it is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper

Drabble-Fest!

2007-03-21T01:54:07Z

I'm massively bored. And as a result of massive boredom, I've decided to take as many drabble requests as people give. Here's how it goes: anyone can request a drabble, in any of the fandoms I've mentioned below. I'll reply to each request within a day, and thus boredom is cured. Viola! I'm excited. People, come up with good ones!

Harry Potter
Pirates of the Caribbean
V for Vendetta
Pride & Prejudice
300 (just saw the movie, and it's one of my new favorite things)
Phantom of the Opera

Magic Man for sheroaredback

Holy Schiesse!

2007-03-20T22:11:57Z

Just saw the POTC 3 trailer. It looks amazing... much better than the last movie. From what I can tell from the trailer most of it takes place either at sea or in "purgatory" with Jack, not on some fucked up little island where the natives try to eat people. God that sucked. I am so excited!

"It would never have worked out between us."

"You just keep telling yourself that, darling..."

I LOVE HIM!

Fic Rec

2007-02-12T01:57:58Z

Weeel, I just spent half a day reading fanfiction when I should have been doing homework... but it was soooo good. First she (I assume it's a she) gave us Sugar Water, which I loved, but I think I like this one even more. I think it's because there's very hot sex in this one.

Everyone go read The Symmetrical Transit by everythursday aka Sage. It's amazing. Combines Europe, romance, travel, angst, and sexual tension. I literally didn't stop reading for three and a half hours.

It even inspires me to write, which is always a good thing.

Excitement

2007-02-12T01:44:38Z

This is a very late announcement, but I just thought I'd mention that I've been nominated at Dangerous Liaisons Awards! It's very flattering and I didn't expect it at all, considering that the stories are rather old. Anyway, "The Nietzsche Classes" was nominated for The Future Imperfect Award (Best Post-Hogwarts Fic) and The Long Way Home Award (Best Long Story). "Because This is How It Goes" has been nominated for The Baby Steps Award (Best Ficlet). I'm so happy! Thanks to anyone who nominated them, and don't forget to vote when voting opens. Also, it's great fun to look at all the stories nominated--there are some really fantastic ones that I've thoroughly enjoyed.

LOST

2007-02-08T17:43:55Z

So? LOST? Pretty good, I thought. I'm veeery excited with next week's episode, which, from what I've seen, is very Desmond-centric. For some reason the weird, Clockwork Orange-esque room that Carl was being kept in with the crazy techno and images really freaked me out. It was kind of driving me crazy. Juliet's story was interesting, and I swear I recognize that creepy guy who was the representative for that organization in Portland from somewhere.

I thought the only downfall was Kate. I'm getting really sick of her character. I don't really care at all about her past, or what she does. She's supposed to be this tough con woman, but all I see is a pussy.

I heard an interesting theory about LOST, that each of the main characters represent the seven deadly sins. Sawyer is anger (or lust or pride or pretty much anything else), Hurley is gluttony, etc etc. Whatever. I'm waiting for the LOST writers to answer my questions.

I don't usually like to do this, but...

2007-02-07T19:41:46Z

I try not to include political rants in this journal too often, just because offending people is not high on my list of favorite things to do. But I think this needs addressing.

Hopefully most people by now have heard of Gardasil, the new HPV vaccine produced by the pharmaceutical company Merck & Co. This vaccine has generated some controversy with health officials and parents, especially now that Texas (!?) has made the vaccination mandatory for girls entering 6th grade.

My mom works for a non-profit global health organization in Seattle that had a major part to play in the development in Gardasil as well as the GlaxoSmithKline counterpart due for release in March of this year, Cervarix. She used to head the HPV/Cervical Cancer program at this organization and worked towards distributing the vaccine in developing countries. In short, she knows a lot about the vaccine.

First, I'll start with some facts. A lot of people barely know what HPV is, let alone anything about the vaccine. 500,000 people are infected with HPV annually, and 250,000 die from it in the same amount of time (80% in developing countries). Some 24-20 million people are believed to be infected with HPV. A recent study at the University of Washington found, shockingly, that each time a woman has sex with a new sexual partner her chances of getting HPV rises thirty percent. In other words, if a woman has three sexual partners in college (not an unusual case at all) she may have a 90% chance of having HPV. In another source I found, it said that HPV has been found 17-49% of female college students. Many people think that Herpes, Chlamydia, or AIDS are the most common STD's, but they're not. Its HPV.

This new vaccine protects against the strains 16 and 18 of the HPV virus, which cause 70% of cervical cancer cases and 90% of Genital warts cases. I recently went to a University of Washington clinic to receive the first dose of the vaccine (there are three doses, usually two months apart, and it's not cheap), and I was surprised how few side effects there were. It even says that the vaccine is safe for pregnant women! This is because the vaccine is composed of proteins manufactured so that our immune systems react the same way as they would to the specific strains of HPV, even though no actual virus is contained within the vaccine. In other words, this vaccine is much safer than the flu vaccine (which can result in flu-like symptoms), even though the flu vaccine is widely used and the HPV vaccine is still taboo.

Of course, it's about sex. Because HPV is a sexually transmitted disease, many parents object to vaccinating pre-teen girls, the recommended age group. However, studies have shown that most women are first exposed to HPV during their mid to late teen years--basically, the first time they have sex. According to most studies, I, at 18, am thought to be rather old to be receiving this vaccine as statistically I will have already had sex. Seeing as I haven't yet, I want to get the vaccine before going to college.

I had a nice chortle after watching a debate on Fox News today about this very issue, during which a vaccine opponent basically said that she didn't understand why we needed to vaccinate girls during their early teen years because HPV has a twenty year latent period and the age most women first show symptoms of HPV is between 35 and 40 years old. What? Does she not know basic arithmetic? The idea with this vaccine is to protect girls before their first sexual experience. I'm sorry to tell worried parents, but if they think their 13, 14, and 15 year old children aren't having sex, they're sorely mistaken. I've recently heard a story from my old middle school that the faculty has taken to patrolling the bathrooms in order to catch students having sex during class. It's apparently quite a frequent occurrence for these 12, 13, and 14 year olds. Pretty shocking, but reality all the same.

The claim that being vaccinated for an STD will promote sexual promiscuity is akin to saying that wearing seatbelts makes people drive recklessly and get into more accidents. I know from experience that when the average high school student has sex, he or she is not generally worried about STDs, but about pregnancy. And last time I checked there's no vaccine against that. That's all I'm going to say about that ridiculous argument made by some parents, because it doesn't really deserve acknowledgment.

Also, there have been frequent cases of the HPV virus passing through the latex of a condom, so even more commonly practiced methods of contraception aren't as effective as generally thought.

Surprisingly, I'm still not sure how I feel about the mandated vaccination in Texas, simply because as far as I know the governer didn't consult with many people about it and I'm fairly sure he was paid off by Merck. However, I do think that every person with a daughter of the right age should seriously consider getting her vaccinated. It's not a question of your daughter being sexually promiscuous and thus needing the vaccine, it's a question of your daughter having sex at all during any time in her life, simply because the chances of contracting HPV during one's first sexual experience is so high.

Above all, it's a vaccine against frickin' cancer. Anyone sick enough to argue against that has major issues, in my book.

Ugh. I'm tired of typing. Just food for thought.

bursts out laughing

2007-02-04T20:12:59Z

I laughed sooo hard...

Holy SHIT I just saw a good movie.

2007-01-28T07:27:44Z

Everyone go and see Pan's Labyrinth. Right now. Immediatamente. It's the best movie I've seen in theaters almost as far as I can remember. What an AMAZING film. It interweaves fantasy and the brutality of war effortlessly. It was frightening and sad and disturbing and wonderful all at once. I can't get over it.

It was really gory and violent, though. I couldn't watch at certain points, and I was so scared/disturbed at others that I had to cling to my friend and almost whimper. I haven't hated a character in a movie so much since Ralph Fiennes' character in Schindler's List (if you see the movie, you'll know what character I'm talking about). But FUCK, it was good.

Everyone go see it.

Ha.

2007-01-26T13:54:34Z

I just went back and read last night's rant, and wow. I was feeling happy, no?

Christ, what an emotional wreck.

I feel much, much better today. Got my three finals out of the way (just one more today, and hopefully an easy one at that), came home and slept from 5 PM to 3:30 AM, and now it's 5:47 and I've finished most of my last-minute work. It's amazing how much ten hours of sleep can change your perspective.

Who knows how I did on those tortured, sleep deprived finals, though. I know I only missed three problems on my Psych final, but I don't know about Calc or Physics. My grade was a solid A in physics, so I'm not too worried, but I had only just pulled my grade up to an A- in Calc, and I really don't want to get my first B+ ever because of a hard final (it was hard). I have five points of extra credit my teacher has yet to add to my grade, so that should help a bit. And two homework assignments. Ugh.

I need to stop thinking about school.

This weekend I'm invited to a party/gathering on a boat on Sunday night, which should be a nice relief. There won't be that many people there, and we're spending the night. I'll be the only slightly-sober one there. It'll be fun taking pictures of the wasted people so I can show them to my friends when they don't remember the next morning :).

SERIOUS RANT

2007-01-25T10:47:15Z

I highly suggest that no one reads beyond this point. It won't make sense and it will only sound whiny but I need to get all this shit off my chest. I'll put whatever follows in an lj-cut so people don't have to stare at my typos and swearing.

