Doodles from Ep 51 that are uninteresting to look at because they’re on a white background‼️

writer anon from a couple months ago here… fuck man. it’s the day the music died.

(idk what this is and it’s not very good)

but when you go to meet god, you know, you wanna look nice

hermie’s had those dreams before, the kind where he can feel that his eyes are closed and he tries to open them while he’s asleep but he can’t. this is like that- except there’s no body attached to it. he feels out for… nothing. not even an ache over his heart, where the blood was just staining a moment ago. a year ago? he feels heavy. he’s not sure where he feels it. there’s no body anymore. there’s no him.

“well hello there, darling.” his father. he looks up. there’s no one here. scam’s voice is all around. “did you have fun?”

did you have fun? two years of high school theatre, that’s what it added up to, more or less, and then a few insane months with the teens. was it fun? he can’t remember now.

in this space, he sees it. it really was only two years. there was nothing before that. his memories of growing up are so two-dimensional, it feels like he could print them right out of his head and fold them up into a little paper person and be looking at his twin.

“it was just a joke, you know, all in good fun. oh, they’re wrapping it up now, story’s almost over. ‘that’s all, folks!’ and all that, you know. shame, we’ve only got so much time left.” scam didn’t sound sad. “I kept thinking your father would come after me at some point. it was good fun, messing with the king-of-hell demon-cop. pretty shitty guy, I gotta say.”

a scene materializes in front of hermie. a wooden stage, classic red curtains to frame it, and a styrofoam grave marker in the center. two actors bearing a comically-grotesque resemblance to his adoptive parents were badly stage-crying over it.

at the top, à-la-phantom of the opera, jodie peered down at the actors. he watched for a moment, then turned away to fix his attention on someone else.

did you have fun?

“I was wondering though. were you lying?”

hermie paused. “what?” his voice sounded strange.

“your last words to normal. he wasn’t conscious to hear them, you know. but were they genuine?” he could hear the rubber stretch of scam’s smile splitting far wider than a mouth should go. “did you mean it?”

“I can’t die,” hermie said slowly. “can I.”

“well, you weren’t exactly alive, so it’s hard for you to be dead.” scam sounded more distant now. “no place in heaven or hell for a puppet, just ask jigsaw.”

hermie’s jaw clenched. “I wasn’t a puppet. I wasn’t… anything.”

“right, so you get the point. I’m asking what you were teeing up for with that last line, hermie. obviously you won’t be around to deliver the payoff. were you just planning on ditching them without a punchline?”

“it’s what you did.”

“the ditch was the punchline, worthless, that’s the crux of the whole thing.” scam’s voice had taken on an edge. “I died once too. got shot off a dragon, actually. it was a lot like this.”

“was it?”

a pause. “I don’t remember.”

the curtains closed. somewhere, the sound of a gigantic clock started up, or maybe a metronome. “well, this has been fun, if ultimately unsatisfying, but I’m afraid this is where I must leave you. show’s over.”

“are you sure?”

“you’re the one who stopped dancing. oh.” scam was smiling again; he could hear it. “oh. I see it now, the prestige. you were the set-up for something truly… oh. wow. now this is a show.”

normal. hermie tried to take a deep breath. “what’s he doing?”

“making your whole life part of his own villain origin story. so sorry you aren’t around to see this, I know how you always liked the villains, but, well.”

“you can’t bring me back?” hermie clenched his fists. “you can’t do one thing for me, after…?”

scam scoffed. “oh, now he wants to live.”

crack! hermie was a five-year-old watching the big kids win the speedrun. crack! hermie was a cat in a garbage can being jumped by the pussywagon. crack! hermie was sitting in a car in hell, and normal was kissing his cheek. crack! hermie was a voice on the phone, hermie was saying “this is john.” crack! hermie was the dying papa john, hot cheese coursing through his veins. crack! hermie was dying, hermie was lying on the ground with blood spilling from his…

“your father and I were similar in one regard, actually. when our lives were threatened, when there was only one way to be free, we took it. we split, you could say, we…” scam hesitated. hermie thought about a demon and a highway patrol officer, a mustache and a fedora. “sometimes you get a card. sometimes you get a court order. but you always get a choice. you don’t get to be yourself. that’s what the world taught both of us. no matter your power, your influence, if the world doesn’t want you to be yourself, and you still want to live, well…”

he saw the joker, keira knightley, risky click, a whole parade of shifting faces flickering between his reflection and his performances. he heard his words to normal in goof’s realm- you don’t like me, you idiot.

“do you want to live? you never get to go back, you know, not to what you were. even if you’re able to reconcile the memories, once you’ve been something you never fully stop being it. and that saves you a little, the first you, but it’ll damn you just as surely.

“unless.” one giant eye in front of hermie. “was there anyone, hermie? anyone who wanted you to be yourself?”

what did he honestly believe, about what normal wanted?

he didn’t know if his last words were a lie. he didn’t know if his next ones would be either.

do you want to live?

IM SO SORRY FOR LEAVING U HANGING FOR A WHILE WRITER ANON IVE BEEN AT WORK BUT IM BACK. I WOULD SAY WE ARE SO BACK BUT NO ITS SO OAKWOVER. HERMAN UNWOVER.

I AM INSANE ABOUT THIS DO U UNDERSTAND HOW CRAZY THIS IS TO DROP IN MY INBOX. THIS IS SO WELL DONE IM GONNA EXPLODE THE FUCKING. AAUAUAUAGAHHHH

My Dove

Requested: yes ( @classygladiatortidalwave )

Hermione Granger x fem!hufflepuff!reader

Warnings: flashback (in italics) that is a bit steamy, nothing too explicit 

Word Count: 1272

I loved writing this one, it was so much fun and I think it was really cute thank you for requesting it

✧✧✧

Hermione Granger had many names. First and foremost she was Hermione, to her parents and to classroom acquaintances. Then the occasional ‘Mione, a name that seemed to be reserved for only Harry, Ron, and Ginny; the twins also seemingly preferred this alias. Even Grawp had his own name for her, Hermy, she wasn’t too fond of that one. Or the occasional Granger, that was spat by ignorant blonde cockroaches.

