters of the Adriatic Sea, along with the bones of a small rat skeleton -- after all of that, Harry will show up at Ron and Hermione's door with a sheepish smile and baggy eyes. It is his godson's fifth birthday and he is late, as usual, for the party. He will scoop up Arthur, and the little boy will laugh and blow a raspberry that sounds like the wings of the elusive Snitch. And after cake and pastries and Every Flavour Beans they will sing and Harry will give him his birthday present: the very first toy broomstick.

Drabble: Floating Black (Harry Potter, PG-13, gen)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 19:08:02 GMT

Title: Floating Black
Date:
First posted at: hpdrabble
Length: 279 words
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Character death

Floating Black

He likes to swim, usually in the summer when there are no students around to watch his wide black silhouette against the Scottish summer sky. He flexes his knees and swings his big arms like a champion diver. When his wide hands, cupped in prayer, and bushy head snap the surface there is a clear whirlpool down to the bottom of the lake.

He tips his head back and feels the waves stroke his scalp as he watches Dumbledore's frantic owls hurtle across the sky. He likes to swim, likes feeling weightless and small for once. Likes the way the hazy water keeps him afloat. His sausage-sized fingers swirl and eddy the water, big and scary enough that even the bravest grindylows will not attack him.

When he gets tired of pumping his wide arms and sending floods of pressure through the murky water, he scrambles out of the lake and shakes himself like a dog. Drops of water still cling to the crisp-soft black hair on his head and chest. He lumbers onto a rock by the water, sunning himself in the pearly glow of the moon. When he gets tired of sitting and watching the dark underwater ripples, he cannonballs back in and sinks to the bottom before rising, breaking the surface tension.

He likes to swim, thinks sometimes as he opens his eyes underwater and looks at eerie black and green light that he could be happy swimming forever.

When they throw his body in the black water they laugh, high and cold, and turn back to the castle without giving it a second thought. They do not watch as it sinks and then floats again.

Fic: (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prints, Harry Potter, PG, parody)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 19:04:44 GMT

Title: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prints
Date: February 3, 2005
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, except for bad grammar-based humour
Notes: When the title of HBP was first released, and did not contain the dash in Half-Blood, a bunch of us joked about how you could have half a blood prince, etc., and it was pretty funny, or at least I thought it was. Antosha started it.

Why, yes, I am archiving my old fics, thank you for asking.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prints

Everyone was surprised, but pleased, when Harry took up art as a hobby. It would ease his stress, Dumbledore said. It would let him exercise his blatant disregard for neatness and order, Snape sneered. It would keep him out of their hair when they wanted to snog, Ron and Hermione muttered.

One sunny afternoon, Hermione and Ron climbed the ladder to Professor Trelawney's tower, which Harry had claimed for his studio. It got the best northern light, Harry had explained earnestly to Professor Trelawney, who was so impressed that Harry hadn't yet dropped dead that she offered to teach in the classroom with Firenze.

"This is really great, Harry," Ron said, turning in a slow circle to study the statues and paintings. "Hey, is this a sculpture of a potato?"

Harry looked crestfallen. "No," he said, "it's supposed to be Dumbledore."

Hermione gave Ron a withering look. "This one's really good, though, Harry. Is it Malfoy?"

Harry nodded proudly.

"But, um, mate," Ron asked hesitantly, "why were you drawing a picture of Malfoy, anyway?"

Harry turned about seven shades of Weasley red. "Come see this," he said hurriedly, leading them over to the other side of the tower. "It's my newest thing. You make a stylus out of heavy parchment and then print the design onto paper, like a stamp."

"This one has a beautiful range of colour," Hermione admired, tilting a crimson-red print toward the sunlight. "Except the paint is sort of lumpy. What did you use?"

"Uh, well, Voldemort sort of - "

"Don't say the name," Ron groaned.

" - gave me the idea. You know, when he came back to life?"

"Back to life?" Hermione echoed.

"Harry," Ron asked, looking like he might vomit another round of slugs. "Is that blood?"