I fucking HATE this shit. I can't concentrate because it's 2:19 AM and I won't be getting any sleep tonight and I have three finals tomorrow and I'm not going to be AWAKE. I don't get home till five this afternoon and I start homework as soon as I get home. I've been working solidly for almost nine hours and I still am not halfway through. I HATE how my Calc and Physics teachers are so useless and it makes everyone feel like SHIT because they can't do their work because our teachers don't know how to teach their subject. I HATE that on Monday night I got 20 minutes of sleep. I HATE that I'm sitting here with tears rolling down my face in a stupid, fucking spoiled brat kind of way because it feels like my life SUCKS right now but it doesn't really at all, not in comparison with other people's. I HATE that on Monday night I was sitting in my bed with tears rolling down my cheekes because I was so DAMN TIRED of being stressed out ALL THE TIME. I HATE that my calc final tomorrow is cumulative and I can't remember back as far as september to remember FUCKING limits. I HATE that there are only two more days left in this fucking semester and it feels like a month. I hate that I'm stressed out enough right now to be writing all this shit that hopefully no one reads because it's so FUCKING INSIGNIFICANT. I KNOW it is. Intelligently, logically, it's a tiny blip on the radar. But my emotions are so haywire and everything is blown so out of proportion from sleep deprivation that I feel so incredibly depressed with the thought of going to school tomorrow to get a B on my Calc final which will lower my grade from an A- to a B+ and OH NO! Colleges will see that on my mid-year report and fuck all, then! She got a FUCKING B+ in her Calc class and now she can't come to OUR school! All that shit she got because of her academic achievment and test scores doesn't count now, not now that she has that black mark of a B+! I HATE how everything is so uncertain. I don't even know what I'll be doing in eight months. I don't even know where in the goddamn country I'll be! I feel like I could completely change who I am in that time and no one would notice. You know how unsettling that is? It's like sort of knowing your future, maybe knowing what you want to do, but knowing that it could be snatched away completely with the mark of some asshole admissions worker. I HATE that I'm wasting time right now by typing this when I shoudl be doing homework. I HATE that ALL I DREAM ABOUT IS SCHOOL. And I hate that I hardly dream anymore because I dont sleep enough. I hate that I don't have time for relationships or a social life. I hate that because I am so tired and stressed I haven't said one kind word to the people I love in a week. I hate that I'm afriad that college will be just like high school and I'll be even more stressed out. I hate that I just thought I saw movement out of nothing becuase I'm so damn tired. I hate that I have no internal biological clock anymore. No circadian rhythm whatsoever. I hate that when we're studying Sleep and the consequences of sleep deprivation in AP Psych I can literally go down the list in the text book and check off which symptoms I have. I hate that labored way my brain moves because I'm so tired, like how it feels like a damn rusty squeezebox or something, like it's trying so HARD to perform up to speed but it can't, like it's a lame horse or something. I hate that I sound like such a TEENAGER when I write this. I hate that I feel better after writing this incoherent, long paragraph.

But most of all I hate that I have to write "I hate" so many times just to feel like I can get all of this shit OUT.

I'm sorry if you chose to read that. I did warn you. You might be surprised, but I am such a calm, non-angry person in reality. I NEVER get angry at people, things usually just bounce off me. Someone can say something horrible about me to my face and I don't care. But I'm angry now. I just don't really know why.

AP Calc

2007-01-23T04:35:46Z

There should most definitely be Cliffnotes for calculus.

s(n)=

n
∑ f[(2(i-1))/n](2/n)
i=1

I hate my life.

(And don't ask me what the above equation means, 'cause I have no idea. It was just for effect.)

I got distracted again.

2007-01-22T02:03:26Z

I know that I'm supposed to be working on "Green-Lit Rooms," but a plot bunny wandered into my brain and refused to leave. I went to see Stranger Than Fiction last night, and got inspired. So the first bit of this fic and some aspects of the tone are inspired by that movie. This fic's a bit weird, and quite different from anything I've done recently. Much different than "The Nietzsche Classes," in some ways. It reminds me slightly of Counting, in that in both stories the characters use numbers as a coping device. It will probably end up being a two or three parter.

Author: Beringae
Title: On a Particular Day
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 1 out of 2 or 3
Word Count: 1,435
Summary: Draco Malfoy has liked numbers for 9.7 years, and no one knows why.

On a Particular Day

This is a story about a man named Draco Malfoy and his hat.

Draco Malfoy was a very organized man, and he lived his life according to his wristwatch. He never said much. More often than not, he kept to himself.

He felt it was a very efficient way to live.

Every day for 9.7 years, Draco Malfoy woke at exactly 7:15 AM. He traveled the approximately thirteen steps from his bed to his private bathroom, where he showered for seven minutes and brushed his teeth with a plain white toothbrush. He allowed three minutes and forty-five seconds for his breakfast, which consisted of sugared porridge on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and of eggs and sausage on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays, Draco Malfoy did not eat breakfast, because he slept until 9:37 AM, he was never hungry until 12:09 PM, and he considered it a waste of food to eat when one was not hungry.

Draco Malfoy was twenty-nine years old, and he lived alone in a house containing 138,000 square feet of floorspace, seventy rooms, and thirty-one house elves. He owned twenty-five suits, thirty-six pairs of shoes, and thirteen hats. The hat that is especially important to this story was his favorite, a black borsalino that he favored because he thought it made him look forbidding and unapproachable. Each morning Draco Malfoy counted the seconds it took him to apparate to the Ministry of Magic—three—and counted the marble tiles in the lobby of the building—three hundred and fifty-five. He rode the lift six floors to his 95-square-foot office, where he spent the day filling out 7.5 official “Illegal Instance of Magic” packets.

For 9.7 years, Draco Malfoy returned to his house at 5:38 PM and ate supper thirty minutes later. He read approximately three books per week and spent the 3.8 hours after his supper reading the book of his choice. He then walked the grounds of his house—800 acres—for fifty-three minutes He retired without fail at 10:30 PM.

Another thing besides the black borsalino that is especially important to this story is that Draco Malfoy liked numbers.

-

It was because Draco liked numbers that on a particular day he remembered the same day ten years before. Other people remembered this day, to be sure. It was mentioned many times in the periodical that Draco spent 2.4 minutes skimming every day, and he could not help but notice the decorations adorning the hallway outside his office. In fact, he could not help but notice that there were not many people at work at all.

But Draco remembered this particular day for a reason different than everyone else.

Everyone else remembered this day because ten years before, at approximately 8:43 PM, a boy named Harry Potter killed a man named Tom Riddle. Draco remembered this day because, fifteen minutes after the death of Tom Riddle, a man named Lucius Malfoy killed a girl named Ginny Weasley precisely four seconds before a killing curse from the wand of a boy named Ron Weasley struck him in the chest.

It was because Draco liked numbers that he remembered this, and it was because he remembered this that he did not retire at 10:30 PM. Instead, Draco found himself at a bar at 8:58 PM, exactly ten years after the death of Lucius Malfoy, swallowing his seventh shot of firewhiskey. And it was because Draco swallowed a total of nine shots that night that he left his wand sitting on the table of the bar and retired sometime after eleven none the wiser.

-

Draco awoke the next morning at 9:07 AM, and cursed when he realized that he was late for work. As he showered for 3.2 minutes, he calculated quickly that due to his lateness he would only complete 6.4 “Illegal Instance of Magic” packets today, putting him behind schedule. Draco did not like to be behind schedule.

But Draco understood that he would be put even further behind schedule when he reached for his wand and it was not there. He remembered vaguely that he had his wand at the bar the night before. Draco did not keep a supply of floo powder, so he concluded that he had no choice but to walk the 2.6 miles to the bar to retrieve his wand.

So far, this story has sorely neglected Draco’s hat, and Draco’s hat was rather fed up about this. And so, as Draco was walking down a street filled with muggles and muggle cars, his hat saw the perfect opportunity to make its frustration known.

A wind with a speed of approximately fifteen miles per hour approached from the west, and Draco’s hat decided at that moment to leave the head of its owner and soar as best it could to the other side of the street. Draco, naturally, chased after his hat—it was his favorite, after all—and narrowly missed several speeding cars in the process.

But Draco’s hat had found an unexpected new owner, at least for the moment.

Draco saw a woman that he had not expected to see stoop to pick up his favorite hat, looking up as she held the brim between her small hands for its owner. Draco stopped chasing his hat. He entirely intended to turn around and forget his favorite hat, but instead Draco did something unexpected for the first time in 9.7 years.

“What are you doing here?” he said, wondering instantly why he had opened his mouth because he was sure that he never did anything unexpected.

Draco saw the eyes of the woman named Hermione Granger widen one-eighth of an inch as she looked at him. He rather thought she wished that she had never picked up his favorite hat.

He had not seen her in nearly ten years.

“I was looking for you, actually. I was just on my way to your house,” she said as she gave him his hat.

Draco was surprised by this. “Why?”

“I wanted to give you this.” Miss Granger handed Draco an envelope.

“What is it?” he asked.

She seemed to hesitate, like she was searching for the right words. “There are two letters inside.”

Draco was beginning to become annoyed with her. She was making him more behind schedule than he already was, and he was impatient to find his wand and make his way to the ministry. “Letters to whom?” he asked as he glanced at his wristwatch. It was now 9:52 AM.

“Letters to you, from Harry and Ron.”

This made Draco temporarily forget about the time and the fact that he was now nearly two hours late to work. He had absolutely no idea why Ron Weasley and Harry Potter would have written him letters. She must have seen this on his face, and hurried to explain.

“It’s been ten years. I think they’ve finally come to terms with Ginny’s death. I think they wanted to apologize. They were afraid you’d hex them if they tried to find you, so they gave them to me,” she said.

“Oh.”

Miss Granger looked at him strangely.

Draco slipped the envelope in his jacket. “I must be going,” he said, and began to continue on his way. He had taken precisely five steps before he heard Miss Granger again.

“That’s it?”

Sighing, Draco turned around. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t speak to anyone from the war for ten years, and that’s all I get? ‘I must be going?’” She had her hands on her hips, and for some reason Draco found her stance very familiar. “After the war you disappeared for three months when everyone else was celebrating. Once you came back you didn’t talk to anyone. What happened? Everyone tried to get you to communicate but no sane person was going to keep at it forever!”