In the midst of all these names, wanted or otherwise, there was one that never failed to bring warmth to her cheeks and sweat to her palms. My Dove. The name, only allowed to be uttered from the sweet lips of Hermione’s love, Y/n L/n. Hermione remembers the first time she was called that, she doubts she could ever forget it.

The night had been long in the best way possible, warm bodies entangled with each other. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the way Y/n’s hot, heaving chest touched her own with every intake of breath. Her fingers were following the gentle curve of Y/n’s hip, that’s when it happened.

Y/n lifted her hand to caress Hermione’s cheek, completely lost in the tired eyes of her lover.

“My dove.” It was quiet, though Hermione felt as though it spoke volumes and prompted her to lean in and take the girl's lips with her own once again.

Hermione smiled at the memory, she would’ve burned all her books and shouted from the rooftops if Y/n had asked her to that night. She took a moment from her thoughts, looking to Y/n sitting just a few seats in front of her in Professor Binns History of Magic class. Her eyes raked over the girls figure, and even through the yellow accented robes Hermione could see the outline of her beautiful lover.

Y/n, feeling the pair of eyes on her, turned around to meet the culprit. A smile breaking onto her face as she saw her girlfriend looking at her, lopsided grin etched onto her fair face. The look of pure enamorment made Y/n giggle, eyes glancing down to her shoes before popping back up to look at Hermione again. With a small shake of her head she mouthed a ‘pay attention’ and turned around to continue her notes. Hermione, having already taken the notes on her own, let out her own quiet giggle making Ron grumble next to her.

“How come Harry and I couldn’t talk but you can make googly eyes at your girlfriend?”  

Hermione scoffed, expression turning to one of friendly annoyance, “Firstly, Ronald, I was not making googly eyes. I was merely appreciating her beauty today. Secondly, I’ve already done my notes.”

Harry tried to hold in his laugh but ended up letting out a rather choked chuckle but didn’t say anything. He was too busy wishing Ginny would look at him the way Hermione looked at Hufflepuff’s Y/n L/n.

Hermione saw Ron’s silence as an invitation to delve back into her thoughts about her girlfriend.

The night they first kissed coming to mind. She internally groaned at how nervous she was that night in front of the Hufflepuff common room barrels.

The day had been cold, blinding white snow blanketed the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds. Hermione and Y/n had gotten back from a trip to Hogsmeade and had been wandering around the castle grounds aimlessly. Both wanting to think it was a date yet neither voicing their wishes.

They giggled, heads close together, as they stumbled to lean against the barrels. They were cutting it close, ten minutes to curfew yet Hermione still insisted on walking Y/n to her common room.

“It’s almost curfew, we’ve got to keep quiet.” Hermione whispered with a breathy laugh.

The air was suddenly thick, Y/n felt her hands start to sweat again as Hermione was now impossibly close, closer than she had previously realized.

Her voice was soft, fearing to ruin the moment if she were any louder, “I had a really great time today, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, eyes moving to look at the floor, bashfulness flooding her veins.

“Me too. We should hang out again, some time. If you want, that is, we don’t have to-”

She was quickly cut off, “I’d love to. This Friday, I promised Professor Sprout I’d check into the greenhouse and water a few of the plants. I’m sure she won’t mind if you accompanied, then we could do whatever you’d like.”

Hermione was quick to agree, not caring where they were, just wanting to be with her.

Five minutes to curfew and Hermione was now leaning in. At least she thinks she is, it feels as though she is, but she’s lost control of her body and if it were under any other circumstance she would be very, very worried.

“I should get going…”

She wanted to curse herself as she heard the words come from her mouth, oh the way Ginny would laugh at her when she told her. Harry would be so disappointed and, Merlin, Hermione just wished there was a book on this stuff. Why would she say that?

Y/n’s felt her face fall, she had read the situation entirely wrong.

“Oh, yeah, it’s late, you’re right.” The words were muttered and quiet, and for the first time she spoke without a smile.

It was with bravery that Godric Gryffinder himself would be envious of, surely this was what the hat saw when he put her in her house, Hermione reached out to grab the wrist of the already retreating form of the girl she had been thinking about endlessly for the past year and pulled the her body into her own.

Her hands found the sides of Y/n’s face, cradling her jaw as she smashed their lips together, the short gasp and return of the kiss allowed Hermione to relax. Then, much to Hermione’s surprise and enjoyment, she was pushed against the side of the barrels by Y/n as she deepened the kiss, her hands travelling down to play with the loops on her jeans.

They pulled away, almost simultaneously, and Y/n leaned in one last time to give Hermione a short peck as she smiled. Their goodbyes were quiet, giggles and red cheeks proudly displayed until a nearby painting reprimanded them for being out past curfew causing Hermione to frantically kiss Y/n goodbye once more, far shorter than previously, and rush to her common room.

That was the first time Hermione Granger had ever been out past curfew on her own.

“Ready to go, my dove?”

The voice brought the Gryffindor girl out of her thoughts, turning to meet the waiting smile of Y/n. Hermione nodded as she packed her things quickly and turned to Ron and Harry before grabbing her girlfriend’s hand and leaving.

“I’ll give you my notes to use later.” She said with a small nod.

Turning on her heel she grabbed Y/n’s waiting hand and they walked out of the class. Harry and Ron watched as the hand holding between the two shifted to Hermione wrapping her arm around Y/n’s shoulders and Y/n wrapping her arm around Hermione’s waist, both of the girls smiling as they disappeared through the door frame.

“You know,” Ron turned to Harry. “We need to get Y/n a really great Christmas gift.”