"Mixed with a very fine oil paint that Dumbledore gave me," Harry explained hastily. "Dumbledore's really been encouraging me to explore my creativity. He's even going to help me produce a book of my art."

"A book?" Hermione said, her cheeks slowly turning back to pink. "Oh, well done you, then! What will you call it?"

"Oh, haven't I told you?" Harry beamed. "It'll be out in July. I think I'll title it Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prints."

Fic: Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself (Harry Potter, PG-13, parody)

celeria@insanejournal.com — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 19:00:23 GMT

Title: Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself
Date: March 21, 2005
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None, except for parody and distortion of the first chapter of the first book.
Notes: I wrote this several years ago, after The Leaky Cauldron linked to a story about a Harry Potter fan and teen prodigy who killed himself, and someone commented that it was not appropriate for TLC to share that link because "Harry Potter is the boy who lived, not the boy who committed suicide." My friend Claire made a joke about writing that story, and bam, it was born.

Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything depressing or therapeutic, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made bandages and antibacterial ointment because he knew most "depressed" teenagers who "mutilated" themselves and wanted to "die" weren't actually depressed and didn't want to die, so they would take care of their wounds when they cut themselves. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors when they had serious talks with their sobbing teenagers. The Dursleys had a young son called Dudley who was very fat (part of their master plan so that if he ever got "depressed" and tried to hang himself, his bulk would pull down the shower curtain rod) and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years because Mrs. Potter was locked in the psychiatric ward of a very fine hospital in America; in fact, Mrs. Dursley and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street, or even in the country for that matter. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy as another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with an ugly, skinny child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley went to bed on the dark Tuesday our story starts, a man appeared on the corner. A cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to use as a bandage for small children who tried to slit their wrists. He was wearing long robes, a blood-red cloak that swept to the ground, and a lime-green-colored rubber bracelet on his armband that probably stood for the eradication of manic depression. His blue eyes were light, dreary, and exhausted behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice when the shower curtain rod broke. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore walked down the street and turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a bracelet, a neon-orange one that probably supported victims of reactive attachment disorder. She looked distinctly ruffled as they both turned to the sky.

A low rumbling sound broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle that looked like someone had tried to drive it off a bridge several times fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least four times as wide. He looked as big as Dudley Dursley might be someday, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair like scouring pads for cleaning up blood hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots looked like small buckets in which a person might try to drown himself. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a pile of soggy blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. No problems, were there?"

"No, sir – the bathtub was still full, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. His clothes started to dry out as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, looking quite blue in the face. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a drop of water.

"Is that where – ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. Hagrid let out a howl like a depressed twelve-year-old.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a carnation pink lacy handkerchief, the proceeds from the sale of which went toward a cure for REM Behaviour Disorder. "But I c-c-an't stand it – Lily and James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter have his funeral arranged by Muggles – "

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll have to arrange the damn funeral ourselves," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry roughly on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the people trying to write the eulogy."

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and, with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect depressed children to live. Harry Potter lay like a lump in his blankets. One limp arm pushed the letter out of his blankets and he lay there, cold and wet, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he could have changed the future of the wizarding world if he hadn't drowned himself. He couldn't know that, at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were sobbing into their six-ounce tumblers of firewhisky and wailing in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who committed suicide!"

And ten years later, when Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger grew up and went to Hogwarts, they hated each other and Ron thought Hermione was too bossy and Hermione thought Ron was a big coward and no one was around to stop Quirrell and so Voldemort got the Sorcerer's Stone and got his body back and took over the whole world. The End.

Looks like I'm here.

celeria@insanejournal.com — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 17:02:01 GMT

Well, I suppose I have to revise my stance. There may be a bit to see here; I've exported all my entries from both my personal LiveJournal (celeria) and my fic LiveJournal (celfic) to this one, and eventually I'll be unlocking all my fic here. (None of the polls from my journal made it over, since I don't have a paid account here, but I think I, and you, can live with that.)

You'll still need to friend me for non-fic stuff.

Depending on how things go -- if they go -- I may split up my personal and fic journals here, but that's a long way off. I just wanted to have everything in a backup place.

Welcome!