“3.6 months,” said Draco. Miss Granger was making his head hurt.

She stared at him. “What?” she asked quietly.

“I was gone for 3.6 months.”

“What!? Fucking hell, Malfoy!”

When she didn’t say anything more, Draco turned slowly and began to walk towards the bar. It was now 9:56 AM, and he knew that because of Miss Granger’s interference he would only complete 6.2 “Illegal Instance of Magic” packets.

“Where are you going?” She was walking beside him, taking 1.4 steps for every one of his own.

“To a bar down the street to pick up my wand, and then to work.”

“I work at the Ministry, too. I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Shut up. I’m walking with you.”

And she did.

Draco Malfoy’s hat was satisfied.

cries

2007-01-19T01:57:30Z

Some dumbshit broke my violin! Goddamn fucking junior SAT on it!

Damage report: snapped bridge, broken chin rest, and cracked tailpiece.

Thank fuck I have it insured. And thank fuck the body or neck isn't cracked (if you crack the body it can reduce the sound quality--and it costs the earth to fix). For Christ's sake, the damn thing's a $3,500 dollar instrument!

I'm really upset, if you couldn't tell from the incessant cussing.

I wanna huddle in a ball and cry. If anyone reading plays an instrument, hopefully you'll understand. I love my violin. I love it more than most people. It's like my child.

At least the dumbshit apologized. A lot. Because if he hadn't, I would of taken him out.

*sniffles* I want my violin! Is it bad to be so attached to an inanimate object?

In honor of my fallen companion, I have changed the wallpaper of my journal.

I'm gonna flip a shit.

2007-01-16T10:28:00Z

College applications. Finished.

Finally.

EIGHT FUCKING APPLICATIONS! ELEVEN DAMNED ESSAYS!

WOOT.

After Wednesday (or maybe it's Thursday--I might have a calc test) I can relaaaaax. Technically it's after the 26th, but I'm not thinking that far ahead.

Ah am a fic MAHCHINE!

2007-01-15T06:49:52Z

A yes, another fic. I know I should be working on "Green-Lit Rooms," but inspiration for this came at three in the morning last night as I was watching a Deprovera commercial. If you read the fic, you'll understand how this works. Oh, and it's not completely angsty like everything else I've written lately! And I finally got to write an all-out, screaming and kicking argument, and it felt sooooo good.

Author: Beringae
Story: After All This
Rating: R to NC-17. I'm not sure.
Word Count: 6,426
Summary: During the war, everyone turns to something or someone to maintain his sanity, and Draco and Hermione turn to one another. But something scares Hermione, and she and Draco will have to work through some major hurtles in their relationship.

After All This

Hermione stared at the calendar.

She’d last had it when Harry and Ron had been off looking for the sixth horcrux. That was two weeks before the day they’d lost Luna. It had been another three weeks after that when their side had captured six known Death Eaters during a raid of Avery’s mansion, and that had been one week ago today.

She didn’t even know why she kept this damn calendar anymore; time was based on nothing but battles and deaths now.

But by her calculations, she was two weeks late.

“Fuck.”

-

Supper had become a silent affair in the castle formally known as Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Everyone seated around the large table—not large enough to fill the cavernous space of the great hall, but big all the same—was either too exhausted, grieved, or miserable to worry about holding a coherent conversation. At the focal point of the table sat Minerva Mcgonagall, the lines of her face worn deep into her skin and her face set stolid with the strain of heading the Order. Arthur Weasley sat at her right, his wife beside him, gripping his hand beneath the table. Ron ate silently next to his mother, stabbing his food with a sort of violent frustration. Remus Lupin, his hair gone completely gray from the stress of four years of war, was not eating, but instead watched Ron’s fork morosely. It was a rare occasion that the werewolf ate with them; he was usually undercover in the frigid caves that were the home of Fenrir’s werewolf army. Tonks, Fred and George Weasley, Neville, Zabini, Shacklebolt, and various other Order members sat at their places around the round table, silent and thinking.

And Harry Potter, thin and pale, so frail that everyone wondered if it was even possible, even reasonable, that what was left of The Daily Prophet was calling him “our last hope,” looked as if he wanted to sink into his chair with how different everything had become.

Draco Malfoy watched the one empty spot at the table with a frown, shoveling food into his mouth with such a single-minded forcefulness that he could hardly swallow fast enough. She was not one to miss a scheduled event such as supper, and he fully intended to tromp about the castle looking for her after satisfying his appetite.

Draco had joined the Light two years after the start of the war, just when the losses had begun to wear heavily on both sides and the floundering Order of the Phoenix had moved its headquarters from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, which had been damaged extensively in the last raid, to the relatively unscathed Hogwarts.

He had been twenty years old, and Lord Voldemort had tortured a muggle child the night he decided that he did not want to be a Death Eater anymore. The child had not understood. She thought she was the special guest of a party. They had dressed her in a pretty white dress.

He still heard her screams in the night, saw the blood spattered across that virginal dress as his eyes stared into the dark.

He understood now that always somewhere in his subconscious, ever since his first memory of his father’s masked rituals in the Malfoy dungeons, he had known that he was not supposed to be a Death Eater. He began to realize this the night he was supposed to kill Albus Dumbledore, and the death of the child in the white dress had solidified his resolve.

He was not his father.

It was ironic, he mused as he tore into his Shepard’s pie, that he owed his life in the end to Harry Potter. It had been Harry who, upon seeing Draco emerge, exhausted and stumbling, from the Forbidden Forest, convinced the other members of the Order not to kill him on sight. Instead, they had placed him in magical restraints, poured veritaserum down his throat, and let him talk for three hours straight. Four more days, and they were convinced.

Needless to say, Draco’s extensive knowledge of the inner workings of Voldemort’s well-oiled machine of followers didn’t hurt his case, either.

He knew he had turned out to be an invaluable resource to their cause. He knew Voldemort’s mind and plans, he knew Death Eater tactics. He was an expert in cunning. Yet still, he had remained in limbo, caught between his past and his resolve, their trust and suspicion. He caught them staring at his exposed forearm, their eyes lingering on his face as they remembered his father.

Until she, his menace and his savior all in one, had finally reached out and touched him.

-

She found him at the lake’s edge just as he knew she would. They had shared enough heated glances and reluctant emotions together and he had enough experience with the female creature that he knew she would come. And because he had made sure that she saw him leave the castle.

She sat next to him in the sand, staring across the black lake. Silence weighed heavily around them, and Draco made himself not look at her, not drink in the planes of her face and watch the moonlight on her outstretched leg.

“I’m sorry…” It was almost silent, a breath through the lips he craved so often.

He finally turned to her, chest tight, hating himself. “Sorry for what?”

“For not believing you at first, for wanting Harry to kill you.”

Because she had, hadn’t she?

The war had changed something essential about Hermione Granger, and sometimes he thought he was the only one to see it.

He shrugged, for once words escaping him. He wanted to hate her still, but something about he way she sat, her skin so soft and shadowed and dark at the edge of the lake, made it damn near impossible.

He knew somehow that it had started several months after they had decided to let him stay, when he had become so frustrated with her righteousness that he backed her into the corner of the old potions room and saw her lip tremble. Then his eyes had slid on their own accord from her lower lip to the bow-like curve of its upper counterpart, and then to the flush of her cheekbones, and from there to her eyelashes and the faint curling wisps of hair around her temple. As soon as he had realized what he was doing, he as good as jumped away from her, and upon noticing her calculating stare, he snapped at her to get out of his sight.

But his sight, it seemed, had become entirely too focused on her.

So now, as he reached a hand around to grasp the nape of her neck and pull her face towards him, he could not think of anything but those trembling, annoyingly perfect lips. And when he drew those perfect lips against his own, she hesitated a universally long second, a moment in which Draco might have died, before tentatively touching his shoulders, whispering her fingertips across his skin.

And she kissed him back.

And he knew, somehow knew, that he belonged here.

So he pulled her tight against his chest and tasted.

-

From there their relationship had progressed quickly, filled with an odd mix of self-loathing and nigh-uncontrollable desire, and they had thrived in it. They had both sustained injuries, everything from bruising bite-marks to black eyes to aching hearts, but to each it was worth it. They had told no one, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that when they came down to breakfast with mussed hair and an oddly familiar glaze over their eyes that they had been up to far more than sleeping. So, naturally, everyone knew but no one said a thing.

Such was the way during this damn war. Harry locked himself in his room and didn’t speak to anyone, the Weasley’s drew close together as a near-congealed family unit, Lupin threw himself into his work, and Draco and Hermione fucked like jackrabbits.

The sudden lack of food on his plate brought Draco quickly back to the present. He scraped at the last of his Shepard’s pie until his plate was clean and rose quickly, intending to find Hermione as soon as was humanly possible. He could tell strangely that something was… off.

Fortunately, she beat him to the punch. The great wooden doors of the hall swung open and the petite form of Hermione Granger stepped into the open space, drawing everyone’s eyes to her in an instant. Smiling sheepishly, she pressed the door closed and made her way to her seat, sitting quietly but not eating. She clasped one hand around the opposite elbow, effectively shielding her body from the unwanted attention, and stared down at her plate.

Draco sat down again, slowly, watching her face. She was thinking very hard about something, he could tell, but about what he had little to no idea. He resolved to catch up with her after supper and begin the interrogation.

-

Hermione wished she could melt into the floor if it would make everyone stop looking at her. She tried to think of anything else—the tenor solo in Beethoven’s 9th, cheering charms, cultural globalization—but none of it could keep her mind off babies and that nauseating smell of Shepard’s pie and the fact that everyone was staring at her.

She sat silently throughout the meal, vaguely aware of Draco’s shrewd stare, and sipped only water. Finally, when the first person rose to leave, she followed quickly after in order to not look out of the ordinary. Draco sat for a respectable time more—five minutes or so—before stalking out of the hall.