Harry agreed, “Yeah, she’s made Hermione really happy, hasn’t she?”

“Forget happiness, she’s letting us use all her notes and essays now. Bloody hell, we owe any OWLs we get to that Hufflepuff.”

Harmione Essay: Physical contact — a changing pattern (by Turambar)

Hello! This is an essay written many years ago, before the release of HBP&DH. It doesn't belong to me so credits to the original writer(Turambar)! It was written on the CoS forum, I'm not sure if it's still saved there but I have a word document with all of the essays. Anyways, this essay has no ship/character bashing. Again, this essay isn't written by me. Enjoy!

The evolution of this pattern of physical contact between Harry and Hermione is very interesting.

PS to POA:

1) If we look at the very scene where the trio become friends, a curious aspect of this pattern rears its head: Harry is physically decisive, Harry and Hermione have physical contact in a time of crisis and Ron is to one side looking on. "Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her towards the door."

2) At the end of the book she initiates the hug and he feels very embarrassed since displays of physical affection are totally foreign to him. "Hermione's lip trembled and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her arms around him. 'Hermione!' 'Harry - you're a great wizard you know.' 'I'm not as good as you,' said Harry, very embarrassed as she let go of him." Then there's the nice moment in the hospital wing when he realizes she wants to hug him again but is glad she holds herself in because his head's hurting.

3) In POA, having previously seen Harry jump on a troll for her and wrestle Millicent Bulstrode off her - both while Ron is present - Hermione turns to Harry for emotional support through a physical gesture, grabbing his arm when the trio see that the Fat Lady has been slashed (by Sirius). "Harry, Ron and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble was. 'Oh my -' Hermione exclaimed and grabbed Harry's arm." Again Ron is present but Hermione turns to Harry.

4) The Shrieking Shack/Time Turner scenes, when they are nearer their 14th birthdays than their 13th ones, are where the pattern accelerates and becomes noticeable.

It is mostly Hermione initiating contact. Harry is accepting of this contact and only indicates she should let go of his arm at one point when her grip causes him to lose feeling in his fingers.

Shrieking Shack:

"She now grasped Harry's arm painfully hard"

"Hermione suddenly grabbed Harry's arm again."

"Hermione's grip on Harry's arm was so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers. He raised his eyebrows at her; she nodded and let go."

Time Turner:

"In here!' Hermione seized Harry's arm and dragged him across the hall to the door of a broom cupboard, she opened it and pushed him inside."

"Hermione nudged him and pointed towards the castle."

"Hermione was holding Harry very tightly around the waist."

"Peeves!" Harry muttered, grabbing Hermione's wrist. "In here."

5) So to summarize:

a) Up to this point, apart from a couple of occasions where Harry has grabbed Hermione, the contact between them has been initiated by Hermione.

b) It has occurred at times of crisis/stress and generally involved Hermione seeking support, reassurance and protection from Harry.

c) Apart from the hug and flying on Buckbeak it has involved arm contact.

d) Despite embarrassment over the hug - understandable since it's presumably his first since he was a baby - Harry is still mature enough to pay a compliment - 'I'm not as good as you'. But he's comfortable with the contact, he doesn't question it and his indication to Hermione to release his arm is not a rejection of her: she has no qualms about grabbing him again.

GOF:

6) Here we see a change in the pattern to Hermione initiating contact in moments of fun/joy/excitement/relief.

Veela:

"She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat."

"Hermione was soon tugging on Harry's arm. He turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers impatiently out of his ears. 'Look at the referee!' she said giggling."

First task:

"Then before either of them could stop her, she had given both of them a hug."

Dobby:

"Harry!' she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised). She seized Harry's arm and started to try and drag him back along the corridor."

"Oh come on Harry, I want to show you!' she seized his arm again, pulled him in front of the picture... and pushed Harry hard in the back, forcing him inside."

Hexes:

"...catching up with Harry and Ron in the Entrance Hall and pulling Harry's hand away from one of his wriggling ears so that he could hear her."

The end:

"'Bye, Harry!' said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek."

7) Things to note about this:

a) IMO it reflects Hermione's growing self confidence which is very evident in OOTP

b) Hermione appears to have an increasing wish for physical contact with Harry. For instance is it really necessary for her to touch his hands and pull them away from his ears (twice) to gain his attention. Wouldn't a tap on the shoulder have sufficed? And isn't hand to hand contact quite a lot more intimate than tapping someone on the shoulder?

c) Harry only initiates physical contact once, during the Dark Mark chapter: "He [Harry] seized the other two and pulled them down onto the ground." There is no description of how he reacts to the joint hug Hermione gives himself and Ron.

d) This pattern coincides with a growing mental closeness between Harry and Hermione: a lot of instances of them knowing what each other is thinking and also of Harry becoming more interested in what Hermione is thinking. It also coincides with Harry becoming more reliant on Hermione: needing her friendship when he has his falling out with Ron and her knowledge and skill to help him get through the tournament.

OOTP:

Now we finally come to the most interesting part of this whole pattern. It has changed again.

Harry's feelings towards Hermione are in transition and that flows through into a river of confused thoughts, emotions and actions about various subjects.

Just in the welcome scene, for instance, there are phrases such as: "found that he was not sorry" "the words tumbling over one another in a rush" 'but before he knew it, Harry was shouting" "every ... thought ... was pouring out of him" that help to show he's not on top of things.

8) The hug

"Followed by an even louder shriek, and his vision was completely obscured by a large quantity of very bushy hair. Hermione had thrown herself on him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat, while Ron's tiny owl, Pigwidgeon, zoomed excitedly round and round their heads.