Hermione sat primly on the bed they shared in what had once been the girls’ dormitories. She might have been able to count down to the second the time when he would burst through the door, curiosity making him impatient.

She was busy smoothing down the coverlet on the bed when the door flew open. “What was that about, Granger?”

She smiled faintly. He only called her Granger when she did something he couldn’t understand and it made him angry… and when he decided she was behaving in a particularly naughty way in bed. She raised her face, taking in his reddened features. That wonderfully pale skin flushed so adorably when he was frustrated.

“Whatever do you mean, Malfoy?” She countered smartly, quelling for a moment the nausea and fear that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her gut.

“You were late. You’re never late,” he spat, thoroughly annoyed. Hermione just stared at him in that infuriating way that never failed to both vex and attract him. He took a deep breath, counting patiently to twenty, and knelt down before her. “And that show of cutting yourself off from everyone… What’s going on, Hermione?”

Her calmness faltered, and she knew he saw it.

In response to her silence, he groped for her hand. “Tell me, love…”

It was so quiet that she nearly missed it, but the assurance in his voice made unwelcome tears spring to her eyes. “I-I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

He immediately assumed the worst, erring on the side of caution. They had learned it was the key to survival in this war. “Are you in danger? Did someone threaten you?” He jumped up, pacing tightly across the room. “Fuckers! I’ll round up Potter and Weasley, we’ll—“

In any other situation, Hermione would have found it endearing that he was so quick to jump to her defense. She pressed her folded arms tightly to her abdomen, as if testing for movement. “Draco, stop. Nothing like that.” He stopped his frenetic movement in an instant, turning to face her slowly. Seeing that there was no conceivable way to avoid this confession, she buried her face in her hands. Then, muffled as if through a wall: “I think I might be pregnant.”

She thought he might not have heard her, he was so quiet. Unsure, she lifted her head from her hands.

He was staring at her , stony faced with something odd brewing beneath the dull gray of his eyes. “What?” he ground out finally, and it was a voice she had heard before, during those first days in the castle when they didn’t know if he was on their side or if he would kill them while they slept. It was a voice she hated.

She narrowed her eyes. “You heard what I said,” she responded, her voice tightly controlled. “I’m two weeks late and I’ve never been late before in my life. And I know it’s the worst time we could have thought of, and if we were kind we would probably end it, but I just wanted you to know, Draco.” She paused, fighting a terrible swelling in her chest. “I-I know the spell. I don’t want to bring a child into a war…I can’t. Not with everything that’s happened.” And fuck all, but she was almost crying, and he just stared at her, that horrible expressionless face glaring at her. “I’m going to wait until I know for sure, and then I’m going to end it. It won’t hurt me,” and here her voice cracked horribly, “or the child. I just… I don’t know if I can do it by myself.”

And she stopped, quieted for what could have been years, and waited for his face to crack, for him to come to her and offer comfort when she needed it most.

But he turned, his shoulders stiff and unyielding, and walked out the door. She heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway and almost didn’t follow him. But before she could stop herself, before she could wonder if perhaps this wasn’t the wisest of things to pursue, she flew out the door and ran after him.

-

Draco couldn’t breathe, could hardly put one foot in front of the other.
Pregnant…

She’d told him something awful and wonderful, something bloody life-changing, and he’d stood there like a fucking coward and said nothing, not even flinching when he saw tears wind their way down her cheeks and shimmer at her jaw.

You’re a real piece of work, you know that Malfoy? A real fucking prince charming. You don’t deserve her, you goddamn gutless ass.

And still, when he heard her jogging footsteps approaching, he couldn’t undo the tenseness of his shoulders, couldn’t buck up the courage to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay, that he would do whatever it took to help her.

Not yet.

“Hey!” she shouted. He forced his legs to stop, his muscles tight as he turned to face her.

She halted quickly upon seeing the expression on his face, but it wasn’t enough to keep her quiet. “What the bloody hell happened back there, Draco?”

“Go away, Hermione.”

“Go away? Go away? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

She let out an incredulous laugh, reeling back on her heels with fake amusement. “Well that’s too bad, Malfoy, because we’re going to talk about it. We’re going to have it out right now because I just told you something pretty FUCKING important and you just look at me and leave like some…some…fucking arsehole coward!”

And deep down he admired her strength, he really did. But now, as he felt the anger rise like some god-forsaken devil in his chest, he couldn’t really think about anything but the self-loathing and frustration with himself that he had to let out.

“Well maybe I didn’t ask you to spring something like that on me! Maybe I don’t want to think about your problems when there’s a fucking WAR happening outside and I don’t know if my family is dead or alive? Fucking hell, Hermione! What did you think would happen? I’d sit next to you after your little fucking chat and say everything was fine?”

And he knew he’d gone to far because just then he found out exactly how good of a throwing arm Hermione had.

Seething, she grabbed a dusty vase from the banister of the hallway and chucked it hard at his head. He only just got an arm up in time to protect his face, wincing as the shards of pottery dug into his arm.

“MY PROBLEMS?” She was shrieking, loud enough for Harry Potter, who was reading in his room four floors below, to hear quite distinctly. “MY PROBLEMS?!?”

“YES, YOUR PROBLEMS, YOU CRAZY BITCH!” And he was yelling back at her then, the pain in his arm and rising rage mixing into one dangerous cocktail of aggression. “IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOU HAD TO BE STUPID AND GET PREGNANT! THIS ONE’S ALL ON YOU, BABE!”

And, because both of them knew exactly how and why this had happened, this only served to piss her off further. Draco vaguely registered that this might not be such a fantastic idea, but he was too far gone to stop himself.

“WHAT?!? THE HELL IT IS!” He could see her searching for something else to throw at him, her eyes frantic, and when she found nothing she settled for kicking him hard in the left shin.

“OW!” He roared, before reacting quickly and pushing her none-too-gently against the rough walls of the hallway, watching with some kind of grim satisfaction as she bore his substantial weight with a grunt of discomfort. And, if either of them had been thinking coherently, they would have noticed the heads peeking out from various rooms around the castle, wondering what on earth could be causing a ruckus.

Draco felt in a distracted sort of way the blood begin to seep through the rented sleeve of his robes from the shattered vase, and Hermione howled with rage, kicking at his knees, as he smeared it in perverse revenge across her shoulder. Finally, breathing in hitched sobs, Hermione shuddered against him and, suddenly alarmed, Draco released her.

“You…you… I hate you,” she hissed, jerking away from him with a wet gurgle of a sob. “Stay away from me.”

And Draco watched helplessly as she ran down the hallway, not moving until he heard her door slam with a finality that scared the living shit out of him.

Somehow he knew he couldn’t blame this on elevated hormone levels.

-

Hermione slid down to the floor, her back against the door, and hugged her knees to her chest.

She wanted to die.

How could she have thought, she wondered with a teary moan, that Draco would have cared? How could she have assumed he would be different?

It was just sex, right? That’s all he thought of her as, his glorified whore.

That image only made her sob harder.

She was alone.

Any thoughts of keeping the child had flown right out the window as soon as Draco had turned on her and insisted that it was her problem.

The only problem was, she wasn’t sure that she could take care of her problem by herself.

With a despairing groan, Hermione crawled towards the bathroom and tapped her wand against the spout of the tub. Water, hot enough that she felt the temperature of it on her face from a foot away, streamed out of the tap. Hermione removed her clothes weakly and sank with a shudder into the water.

She lay in the tub for what seemed like hours until the water had risen up to her chin. She shut the tap off, and settled back, unconsciously fluttering her hands over her naked belly, massaging what she imagined to be the tiny embryo in her womb.

Abortion had never been a conflicting issue for Hermione. Even before she knew of magic, she had never presumed that she knew everything about every woman’s situation and could therefore make the decision about whether abortion was ethical or not. As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t her or anyone else’s choice but the mother’s. And magic made the process so quick and painless that, although abortion was not a topic most wizards discussed, she was fairly sure that it occurred relatively often in the wizarding world.

And even though, with the prospect of ending what many considered to be the life of a human being staring her in the face, she wasn’t sure she could do it.

With a calming sigh, Hermione sank into the water until only the tip of her forehead remained exposed to the excessive steam. The heat prickled against her face, and it was only then that she allowed Draco’s destructive words to fall against her and force the breath from her lungs so quickly that she was obliged to surface and gulp steam.

This one’s all on you, babe…
And the sad part was that she almost thought it was.

Because there had been only one time that she could remember that they had been stupid and forgot to use a contraceptive charm. One time, and it was because of her.

-

The Order of the Phoenix had been in good spirits that night, and the table, usually so somber, was awash in conversation and laughter because Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had returned with a cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff and that noticeably lacked a severed section of Lord Voldemort’s soul.

“It was far easier than we thought it would be,” Ron rejoiced, Harry nodding in unison with his friend’s energetic statement.

And Hermione would’ve been listening, if her eyes had not been fastened on something much more stimulating.

The heat from Draco’s eyes was causing something somewhere below her navel to feel extraordinarily like warm jelly. He was staring fixedly at her, a familiar storm of lust and oddly attractive hostility brewing behind his eyes.

Hermione swirled her tongue slowly around the tip of her spoon loaded with treacle tart. She watched Draco jerk suddenly in his chair as she supposed he recognized that move from earlier in the morning, when she had wantonly been swirling her tongue around him instead of that damn spoon.

Hermione was enjoying herself immensely. Wielding such power over the infamous Draco Malfoy was strangely intoxicating, and she liked it.

The happy ambient noise faded until it was just the two of them. Hermione stared challengingly into the face of her lover, baring her teeth to cut the bite of tart neatly in two. She made a show of swallowing it delightedly, tilting her head back so he was sure to see the movement of her throat, and running her tongue across her lips in an agonizingly slow caress.