"HARRY! Ron, he's here, Harry's here! We didn't hear you arrive! Oh, how are you! Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless - but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us - the Dementors! When we heard - and that Ministry hearing - it's just outrageous. I've looked it all up, they can't expel you, they just can't, there's provision in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of underage Sorcery for use of magic in life threatening situations -"

"Let him breathe, Hermione," said Ron. (Harry gives description of Ron)Still beaming, Hermione let go of Harry."

a) When compared with the pattern of the previous books this has to be the most intense and sheerly physical sign of affection and joy Hermione has ever lavished on Harry. Compare it to their first hug in PS: that was a moving embrace, this is almost a rugby tackle.

b) Neither Harry nor Hermione want to let go. Harry doesn't make any move to. Hermione only lets go after Ron intervenes.

c) For the first time, we are told how Harry feels: a "warm glow that had flared inside him". This feeling incorporates seeing both friends, but it starts when Hermione hugs him, as I've explained previously.

9) Snape's class:

"Salamander blood, Harry!" Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient."

Hagrid's cabin:

"Get under here!" Harry said quickly; seizing the Invisibility Cloak, he whirled it over himself and Hermione while Ron tore around the table and dived under the cloak as well ... Hermione gasped; Harry clapped a hand over her mouth ... Harry made to pull off the Invisibility Cloak but Hermione seized his wrist. "Not yet," she breathed in his ear. She might not be gone yet."

Quidditch:

"As they rose from the table, Hermione got up too, and taking Harry's arm she drew him to one side."

Grawp:

"Hermione walked right into him and was knocked over backwards. Harry caught her just before she hit the forest floor ... "Good!" said Hermione, as Harry set her back on her feet."

"Grawp's hand had shot out of nowhere towards Hermione; Harry seized her and pulled her backwards behind the tree, so that Grawp's fist scraped the trunk but closed on thin air.

"Bad boy Grawpy!" they heard Hagrid yelling, as Hermione clung to Harry behind the tree, shaking and whimpering."

Out of the Fire:

"Get over here," muttered Hermione, tugging at Harry's wrist and pulling him back into a recess."

"Harry grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the ground."

"Hermione had been dropped, too, and Harry hurried towards her."

"Hermione gripped his arm tightly."

"Harry could feel Hermione shaking as Grawp opened his mouth wide again and said in a deep, rumbling voice, 'Hermy.' 'Goodness,' said Hermione, gripping Harry's arm so tightly it was growing numb."

"One of the giant's massive hands reached down. Hermione let out a real scream, ran a few steps backwards and fell over. Devoid of a wand, Harry braced himself to punch, kick, bite or whatever else it took as the hand swooped towards him."

"Pebble-sized droplets of Grawp's blood showered Harry as he pulled Hermione to her feet and the pair of them ran as fast as they could."

"Harry and Hermione moved together instinctively and peered through the trees."

The Department of Mysteries:

"The circular wall was rotating. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm as though frightened the floor might move too, but it did not."

"She grabbed his arm and pulled, but he resisted."

"He seized a handful of Hermione's robes and dragged her forwards."

"Harry raised his wand but to his amazement Hermione seized his arm."

10) The major change to the pattern from all the other books is that Harry is a far more active participant.

Instead of being the more passive rock that Hermione clings on to, he is much more forcibly protecting her. He reacts very instinctively and decisively.

From being mostly one-sided in the sense that Hermione was doing most of the grabbing, it is now much more even. There's more full-on contact rather than just arm grabbing.

If we compare Harry's actions in the forest scenes of OOTP with the Shrieking Shack/Time Turner scenes he is far more protective and physical with Hermione than before. In POA they were facing the Whomping Willow, a werewolf and dementors, in OOTP a giant and centaurs.

The way Harry shapes up to Grawp without a wand shows almost a desperation to protect Hermione. When his arm starts to go numb in OOTP, same as it did in POA, this time he doesn't ask her to let go.

11) Overall this changing pattern reflects the changing nature of Harry and Hermione's relationship:

Hermione has been the one to develop and realize her feelings for Harry but now Harry is catching up just as Hermione for a while was the dominant participant in the pattern but it has evened with Harry's full involvement.

Finding My Way To You - Ch. 8

AO3 // FFN

Adjusting

“Mum, I really don’t think all of this is necessary..” Hermione said the following day. Her parents had both taken the day off to spend time with them, and Jean had whisked her daughter away for lunch and an afternoon of shopping. 

“What? Being able to spend time with my daughter? When’s the last time we went shopping together? Hermione, dear, you are desperately in need of some new clothes! Plus, I want to help you find something special for your date tonight,” Mrs. Granger smiled knowingly.

Hermione sighed. Her mother was right. The clothes she did have were ragged from being on the run for almost a year, and it was nice to be able to spend time with her again. This was the kind of thing she’d hoped to do with her mother before sixth year started, when she thought she and Ron may be on the verge of something then. Speaking of…

“Mum, what did Ron say to you last night to change your mind about things?” she asked again, hoping she’d crack on the fourth try.

They’d been out much longer than Hermione had expected, which made her nervous, but when they’d returned, Ron looked relieved and Mum had a smile on her face. Hermione looked at her dad for help in gathering an explanation, but he simply shrugged. Even Ron was tight lipped about the exchange last night. That annoyed her, and subsequently cut into their ‘getting to know you’ time she was hoping for.

What Ron did admit was what her mother was planning for tomorrow evening. “She called to make a reservation at some posh seafood restaurant for us tomorrow evening.”

“All four of us?” Hermione asked for clarification.

“No, just you and me. She wants us to go on a proper date. Said something about checking the cinemas, too, whatever that means. Would you be alright to join me for dinner tomorrow evening, say, around 6:30?” he said with a chuckle.

“I’d be delighted,” Hermione played along. “But I’m not sure I have anything to wear,” she frowned.

“Right, I forgot that bit. Your mum’s planning to be here around eleven tomorrow to take you to lunch and shopping.”