Draco’s eyes darkened considerably.

Almost there, she thought. Feeling quite the naughty girl, she spread her legs quickly and moved, a rhythmic shifting that was sure to escape anyone’s notice but his. The chair provided just enough friction there that she shuddered faintly and smoothed the rest of the tart into her mouth.

The conversation at the table halted abruptly as Draco Malfoy stood stiffly, his eyes fixed on Hermione’s face, and excused himself. He stalked rigidly out of the hall, and Hermione registered the expression on his face as declaring indiscreetly, “If you don’t follow me now…”

So Hermione closed her legs demurely, finishing her treacle tart with tortured slowness, and waited. She waited five minutes, not bothering to check her watch, smiling a wide internal smile. She knew there would be hell to pay, but she loved it all the same.

This, this is what made her forget the hell outside, the look on Harry’s face and McGonagall’s worried expression.

She needed it.

After several minutes more, Hermione rose, bid everyone goodnight, and sauntered towards the exit. Not two seconds after she shut the door behind her, she felt 175 pounds of hard, aroused male crash into her, pressing her tightly against the wall and moving against her in a way that told her rather painfully of his frustration.

“You…bitch…make me…wait,” he whispered raggedly against the skin of her neck.

“You deserve it, you—“ But her retort was cut off by a harsh gasp as he dragged his lips across her skin to her mouth, biting down hard on her lower lip. The unexpected stimulation caused a delicious tremor to run through her body as she pushed him roughly into a dark side corridor, perfect for the activity they were in which they were about to participate.

He was far past caring about propriety, but allowed her to maneuver him anyway, groaning loudly as she pushed her hips against his mounting erection. He shoved her hard against the wall once more, his body pressed against her everywhere, fingers grasping her shirt and tearing it over her head. He set his mouth to her upright nipple through the cotton of her bra, laving the pebbled surface with his serpentine tongue.

Hermione was more than prepared after her little show in the great hall, and her fingers scrabbled at his trousers in a vain attempt to release him. “Now, Draco…” She whispered, shifting her thighs together to try and relieve the coil of pressure building between her legs.

She felt him smirk against her breast. He was having none of it. “Not yet, pet…”

Sometimes she marveled at his self-control.

She knew this was vicious payback for her behavior in the Great Hall, but she forgot all else when he lowered himself before her, sliding her skirt up over her hips. She knew what was coming, but convulsed all the same when she felt his hot tongue probe her very center through the sodden silk of her knickers. Her head smacked against the wall, and every part of her quaked violently as he traced the folds of her vulva with his devious tongue. She began to keen almost-silently when she felt the familiar clench of the walls off her womb, the delicious growth of tension that signified that she was close, so close.

By now he was supporting most her weight by his grip on her hips—her legs shaking weakly beneath her, her knees turned to boneless joints—and she could have screamed when he slid her knickers aside with one finger to suck hard at her clit and finish her.

Hermione’s vision exploded into a cacophony of color and soundless detonation as she came, and Draco reached up to clasp a hand over her mouth as he felt her ready to scream with the pleasure of it. Her chest heaved as her senses gradually returned, and she stared with heavy-lidded eyes at his form, upright now, the look in his eyes so expressive that she almost had to look away.

“You’re so beautiful when you do that,” he whispered, an oddly strangled sound, before kissing her soundly. She could taste herself on her lips, and it made her open her legs again and search for friction against his thigh.

And something dimly registered that she should be doing something, that they were forgetting something vital. But her mind was so hazy and pleasure was so foremost in her mind that she didn’t dwell on it for long. She had finally gotten his trousers off, and delighted in feeling the weeping head of his cock against her.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he hissed tightly against her shoulder, his whole body shaking with the effort of suppressing his desire.

And she did.

He was inside her in a moment, driving until he was so deep he was nearly touching the entrance to her womb. He let out a loud, guttural groan, and stayed quite still. Hermione knew that he was fighting a loosing battle, trying to be gentle when she knew it wasn’t what he needed.

So she tightened her vaginal muscles around him, her head falling back as the faint movement made her clit brush against his pubic bone.

And he was gone, thrusting against her with almost frightening abandon.

It was only after, when her legs were slipping down his hips and he was breathing hard against her neck, when she realized she had forgotten to cast a contraceptive spell.

She told him that she was sure it would be okay, that it was three days before she was set to ovulate, and tried to convince herself that it was true.

-

The next day Draco was minding his own business thankyouverymuch, thinking about how to remedy the rather sticky situation with Hermione as he made his way discreetly down to the kitchens to nick some food from Dobby, when he was assaulted by a large redhead and that large redhead’s fist.

“Ron!” some distant voice shouted.

Draco was thrown against the wall from the force of the punch, his cheek aching, his eyes stinging from the pain of it. Draco was no stranger to physical confrontation, however, and got to his feet quickly, his fists clenched and ready to inflict rather exceptional damage, only to see Potter with his arms around Weasley’s waist, holding the raging weasel back by the proverbial skin of his teeth.

“What the FUCK, Weasley?” Draco fumed, his face smarting.

“What did you do to Hermione, you sick bastard?” Ron yelled to his face, straining valiantly against Harry’s hold.

The fight went out of Draco immediately and his shoulder’s sagged. Ron, seeing this, stopped struggling and stared at his former enemy incredulously. It wasn’t often that Draco Malfoy gave up.

Draco pressed his fingertips to his reddening cheek and checked for blood. Seeing none, he sighed. “What happened?” he asked, in a strangled sort of voice as if he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

Harry spoke up. “We tried to find Hermione this morning because she missed breakfast… actually, both of you did. We thought it was strange. So we knocked on her door and she didn’t answer. We started to get worried, so Ron,” he shot an exasperated glance in his friend’s direction, “broke down the door.”

Draco had a feeling that he was about to feel very guilty.

“She was in the bath. She’d been in there all night, the water was freezing. She was almost blue, for Merlin’s sake, Draco! What the hell happened?”

And he was right. Draco felt his stomach contract with shame. Even though he knew he was fighting a loosing battle, he put up a mild protest. “How do you know it was me, anyway?” He asked, his voice sounding mildly disembodied.

Now it was Draco’s turn to be on the receiving end of Harry Potter’s exasperation. “You both were shouting loud enough for the whole castle to hear yesterday.” A pause. “Tell us what happened. We know you two are…” he gulped, obviously lost for words, “…together.” Weasley looked furious at the mere mention of that, but he managed to control his temper.

Draco gave a great sigh. He could see there was no escaping an explanation. So he told them everything, from Hermione’s confession to his reaction to her impressive throwing arm. By the end of it he could see both men’s faces beginning to turn red with indignation.

“You slimy…Slytherin…GIT,” Ron stated resolutely at the end of it, and Draco was very glad that he seemed to have worked all of his violence out at the beginning of their confrontation. He watched Potter take a deep, calming breath before speaking.

“Okaay. Wow. Hermione’s pregnant?”

Draco nodded, one eyebrow raised. “That’s all you two’ve got? I would’ve expected more cursing, you know, the customary righteous vengence, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Ron snapped, obviously considering something. Draco was genuinely surprised to see him using his brain.

Harry was frowning. “Do you regret what you said?”

Draco nodded shortly. “More than just about anything I’ve regretted in my life. I lo…fuck.”

And he had almost said it. He had almost said it. To them! He didn’t even like these two, and he had almost just said something he hadn’t even dared to admit to himself!

And he thought they knew it, because both sets of eyebrows almost disappeared into both heads of hair.

Weasley finally spoke up, his voice surprisingly mild. “Well, go tell her that, mate.” As if it were the simplest thing in the world. And Potter smiled, watching Draco carefully.

Draco considered this. Then, he swiveled on his heel and walked down the hall in the direction of what used to be the girls’ dormitories. Suddenly, he stopped as he thought of something else, turning very slowly to face the two boy-men, his eyes a cold glare in their direction.

“You fuckers saw her naked?”

Draco heard a muttered “oh shit,” before Potter and Weasley turned and ran.

-

Hermione knew she should get out of bed. If only she could find the energy and will, she would get out of bed, she knew, but something kept her buried in an enormous cocoon under the bedcovers.

And then she heard his voice.

“’Mione…”

She loved it when he called her that.

She didn’t move, but she felt the bed sink as he sat at its foot. “Go ‘way,” she muttered, but it was pathetically half-hearted, and he knew it. She felt his hand stroke the entire length of her body, from shoulder across hip to ankle, over the comforter. She stiffened.

“Hermione, love… I’m sorry.”

She let a bit of bushy hair peek out from under the covers, and jabbed him hard in the hip with her knee. “You think that’s enough?” she asked, her voice creaky and raw from crying. “You think that’s enough…to…make…me…forgive…you?” She punctuated each word with a firm jab until he caught her ankle with her foot. Finally, she threw the covers from her head and went at him.

“I’m twenty-two fucking years old and I don’t ¬want to be pregnant! I tell you and you…Oh my god, what happened to your face?” She exclaimed, her anger forgotten for the moment at the sight of the purpling bruise on his cheekbone.

“Oh,” Draco murmured, wincing as he patted the afflicted area gingerly before smiling, almost fondly. “Weasley.”

“Serves you right.”

“I know.”

And he said it so softly, so earnestly, that she almost, almost forgave him. Seeing this, he continued on, the words rushing out of him quickly enough that she had to work at understanding their meaning.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, not after everything we’ve been through. I…I was scared. I didn’t know how to react. You opened yourself up to me and I shoved it back in your face like it was nothing. And…and if you never want to speak to me again,” and his voice nearly broke with the thought of it, “I’ll understand.”

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, throughout his apology. Upon its completion she let her eyes drop, obviously considering his terms.

It was nearly two minutes before she spoke, before she moved, and it was positively killing him. But finally, finally, she reached towards him and took his hand, pressing the firm joints and palm between her thumb and fingers.