Hermione smiled at the recollection as she browsed the current boutique they were in. They already had several bags between them of new clothes for Hermione. Several new shirts and jumpers, a couple pairs of jeans, trousers and skirts, and even new undergarments, which Hermione had been resistant towards at first. She was secretly happy, though because when she was ready to take that step with Ron, she wanted something cute or sexy and not just plain old boring cotton. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of wanting to be ‘sexy’ for someone. 

She’d even caved and allowed her Mum to purchase a new swimsuit. It felt like ages since Hermione had worn one, not since their trip to France all those summers ago, and it took several choices (of both her own and others her mum tossed over the dressing room door) before Hermione had decided on a bright blue two piece with white polka dots. The top was modest enough with a twist front that had string ties in the back, and the bottom was somewhat high waisted, which made her feel more comfortable. Her mum had also picked up a couple beach towels and insisted Hermione buy flip flops, or thongs, as the Aussies called them. 

“The weather is supposed to be beautiful tomorrow. You and Ron absolutely need to experience a beach day, so you’ll be prepared!” 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “Mum, are you trying to plan the rest of our stay here?”

“Of course not! I just want you both to experience everything we’ve grown to love about this little corner of the world. Plus, you both deserve a bit of a holiday after everything you’ve been through.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Hermione said, as she felt an overwhelming need to hug her mother right then and there.

Their last stop found Hermione the perfect dress for her date tonight. It was teal, and flowy with wide straps and a keyhole opening. A satin band gathered at the waist to provide some shape on her body, and the flowy skirt came to her mid thigh. It was the perfect balance of elegant, yet beachy, and her mum had found a wedge, peep toe sandal to finish off the look.

“Thank you again for all of this, Mum. Even after everything I did…”

“Hermione, you’ll always be our daughter, and I’ll always love you. I only want the best for you, and even though Ron’s made mistakes in my eyes, he’s certainly proved to me that he’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy, and I respect that.”

“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve him.”

“It’s all about balance, my dear. Tell me, did you ever apologize to him about the canary incident?”

Hermione felt as though ice had been poured down her back at her mother’s words. She knew that she and Ron had gotten past the whole Lavender debacle, but thinking back on it, she realized that there never was an explicit apology for that.

“I- erm-” she stuttered.

“You really should. I raised you better than that.”

“You’re right. And I suppose I probably should apologize for attacking him when he came back as well..” she hesitantly admitted.

“Excuse me?” Her mother stopped on the sidewalk and looked at her. “I did not raise you to react with violence, young lady.”

“I know, I know! I just- I let my emotions get the best of me. I promise I’ll do better about keeping them in check.”

“I’m not the one you should be making that promise to, but I appreciate the intent.”

“You’re right.”

“Dare I ask what you did to that poor boy when he came back?”

“Umm, I used him as a punching bag, as Dad would say,” Hermione admitted.

“Oh, Hermione..I know you inherited my anger, but please don’t take it out on him like that.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.”

She knew it was wrong, and even though it wasn’t something she talked about often, she was ashamed of her actions. Pride and embarrassment had forced her to ignore bringing it up, but if they were going to start off their relationship properly, it needed to be discussed.

Hermione noticed her mum checking her watch. “We’ve got just enough time to get you cleaned up and ready for your date. I had your father bring a few items over to your flat when he went to pick up Ron.”

“Items? What do you mean?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Hair product and makeup, of course!”

“But-”

“No buts! We have an hour to get you ready before Ron’s due to pick you up.”

“He’s not already there?” Hermione was having trouble keeping up with her mum, both in walking speed and conversation.

“Heavens, no! It’s a proper date, remember? Now, let’s go!”

~o~

Ron was standing in the guest bedroom of the Granger’s home. He was looking in the wall mirror at his own reflection. His afternoon had been spent out with Hugo. He’d gotten a haircut at a local barber, found swim trunks for their ‘beach day’ tomorrow as Jean kept calling it, and an outfit for his date tonight. He was wearing a nice pair of trousers with camel colored dress shoes. His shirt was light blue with faint, thin pinstripe lines to give the illusion of texture. 

For the first time since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, he was proud of the way he looked. Mr. Granger had a knack for muggle style, and even though he was older, Ron trusted his judgement. He reminded himself of one of those business lads that flooded the sidewalks on the morning and evening commutes. He felt bad, and had tried to pay for the clothes himself, but Hugo had insisted. Mr. Granger had offered to purchase more for Ron when he caught him eyeing a new pair of trainers, and jeans that might actually fit his long legs, but Ron politely refused. 

“Ready to go?” Hugo called from the bottom of the stairs, drawing Ron out of his thoughts. 

He couldn’t wait to see Hermione. It’d been a long afternoon without her. Especially because he’d grown accustomed to being with her day in and day out. They made the short drive over to the flat, where Jean was waiting by the door. She held the door open for Ron as she wished them well for the night and reminded him of how to get to the restaurant, which was about five blocks away.

He watched them go and then bounded up the stairs. He was about to just walk into their shared flat, but paused and remembered that this was a date, so he knocked on the door. Ron barely had to wait for Hermione to open it.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the sight of her in front of him made his jaw drop and he was pretty sure his heart stopped briefly. She was gorgeous. Her mum had no doubt helped her tame her wild curls, and it looked like she was wearing just enough makeup to accentuate her features. Not like the grams of it Lavender would plaster on her face every day. Her chocolate brown eyes were brought out by a light layer of deep purple, which were staring at him in much the same way he was looking at her, with adoration. And Merlin, that dress. She wasn’t one to wear dresses casually. Not that this was casual or anything, but he’d only really ever seen her in her school uniform or formal wear. He needed to say something to snap himself out of it before he lost his senses completely.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“And you cut your hair,” she responded. “It suits you. You look really nice in muggle clothes.” Hermione smiled shyly at him. 

Ron smiled back at him as he rubbed his neck awkwardly. Why did this feel so weird? This was Hermione, his best friend. “Should we, er, get going? We’ve got a bit of a walk.”

Hermione nodded as she grabbed her purse and locked up. Ron held out his hand and she took it as they made their way down the sidewalk towards the restaurant. They were quiet for a while, until Hermione finally said, “Is it just me, or does this feel…”

“Weird?” Ron finished.

“Yes!” Hermione said through an exhale.

“Yeah...what’s wrong with us? We haven’t changed or anything,” Ron joked.

“I know,” Hermione said. He noticed her blush in the soft glow of the streetlight.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just that- nevermind, it’s rubbish,” Hermione talked herself out of saying what she was thinking.

“No, tell me. Please?” Ron urged gently.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I guess I’m just worried I’m going to mess this up. I don’t want to do or say anything wrong,” she admitted.

“Me too,” Ron agreed. They walked another block or so, double checking street signs so they didn’t miss a turn.

“Do you think it’s like this for all couples who were friends first?” Hermione asked him.

“Er, yeah, could be. Never really thought about it, though.” Ron admitted.

“So, then, maybe we should just act like nothing’s really different. Let’s not put extra pressure on anything,” Hermione suggested.

Ron chuckled. “That works for me. I think this is it.” He pointed to a sign just up ahead.

They checked in at the hostess stand and were seated at a table on the edge of the main dining room. It felt more private than some of the other tables in the center of the room, and gave them a spectacular view of the ocean lit up by the moonlight.

As Ron began to look at the menu, he noticed the prices. It was expensive. They ordered their drinks from the server, and then they were alone again to look over the menu. 

“Er, Hermione,” Ron said, getting her attention. She peeked at him from over her menu. “I don’t know if I have enough to, er…”

He saw her eyebrows raise in understanding. “Don’t worry, Mum gave me her credit card. It’s taken care of.”

“But your parents have already done so much for us,” Ron protested. “And it’s our first, er second, date. I should pay..” That’s what a true gentleman did, wasn’t it?

“Please, it’s okay. They want to spoil us,” Hermione told him.

He sighed and gave in. It was either that or insist they leave, which could cause a scene and he didn’t want that either. “So then, what would you suggest for a meal?” he asked her, looking at the varieties of shellfish that he’d never had.

He ended up settling on a pasta dish that included a variety of seafood. Scallops, shrimp, and clams in a light wine and butter cream sauce. Hermione had chosen a salmon dish over risotto, and they’d split an appetizer of crab stuffed mushrooms. The meal was delicious, despite Hermione having to help guide him through eating so he wouldn’t accidentally consume any shells. 

They were browsing over the dessert menu as Hermione said, “Seafood always tastes better when it’s fresh, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it does, not that I have much to compare it to. We’ll have to find a place when we’re back in England so I can see if there’s a difference.” 

His heart skipped a beat as he watched her face light up at his suggestion. “I’d like that.”

Their desserts came shortly after as they talked about what they wanted and needed to do when they got back to England. Ron had opted for a chocolate mousse cake, while Hermione chose creme brulee. She began picking at it about halfway through.

“Everything alright?” he asked her.

“Yes, of course! I’m just getting full, that’s all.” He could tell when she was lying because she didn’t make eye contact.

“Hermione…”

“I’m sorry about attacking you with the canaries sixth year,” she said through a grimace. “It was, um, brought to my attention that I never actually apologized about it.”

“That’s what was bothering you? It’s ancient history, Hermione, it’s fine.”

“See, you always say that, but it’s not. I can’t just physically hurt you when I’m angry at you. Like when I punched you after you came back to the hunt..”

“It’s...alright. I was a prat, too,” Ron tried to make her feel better.

“Yes, but you’ve never physically hurt me. I promise I won’t do that ever again. I’ll keep my emotions in check.” She met his eyes this time, indicating her sincerity.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ron smiled. “Now, can we discuss something a bit more light hearted?” He suggested.

Hermione smiled gratefully as she took another bite of her dessert. “Did you want to go to the cinemas?” She checked her watch. “If we hurry, the one Mum suggested starts in twenty minutes just down the street.”

“I don’t know. As much as I’d like to experience it, I think I’d rather take a walk on the beach if you wanted to.”

“I like that idea so much better,” Hermione smiled. “Mum will forgive me for not following her plan completely, I’m sure. Besides, I’m sure some movie will be playing on the telly when we get back.”

“Brilliant!”

After they paid for their meal, they exited the restaurant and crossed the street to one of the many public entrances to the beach. They chose to walk along the water where the sand was a bit harder, and headed in the direction of their temporary flat. Hand in hand, they meandered along.

“The waves are so much calmer here than at Shell Cottage,” Ron remarked.

“That’s because the weather is much nicer. Every body of water can be rough and choppy or smooth with gentle waves,” Hermione explained.

He knew that, of course, but sometimes he loved to listen to her explain things. It had become a sort of comfort to him years ago. He just pretended it annoyed him to get under her skin. “Do you know how many times I hoped that we could experience something like this, but was convinced we’d be dead by the end?” he asked softly.

“I know. We nearly were...several times,” Hermione said.

“How’d we make it out? How’d we get so lucky. We shouldn't have..” Ron had to catch himself before he went into a spiral as he was reminded of who they’d lost. Fred, in particular.

“Don’t think like that,” Hermione said gently as she squeezed his hand. “We are still here, and you know he would want us to make the most of that.”

She somehow always knew what to say when it counted the most. Ron felt a rush of emotion flood over him. He loved her so much. His feet stopped right there, and he pulled Hermione back when she kept walking and was caught by her fully extended arm, their fingers still intertwined together. “You’re right. And I’m the luckiest bloke alive to have this chance with you.”

The setting was perfect. Sand beneath their feet, the moon and stars shining down on them, creating a soft glow of light, and the gentle crashing of waves close by. He pulled her close to him, bending down to kiss her. Ron felt her arms snake around his waist, while his own split duties. One hand cupped her face while the other snaked in her hair. 