“I don’t want that, Draco. I could never want that,” she whispered.

He let out a massive whoosh of air and, surprising her considerably, grasped her waist and crushed her to him, his arms wrapped tight around her back as she was pulled onto his lap. “Fuck, Hermione…thank god,” he groaned helplessly into her hair. “Don’t do that! Don’t ever do that again!”

She stayed stiff in his arms for but a moment, before relaxing noticeably and freeing her arms to cross them around his neck, burying her face into his neck to breathe his scent. I must not cry, I must not cry, she repeated to herself, but she was fighting a loosing battle.

After a long moment, he grasped her shoulders and shifted her back to wipe her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Would it be all that bad? Having…having my child?” His voice was so unsure that she wanted to cradle him against her like he was a little boy.

She shook her head. “I don’t think it would…but not now. Not during this war.”

He nodded silently, seeming to understand. “We’ll think about it in the morning,” he assured her, gathering her towards him for a kiss.

-

Sometime in the night Draco woke her with his mouth. He had rucked up her oversized shirt—which, he thought suspiciously, he was fairly sure had belonged to Weasley at one point in its life—and was planting delicate kisses along the lines of her belly. Hermione awoke gradually, murmuring quietly and brushing at her stomach as if a bug had landed there. Finally, her eyes tilted open, smiling faintly as she observed him paying homage to her soft midriff.

After several moments of comfortable silence, Draco spoke, his voice stifled against her skin. “I won’t hurt it, will I?” If she had any questions about what he meant, they were answered as he slid one long finger inside her, causing her to sigh deeply.

She shook her head. “No, Draco, you won’t…”

“Thank Merlin.”

-

Hermione was coaxed awake by an errant ray of sunlight that insisted on shining in her eyes. Hazily she registered that she needed to use the lavatory, and she swung her legs over the bed and padded towards the facilities. It was only when she was preparing to use the toilet that she realized that she felt that familiar slick between her thighs, and reached down to discover a stain of dark red that covered her fingertips. Hermione calmly washed her hands and sat on the toilet.

After all that…

She wasn’t pregnant.

She wasn’t pregnant.

Hermione felt an odd mixture of elation and regret wash over her suddenly weak-limbed body. With a deep breath, she searched for a box of tampons and finished her business to make her way back to the bed.

Draco was awake, watching her admiringly as she curled up next to him. Seeing something brewing in her eyes, he frowned slightly. “What’s wrong, Hermione?”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh.”

They were silent for a long time. She felt Draco take a deep breath. “Maybe…maybe after all this…” He didn’t seem to be able to say anything more, but Hermione understood.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she whispered into his lips, and then kissed him. After several minutes he drew away from her.

“But not yet.”

“Not yet.”

Whaddya think?

THERE IS A GOD.

2007-01-11T20:19:32Z

No school today.

Snow.

On the day before my portfolio is due.

It is worth 70% of the grade in my University of Washington english class.

I only had a week to do it.

Started Monday night.

Now I have all day.

I'm ECSTATIC.

(can you tell?)

I care too much about school.

It's not the most important thing in my life.

But, sometimes, it feels like it is.

(Even though I'm a senior in high school and everyone else I know could care less.)

(Even though my mother thinks I'm depressed because I'm so damn TIRED all the time and all I want to do is stay in bed and sleep. She shouldn't worry, I'm fine, but exhausted, sick of high school.)

And I hate it.

Stupid melodramatic faux-poetry.

I feel like that kind of teenager I hate most.

(Bedtime on Tuesday: 5:15 AM. Rise and shine: 6:20 AM. You do the math. I blame lack of sleep for the above post. The screen is blurry as I write. And there I go again, complaining like a fucking asshole.)

(P.S. College applications completed. Finally.)

Coffee. Must have coffee.

Green-Lit Rooms, Part Two

2007-01-08T10:10:27Z

Hope you like!

Title: Green-Lit Rooms, Part Two
Author: Beringae
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, Michael Ondaatje, and Anthony Minghella own all of it.
Summary: The little details in Hermione's life force her to remember and come to terms with the men in her life. Inspired by The English Patient.

He returned when they needed him most, and she had always taken that as a sign:

She found him one day outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, as she returned from the store with grocery bags in hand. She watched him for a full minute, squinting as if she couldn’t recognize him. He was pacing, muttering softly to himself. He didn’t see her. Abruptly, she threw down the groceries and leveled her wand at him. “Malfoy!”

He whirled around at the sound of her voice, obviously shaken. “What?” he responded lamely, before recognition flashed across his face. He looked older, no longer a child. “Granger?”

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she yelled crassly, her wand still trained on him. “Give me your wand or I swear I’ll stupefy you!”

Without objection, he tossed his wand towards her. She caught it in one hand, never looking away from him. “Answer my question! What are you doing here?” She knew he couldn’t see the house, but it was nevertheless unnerving to see him so close to their headquarters. It had been two years since Draco and Snape had fled and Hogwarts had closed, and the shock of seeing her childhood nemesis was working on her nerves, making her impatient. She fired off a curse towards his feet when he didn’t answer immediately.

“Fuck, Granger!”

“Answer the damn question!”

He paused, obviously considering how to respond. His expression closed off oddly, as if he was trying to hide something terrible. “I’m tired.”

“What does that mean?” She was highly tempted to fire another curse his way.
“I don’t want to be a Death Eater anymore. I don’t want to serve him.” He said this with such vehemence that Hermione almost lowered her wand.

She frowned, weighing her options. She knew Grimmauld Place was empty; Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Order had left to follow a lead that Lupin had picked up from the werewolves. She was alone. She could either stupefy him and drag him inside, tie him up, and wait for help, or tell him to leave immediately with her wand aimed at his back. Being the logical person she was, she decided to try and glean any more information she could from him before acting. “How did you find this place?” she asked sharply.

Warily, he eyed her, clearly sizing her up, deciding whether she would believe a lie. With a defeated sigh, he spoke. “I overheard you and Potter talking about something called Number 12 Grimmauld Place on the train at the beginning of our sixth year. I thought I might be able to find someone from the Light here,” he explained, with an ironic smirk. “I was obviously mistaken.” He motioned towards the apparent gap between Number 11 and Number 13. “It doesn’t even bloody exist.”

Hermione kept her face stoic. “You really want to change your allegiance?”

He nodded slowly.

“And you have information we can use?”

“Yes. I need some sort of leverage, don’t I? Honestly, Granger, I would expect a greater show of intelligence from you.”

“Shut up, you snarky little ferret,” she snapped, thinking furiously. “Why do you want to join us? And don’t give me that tripe about being tired.”

“This is the only place I can go outside Voldemort’s circle,” he said, haltingly and with great reluctance. “I don’t have anywhere else.”

She knew how difficult it must be for him to admit such a weakness, especially to her. “Okay. Why leave Voldemort’s ranks, then? Why put yourself at so much danger?”

A dark shadow fell over his face. Hermione shivered, shocked by the sudden pain that presented itself so abruptly over his features.

“He killed my mother.” It was a strangled, angry whisper.

Hermione tried very hard not to feel sorry for him.

After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Hermione spoke, briskly and without emotion. “Fine. Incarcerous!” Ropes shot out from her wand and bound Malfoy tight, his arms pressed against his sides. At his yell of protest, Hermione rolled her eyes. “What would you have done?”

Ignoring his cursing, she grabbed the spare end of the rope and pulled him towards the charmed house.

-

Each day she lives in fear that Ron, her lovely Ron, will put the puzzle pieces together. It isn’t as if she doesn’t leave clues.

The whispered conversation with Harry in the cloakroom. A tendency to stare in to nothingness for an indeterminate amount of time. Her propensity for weeping for no apparent reason. Unresponsiveness during sex. Malfoy’s distressing behavior at dinner.

“Could be a song for you, Mrs. Weasley… with your love of swimming…“

She hates him for saying that. He corrupted her sweetest memories with bitterness and anger.

Draco…

-

If there was one thing that damned war had taught her, it was to never give her trust blindly:

She bound him to a chair in the kitchen and sat across the room on the table, careful to watch him always, stiffening with each movement he made.

“Granger,” he said after nearly an hour of silence. His jaw was tight with irritation. “How long ‘til anyone gets back?”

She ignored him.

“Well fuck you, too…” He muttered the curse under his breath, and Hermione shot him a glare.

At the first sound of footsteps at the entryway Hermione jumped down from the table, wincing slightly as she realized that her bum had fallen unceremoniously asleep. Making a vague threat in Malfoy’s direction, she moved as quickly as she could towards the sound of voices. Harry and Ron talked lowly as they removed their coats at the entrance of the house, and Hermione took a moment to collect herself after the familiar flood of relief rendered her temporarily immobile.

Every time they left Grimmauld Place, she was continuously afraid they would never return.

She hated that war. She hated it. War made her fear for her friends’ lives whenever they stepped outside. It left worry lines across her forehead, caused Harry’s eyes to fade to near gray with exhaustion and an immeasurable burden. War made her tie her fucking classmate to a chair while she watched his wand hand lest he make any movement that could be perceived as threatening.

Hermione blinked to dispel irrational tears that trembled at the corner of her eyes. They obediently disappeared, and she moved, smiling, towards her friends.

-

Hermione works at the Ministry as part of the Committee on Experimental Charms. This means that she works often and late into the night. She is constantly absorbed in the latest mystery charm. She has little time for life outside the ministry.

She wakes at five thirty every morning and steps out the door half an hour later. She works, taking an hour for lunch and nothing more. She arrives at their flat, exhausted and irritable, at nine o’clock every night save Sunday. On Sunday she does not leave the house, but instead sleeps until eight and remains the rest of the day in her bathrobe reading obscure books that frequently require knowledge of equally obscure anti-curse spells in order to safely access the information they hold.