He deepened the kiss and allowed himself to forget they were on the beach as he became lost in her. All he could feel was her, as he hesitantly grazed her bottom lip with his tongue. She opened her mouth further, granting him entry, as his tongue gently moved in and explored her mouth. She eagerly met his tongue with her own as Ron’s hands began to move down her body. 

He wanted more. Not that he wanted to rush things, but he was so overcome with want that it was hard to think straight. It took a car horn blaring from the streets to draw them back into reality. They reluctantly broke apart as he sought her eyes with his own.

“I think we should get back to the flat,” Hermione said breathily.

Ron simply nodded, not trusting his voice. They’d have plenty of time on the beach tomorrow.

Hello Dev! Here are some prompts:2 - “I bought this because I thought you’d like it.”12 - “Welcome home.”6 - “Stop yelling and listen for a second.”P.S Thanks for DLME, l am really love it!

Thank you my beautiful anon, you are much too kind to me 💕💕 (I chose the angsty one because everyone else asked for fluff lol)

Tom's eyes rolled back into his skull.

"I'm just saying that what we need is help! We should go and find Lupin, o-or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, or a Professor or—"

"Oh yes, because Professor Snape's turned out to be such a great help in the past..."

"Sarcasm isn't helping, Harry!" the girl screeched, and Tom found himself agreeing with her. "We can't stay here forever. We need to decide what we're going to do with him, we need—we need a plan."

"I have a great plan, thanks," the boy in the rounded glasses said. "Destroy the last two horcruxes and kill Voldemort."

Tom snorted and each of the three pairs of eyes turned to him to glare. He raised his eyebrows as innocently as he could manage as if to say 'what?", before they quickly turned back to each other to resume their squabbling.

Tom sighed. It'd been a long week.

"Well that's all well and good, but I think you're missing just a few steps."

"What more do we need? We have the perfect bait—" Harry gestured toward Tom, where he was thrumming his fingertips on the armrest of the chair he was tied to. "All we need to do is get into the castle, find the diadem, and destroy it. And then, we can use Riddle to draw Voldemort to us so we can kill the snake. Easy."

"Oh," the girl huffed. "Oh, is that all?"

"Yes."

"Harry," the lanky redhead interjected, and Tom could see the restraint the girl needed to put in to keep herself quiet while she let him speak. "Just... just how d'you suppose we're going to get into the castle?"

"We'll... go to Hogsmeade. There has to be a way in. Maybe the Honeydukes passage is still open."

"And maybe it's not!" the girl squawked. "Who knows what sort of security measures they've put in place, Harry. We can't just—just burst on in—"

"Then what do you suggest?!"

"We get help! Like I've been saying! It was one thing to hunt the horcruxes alone, but things have gotten decidedly more complicated now!"

Tom pursed his lips, and had his wrists not been tied down, he would have rubbed at his temples.

"We can handle Riddle, if that's what you mean," Harry snapped.

"That—that's part of it, but what if we find that You-Know-Who can't be killed while... you know... while he lives?"

"I think it's fairly obvious what we'll do then."

"We can't just—he's a person, even if that person is a part of—"

"You can't be serious! He's Voldemort, Hermione! If getting rid of Voldemort means that we've got to go through him too, I think I'll pay that price!"

"You're not a murderer, Harry—"

"Yet you forget that he is!"

"I—I haven't forgotten anything, I just—"

Tom groaned. "Oh, for the love of Merlin," he snapped at last. "Would you all just stop yelling and listen for a second?!"

All eyes turned to him, and just as the bushy-haired girl went to speak, there was a sound from outside of the tent.

The sound of an approaching footstep.

"H-Hermi—"

The girl slapped her hand over the redhead's mouth to silence him and drew her wand. Harry followed suit, directing his at the entrance of the tent.

There was a moment of loud silence.

And then, the snatchers swarmed.

If your'e still taking prompts the one from the halloween list: "we’re secret friends with benefits and you accidentally wore my shirt to to the party so you’re pretending you came as me and it turns out your impression of me is on point and you know me better than you know myself are you sure you’re not in love with me??" seems like such a good newmann one. love your writing :)

from list of halloween prompts here

this one is literally so fucking good for them. god. GOD. theres like the tiniest bit alluded to not sfw in the beginning (after the making out) but after that its fair game

--------------------------

“Ngh,” Newt says. “Keep doing that.”

“Hmm?” Hermann says. He drags his mouth up from Newt’s collarbone, eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth curled into a lazy smile. Almost coquettish.

Newt blinks down at him blearily. And with a little poorly-concealed irritation. “I said keep doing that,” he says. “Not stop doing that.” He gives Hermann’s head a nudge. A tiny gentle one. He’s eager, he can’t help it; Hermann always gets him all eager and hot and bothered. He doesn’t think he’ll mind. “C’mon, baby, c’mon--”

It’s a mistake. Hermann minds: his demeanor changes in an instant, like Newt flipped a light switch that was clearly labeled with a do not touch! in masking tape and Sharpie. (Shit, Newt thinks.) “Don’t,” Hermann snaps, and swats at Newt. “You know I can’t stand it when you pull--”

“I’m not pulling your hair!” Newt says. He drops his hand away and holds it high above his own head just to make his point. “I swear. I was just trying--”

Hermann rolls off of him and onto his back, huffing, arms folding across his bare chest. Lacking any better ideas, Newt follows him. “Aw, Hermann,” he says, “don’t be like that.” He presses kisses to Hermann’s jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to--”

“Unhand me at once,” Hermann mumbles. Newt kisses his cheeks, his mouth. Hermann kisses back. His hand slides up to cup the back of Newt’s neck. “Wretched little man,” he continues to mumble. “Ah.”

“There we go, Hermann,” Newt says, grinning against his lips, and adds, sarcastically (because it always makes Hermann laugh), with a little nip of teeth, “There’s my Hermy-wermy.”