And yet Ron never complains. Even when he eats dinner alone and comes to bed to a sleeping wife every night, he never complains.

How she wishes she could love him.

She used to adore her work, the constant exploration of it, the quest for knowledge that she may be the first to hold like intangible gems in her hand. She delighted in the possibility of discovery.

But now the memories that assault her upon her entrance into the committee headquarters drive her mad. She hates it there.

How she wishes she could forget him.

-

Sitting at her desk, Hermione stares blankly at the tiny closet door within her office. She remembers the musty smell of that miniscule room. Barely enough room for one person in there, she remembers, but somehow they had managed two, pressed close together, breath puffing on one another’s faces, thighs and calves wrapped around hips and wrinkles coats. His head nearly bumping the ceiling. Careful, she had said, pulling his face towards her, don’t make a noise. Because it would have given their hiding place away.

Hermione is jerked from her thoughts by Spencer, the new Assistant Director who she despises, and is told abruptly and without ceremony to get to work, so she does.

-

They finally decided he could stay because Hermione told them what he said about his mother:

She was beginning to wish she had kept quiet.

“Shut your goddamned mouth and leave me the fuck alone,” Malfoy spat blandly, for what seemed like the thousandth time, before pushing her out of the door and slamming it in her face. She tried to shove the door open—he couldn’t lock it, because it locked from the outside—but he must have been bracing against it with his shoulder. Resigned, Hermione stood outside, her forehead pressed against his door, and spoke into the heavy oak.

“Malfoy! Quit being such an ass and let me talk to you! It’s either me or Ron, and I’m fairly sure that Ron won’t be so genial as I am!”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” His voice is muffled through the door.

“We have to understand why you’re here! We need to know that you won’t murder us in our sleep!” For some reason she was almost crying. She didn’t like to think about people her age killing people.

“You lock me in this fucking room every night and you always have someone watching me, you stupid bitch. Don’t be idiotic.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Sod off.”

“I WON’T!” To her horror, her voice broke, high and thin at the “--on’t.”

The door swung open and because she was leaning against it she almost fell to the floor. She could almost hear his sick sneer. “Don’t you ever shut up, you crazy bint?”

And she’d had it.
So she straightened, brushed herself off, and punched him in the face.

“What the FUCK, Granger!” He yelled, reeling back and clutching his bleeding lip.

“Listen, Malfoy.” She could see he wasn’t, so she raised her smarting fist. “Listen!” He wiped at his lip with his forearm, leaving a streak of red on that pale skin, and stared at her. Incredulously.

“You have no right,” she started, lowly, her voice almost shaking, “to act like the snotty little bastard you always have been. Not here, and not now. Do you know how much Harry is risking keeping you here? For all he knows, Voldemort can track his Death Eaters’ locations and we’ve given away our hideout, because of YOU. But Harry’s so kind that when I told him your bitch of a mother is dead I saw pity.” Her own profanity shocked her, and she could see the anger leap forward in his face. “Pity for you, who doesn’t even deserve it. If what you say is true and you have nowhere else to go but here, you should be kissing his fucking feet, not sneering whenever he enters your room. Not refusing to speak to us. So tell me really why you’re here. Tell me what really happened, in more detail. If you don’t I swear to God I’ll punch you again and curse you senseless.” She finally quieted, breathing very hard, glaring an angry tremolo into his face.

He stared, the blood dripping down his chin. Then, very slowly, enunciating clearly: “Get the fuck out of my room.”

And she did, and the only reason she did not hex him into oblivion was because she had seen in his face the crack of his resolve, if only for a moment.

Three days later, after Ron had hit Malfoy’s nose with the base of his palm out of sheer frustration at his silence, Hermione walked into that room and found Malfoy sitting on the floor. “Are you ready?” she asked.

He stared at her, the blossom of bruise on his nose fresher than on his lip, and nodded. She sat across from him and waited.

Part One

NEW FIC! FINALLY!

2007-01-03T09:40:37Z

Whew! I'm finally writing again! I hope people like this. I began writing it as a one-shot, but then realize it would be an awfully long one-shot, so I made it a multi-chapter fic. It won't be very long, probably only 5-7 chapters, but still a bit too long for a one-shot.

Title: Green-Lit Rooms
Author: Beringae
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, Michael Ondaatje, and Anthony Minghella own all of it.
Summary: The little details in Hermione's life force her to remember and come to terms with the men in her life. Inspired by The English Patient.

I have borrowed liberally (both almost direct quotes and plot themes) from the movie The English Patient, because I love it. I drew inspiration and quotes for the first "scene" of this fic, and most of the rest is mine. It will become less and less like the film as it goes on (for instance, Draco does not end up burned and being cared for by a French-Canadian nurse). So, don't cite me for plagiarism because I admit readily that I borrowed from the film.

She knows he will cause trouble the moment she sees him walk through the door. He nearly dances towards the table, terribly dashing in his pristine muggle suit, his gait and demeanor deceptively cheerful. His eyes bore hot into her.

Hermione turns her face away.

“I believe I’m rather late,” he announces loudly as he casts a tight smile across the room, interrupting what began as a pleasant meal. The near twenty people in the room—people Hermione admires, loves, and in many cases owes her life to—look up from their conversation upon hearing the commotion.

Draco violently drags the chair across from Hermione away from the table and sits regally. His face is so hard and full of angles that Hermione can hardly watch any part of him. When she finally meets his gaze she sees manic vehemence in his eyes.

“Ah, good,” Scrimgeour says, breaking the unexplainable tension in the grand room. “We’re all here. A toast, then,” the Minister pronounces, raising his glass, “to all those who assisted in the defeat of the Dark Lord five years ago. We have assembled in this great and historic hall annually since our victory, and after five years neither the pain of loss nor the joy of triumph have lessened. Wizardkind owes its gratitude to every one of you. To all.” A murmuring chorus of affirmation echoes through Hogwarts’ Great Hall.

Draco’s eyes never leave Hermione’s face. Finally, she spares a glance in his direction, and sees the familiar twitch of his jaw, a near-imperceptible flutter beneath his skin. She wills her eyes to plead with him, to keep him from doing what is ruminating in his otherwise stolid expression.

She loses the battle.

“Ah, us,” Draco croons, smiling charmingly at those sitting around him. Ron, sitting beside Hermione, furrows his brow. Draco raises his full glass of brandy and downs the whole of it in one swallow before continuing. “Misfits, buggers, muggles, and slags”—this is spat with particular venom towards Hermione—“all of us. Thank Merlin the wizarding population has us at their disposal.”

Hermione winces, fighting the urge to cover her face with her hands. Molly Weasley lets out a scandalized, “Mr. Malfoy!”

Playfully, like a joke. “Oops! Terribly sorry, Molly. Mustn’t say things like that. Dirty words, filthy words.” He smiles horribly, fixed and cold, while his eyes burn into Hermione’s.

“Draco, what are you playing at?” asks Ron slowly, watching the other man as if he is a crazed animal. Beneath the table, he places his palm protectively at the small of Hermione’s back. She tries not to jump at the touch. Abruptly, Draco stands, his chair bumping against the stone floor. It is only when he stumbles uncharacteristically that Hermione realizes how drunk he is.

“What am I playing at? Oh! I’ve invented a new dance!” Draco declares loudly, opening his arms widely towards familiar people in the room, all of who stare at him with thinly veiled alarm. This person is so very different from the Draco Malfoy they think they know. “I haven’t decided on a name. Who’s up for it? Potter? Lovegood?”

“Draco, sit down,” commands Harry, his eyes flitting back and forth between Draco and Hermione, whose elbows are nearly supporting her entire weight on the table as she sinks into herself.

To Hermione’s horror, Draco begins to hum along to the faint music playing in the background in a disturbingly singsong melody, apparently making up the words on impulse.

“...We'll bathe at Brighton, the fish
we'll frighten when we're in. Your
bathing suit so thin will make the
shellfish grin, fin to fin…

“Very old tune, that one. Those were the words before they were cleaned up.” A pause. “Could be a song for you, Mrs. Weasley… with your love of swimming…“

Here his gaze and tone become so violent that it is all Hermione can do not to collapse from embarrassment and revulsion. She looks up sharply in response to his last mocking comment, her eyes shimmering with loathing. “Draco…” She says, quietly pleading with him. Ron, his lips pressed to a thin line, glances between his wife and the apparently deranged Malfoy, attempting without success to put the pieces together.

Harry, who has finally had enough, rises from his seat just as quickly as Draco had moments before and grasps his friend about the elbow, pulling him in to his chair. He hisses viciously into Draco’s ear. “Honestly, Malfoy, you’re drunk! Either shut up or go home.”

Darkly, Draco picks up his napkin and smooths it nobly on his lap. “Absolutely right, shut up. How very improper.” He says this almost to himself, finally taking his eyes off Hermione to brood over his empty brandy glass. “Lashings of apologies all around.”
Beneath the table, Hermione fiddles with her wedding band, twisting the small stone at its top around and around her finger.

-

Hermione finds Harry in the cloakroom as he is retrieving his jumper.

“Harry…” Her voice is so weak that she thinks he can break it if he moves too quickly. “Harry, I…”

Slowly, Harry walks towards her and encircles her in his arms. “Shhh, ‘Mione. It’s okay.” Hermione allows herself one half-sob, clinging to his collar for a moment. Then she steps back, wiping tears from under her eyes with stiff fingers.

“I don’t know w-whether to feel guilty or disgusted,” she whispers, staring at the jackets and robes over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry pulls her into another brief embrace, rocking slightly. “I’ll talk to him. He’s upset. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“’Mione?”

Hermione starts at the sound of Ron’s voice. She gazes at Harry, drinking in his strength, before fishing for a tissue in her pocket and dabbing it across her eyes. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she returns to the revelry.

-

Hermione stands at the bottom of the familiar stairs at Hogwarts’ entrance, staring misty-eyed at the lake across the way. The voices and sounds of fond farewells drift away from her ears, leaving her in relative silence.

She feels his eyes on her, burning into the side of her face. She jerks her head around, her gaze zeroing in on his figure tucked darkly behind a cluster of bushes. Her step falters, if for only a moment, before she walks briskly over to his partially concealed form.

“Evening, Mrs. Weasley,” he drawls, his voice deceivingly smooth, as she approaches.

“Shut up. What the fuck is wrong with you? Have you completely lost your mind?” she hisses, jabbing him sharply on the shoulder with her forefinger. Despite his inebriation, he does not stumble.

“What’s wrong with me?” He begins to laugh, the deep rumble Hermione had once loved in him turning to something awful. Suddenly, he quiets, his expression grave and desperate. “I’ve watched you, you know. At these bloody functions, these parades of nonsense. How can you smile? As if your life wasn’t at your fucking feet waiting to be stomped on.” His voice is a low, emphatic growl.

“Leave me alone,” she says quietly. He tries to hold her, grasp around her waist and pull her to him, his expression unbearably brittle. She almost hits him, but instead tenses and pushes at his chest. “Stop that. Stop, Draco.”

“I want to touch you. I want what belongs to me. You’re mine.” Slurring slightly, now.

“I am most certainly not.” But her voice lacks her usual conviction, for she knows, even now, that it is true. It is true because even as she pushes against his body, a play for release, she wants nothing more than to curl against him and soak his comfort in as she once had.

“You’re a frigid bitch,” he spits, reading this conflict in her face as if she is a freshly minted page.

Hermione holds his gaze, then, determined and tremulous. Her eyes glaze, prickle, and threaten to spill. But she blinks, and the emotion was gone. Finally, a whisper. “You think you’re the only one who feels anything?”

She thrusts his arms away and walks back towards her husband.

-

Later that night, as Hermione is pulling off her stockings and slipping her nightgown over her head:

“I wonder what was up with Malfoy tonight,” cautions Ron from his reclining position on the bed, laying the Quidditch catalogue in which he had been engrossed moments before on his lap. “He seemed really unstable.”

The hairbrush freezes briefly on Hermione’s hair. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“It’s just odd, you know? He’s always so reserved.”

Hermione stares at her reflection in the mirror, watching her face grow white and expressionless, a hard mask. “Well, he was drunk, wasn’t he? Alcohol can make people act in strange ways.” She pushes back the covers of the bed and slides in next to Ron, shivering slightly as the cold sheets skim across her legs. “It’s probably best not to think about it. He’ll be fine. Embarrassed, but fine.”

Ron frowns. “It’s not like you to not be worried about someone, especially considering all Malfoy went through in the war.”

Hermione turns towards him, smiling even when her lips tremble imperceptibly with the pain of it. “Malfoy’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. Besides, Harry said he’d make sure he was all right.”

The things she is saying make her feel horrible, as if every part of her has changed. As if he has changed her.
Ron grins at her. “So practical, my love.” He reaches out a freckled arm to push her hair, still as long as it had been at Hogwarts, from her shoulder so he can press a reverent kiss to the pale skin. He keeps his hand in her hair, twirling one unraveled curl around his finger. “You have such lovely hair,” he says, his eyes changing. He gathers the mass in his hands and fans it out over her shoulders.

Hermione tries to smile, tries to make her voice warm. “No I don’t, Ron… it’s been the bane of my existence my entire life.”

“Well I like it,” he declares, playfully petulant. And then, seriously, with a look in his eyes that Hermione both adores and dislikes: “I like you, Hermione…”

She turns towards him, smiling faintly, her heart breaking. “I know.”

She kisses him, then, her thoughts on another.

Like it? Hate it? Let me know.

The funniest fanfiction quote I've read in a while...

2006-12-16T03:05:46Z

I nearly spit water all over my computer screen...

“Shut up ferret; I’m loads better than you.”

“Please, Weasley, being good at stupid doesn’t count.”

From "The Best Day," by Sunny June 46. Go read her (or his) stuff... it's frickin' hilarious.

Tehe... good at stupid...

This makes my day.

2006-12-07T10:38:29Z

I adore smart people who use their wit excessively. Read if you feel like a laugh.

(This is, believe it or not, is a stenographer's report of an actual court case)

Attorney: Doctor, how many autopsies have you performed on dead people?
Witness: All my autopsies are on dead people.
Attorney: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
Witness: The autopsy started around 8:30 P.M.
Attorney: And Mr. Dennington was dead at the time?
Witness: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy.
Attorney: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
Witness: No.
Attorney: Did you check for blood pressure?
Witness:No.
Attorney: Did you check for breathing?
Witness: No.
Attorney: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
Witness: No.
Attorney: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
Witness: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
Attorney: But could the patient have still been alive nevertheless?
Witness: It is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere.

Bwahahahahaha! Makes me laugh every time.

Memey meme meme

2006-12-04T23:29:32Z

I found this idea somewhere. Take your first lines of every month of the year on livejournal. I haven't been posting here the whole year, but I'll put mine up anyway. Sounds fun, no?

March: Definitely testing this out.

April: Ack! I'm amazed! This is AWSOME!

May: Send me good vibes tomorrow, everyone. I'll be taking my three hour AP Spanish exam.

June: I'm procrastinating like a sonuvabitch.

July: I forgot to say anything about it, but I just returned from a fantastic vacation to Italy and Scotland. Why Italy and Scotland, you ask? And I'll tell you. Italy is awsome.

August: I love thesuperficial.com.

About Paris Hilton:

"So she can tell me all she wants her stupid blonde persona is just an act, but if it looks, acts, and quacks like a duck, I'm pretty fucking sure it's a spoiled bitch who parks in red zones and thinks two plus two equals doggie."

September: This looked like fun.

October: I AM SO FUCKING TIRED OF BEING UP AT THREE IN THE GODDAMN MORNING DOING HOMEWORK. AND GETTING UP AT SIX IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MORNING TO GO TO ZERO PERIOD. (grouchy that day, wasn't I?)

November: I finally have a decent break from school. But then, of course, I have college applications and essays to do to do and calculus tests to study for. It never ends, you know?

December: Praise little baby Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, and Shiva to boot.

Mwaha. Cracks me up. Wish me luck on my college interview today...

Hallelujah!

2006-12-04T21:50:43Z

Praise little baby Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, and Shiva to boot. Beringae is writing again! Nothing huge, just an angsty one-shot, but still. Considering I haven't written anything since "Year of Spiders," this is a big deal for me. I was literally grinning like an idiot when I was writing--at five in the morning. And I wasn't awake then because I had woken up early, let me tell you.

A way to waste time @ 2 in the morning....

2006-11-27T10:18:00Z

Stole it from vashka_kat.

1. YOUR SPY NAME: (middle name and current street name)
I have two middle names, so this could be tough. I'll go with the normal-sounding one. Elizabeth Springdale

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your dad's side, your favorite candy)
Flora Mentos. Wow, that's actually kinda hot.

3. YOUR RAP NAME: (first initial of first name, first three or four letters of your last name)
M She. That worked out too!

4. YOUR GAMER TAG: (a favorite color, a favorite animal)
Green Goat... mwaha.

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Elizabeth Seattle... blech.

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name)
She'tch Bis

7. JEDI NAME: (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards)
Htebazile Hctivonibar... I don't think that works in any language. Ever.

8. PORN STAR NAME: (first pet's name, the street you grew up on)
Truffle Springdale... wow...

9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favorite color, the automobile your mom drives)
The Green Passat. Eugh.

10. YOUR ACTION HERO NAME: (first name of a main character in the last movie you watched, last food you ate)
Satine Salad. That's just...awful.

Wow, it's been awhile

2006-11-22T22:12:22Z

I finally have a decent break from school. But then, of course, I have college applications and essays to do to do and calculus tests to study for. It never ends, you know? My only salvation is that within a years time, I'll be somewhere away from my high school studying interesting things and actually enjoying my life. I think I need to write. I think I'm depressed because my creativity has been absolutely sapped out of me. Which is a shame, because by the end of January I have to write a short story dealing with epidemiology and biotechnology. Hey, it was easier than doing a full-on research project about intestinal lining or something else like that. If it turns out to be any good, I'll post it here.

I also need a hot fuck-buddy. But never mind about that.

Speaking of writing, I have several fics ruminating in my brain right now. Hopefully I'll be able to at least start one this afternoon.

I know it's been forever since I've been really active on this journal, and I blame school and senioritis, which I seem to have contracted out of nowhere and nothing.

Blech. That's how I feel, blech. And I hate whining, but right now that's exactly what I'm doing, and it pisses me off.

Oh, I also have a huge crush on Scarlett Johansson now. Gorgeous.

I want her cheekbones.

What's everyone doing for Thanksgiving? I'm cooking, which I'm actually looking forward to. I like cooking--it takes your mind off everything else. Happy Turkey Day, everyone. Why did I just call it Turkey Day? I hate when people call it that. Anyway, happy holidays.

Nudity is fun.

2006-10-19T23:03:54Z

My new favorite character on LOST has officially changed to Desmond. Not that he wasn't high up there since he first appeared in that BRILLIANT opening scene in season two, but the fact that he was running around naked in the middle of the jungle somewhere in Hawaii makes me appreciate his presence on the show so much more. I guess he's not as traditionally handsome as Jack and Sawyer, but DAMN. Something about him is incredibly sexy. And it's not just the accent, because I'm used to that having relatives in Scotland. He's all angsty and yummy. And Nekkid!Desmond is so much better than clothed Desmond. And he has supernatural future-telling powers. Bravo, LOST writers, good on you.

Can't wait for next week. I have a soft spot for Skate. Grey's tonight!

I must find naked pictures. For now, I guess these will have to suffice.