Hermann makes a face. “You know I can’t stand that either.”

“Really?” Newt murmurs. He tiptoes his hand down Hermann’s chest, down to the waistband of his ugly slacks, the open zipper; his grin spreads wider. “Because I think,” he starts to tug Hermann’s slacks down, “your hermy-wermy would say otherw--”

There’s a knock at the door.

Mood ruined, and all of Newt’s hard work getting Hermann game to go again ruined, too, Newt slides his hand back to safe territory and lets out a colorful stream of profanity. Hermann wrinkles his nose beneath him. Whatever, he curses just as much as Newt. “Fuck,” Newt finishes. “Who the hell is that?”

Hermann pushes him off and sits up with a grunt. “We’ve probably got a damned laboratory meeting we forgot about,” he says, “because someone couldn’t keep it in his Hot Topic skinny jeans long enough to wait until we clocked out for the night.”

“They’re not from Hot Topic,” Newt says. He pauses. “How do you even know what Hot Topic is, anyway?”

“I’ve seen the label on them,” Hermann says. There’s another knock. Hermann sighs, and makes to slip out of bed. “If you won’t get it, Newton, I will.”

Newt drags him back down quickly. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “Get back here! You are not answering my door looking like--” He plucks at the elastic of Hermann’s tighty-whiteys peeking out, pokes at the hickey purpling on his neck. “--this. Or at all, actually, how suspicious would that look? This is my bedroom.”

“We’re colleagues,” Hermann says with a sniff. “It’s perfectly natural for us to--er--consort. Outside of work. For all they know we’re talking about work.”

“In our underwear?” Newt says, and points out, “It’s not really natural for colleagues to screw each other as much as we do.”

Hermann flushes. “No one would be able to tell--”

To be completely honest, Newt really, really doesn’t care whether or not people know he and Hermann are--uh--rivals with benefits, but Hermann is always so weird about privacy, and Newt supposes it’s a little bit of a cliche to sleep with a co-worker, so he takes one for the team. “Jesus, Hermann, I’ll get the door,” he says. He swings his legs to the floor and does his jeans back up, then grabs the first shirt he can find and pulls that on too. “Just sit there and look pretty.”

Newt learns two things in the course of squeezing his head out the door and talking to a mildly intoxicated LOCCENT worker: one, that the guy was sent by Tendo to remind them about the super awesome spectacular Halloween party going on down the hallway right his second, and two, that Newt and Hermann were invited to this Halloween party, apparently agreed enthusiastically to coming to it a week ago, and if Newt doesn’t find Hermann and show up with him in ten minutes, Tendo is totally never speaking to them or inviting them to another awesome party ever again. Newt learns a third thing once he and Hermann toss on the rest of their clothing, smooth out their hair a little, and hurry down the hallway to where the party is being held within those allotted ten minutes: he’s accidentally put on Hermann’s shirt. A fourth: Hermann’s accidentally put on his.

Before Hermann can waltz in through the door and raise questions (because his buttons are straining obviously under his low-cut button-up sweatervest, kaiju blood stains a spot just under the lapel, and Newt’s swimming in Hermann’s sleeves and has got a fucking pocket protector in), Newt drags him off to the side and shoves him against a deserted wall to explain their predicament.

“We have to change,” Hermann declares immediately. “We can’t be seen--”

“No, look,” Newt says. He’s quickly formulating a plan. They won’t be able to swap pants, obviously, but-- “Take off your blazer and sweater.”

Hermann frowns. He tucks his blazer tighter around himself. “No,” he says. 

“Take them off, jackass!” Newt orders, ripping his own tie off from around his head and starting to kick off his boots. “And your shoes. Look, it’s a Halloween party, right? People dress up for Halloween parties. Let’s just say we’re going as each other, everyone will get a huge kick out of it, no one finds out we’re, you know.” He adjusts his left index finger and thumb into a small circle, and pokes his right index finger through it a few times with bonus sound effects. “Rendezvousing. Platonically. Your public image is saved.” 

“No,” Hermann repeats, though he flushes. “I am not wearing your disgusting boots.”

Patience running very, very thin, Newt corners him closer against the wall. Not very successfully: Hermann does, after all, have several inches on him. Newt has to glare up at him. “So help me God, Hermann,” he says through gritted teeth, “if you don’t give me your blazer right now, you can find some other horny bozo to--”

“Fine!” Hermann says quickly. He yanks the skinny tie from Newt’s hands. “If you spill anything on--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

After a hurried exchange of accessories which leaves Newt looking like an exceptionally short and baggy Hermann, and Hermann like Newt if he wore contacts and enjoyed attacking his hair with scissors, they waltz into the party together. Newt’s actually pretty pleased with how their costumes turned out, all things considered--Hermann even consented to having Newt draw shitty approximations of his tattoos on Hermann’s arms with a marker they found in Hermann’s pocket.

Everyone at the party gets a total kick out of it, too, which is the best part--especially when Newt decides to toss in some quality Hermann Impressions. 

“Newton,” he grumbles, poshly, hands on his hips, "quiet down right this instant.” That gets a few laughs. “You know I can’t stand it when you have fun.”

More laughs; Hermann, nursing a drink, looks only the vaguest bit amused. “Very funny,” he says. “My turn, now.” He shrinks in on himself in a way that makes him look just a bit shorter, and clears his throat: the voice that comes out next is so high-pitched, so scratchy, so fast, so--uncomfortably Newt that Newt nearly drops his own drink in shock. Especially once Hermann tosses in equally uncomfortably Newt hand gestures. “I’m going to do something ill-advised and dangerous to prove I’m right and give Hermann a stroke,” he declares. “Don’t you just love kaiju? They’re so cool.”

“I’ve never said I loved kaiju,” Newt says, but he’s grinning. 

“They’re so cool,” Hermann repeats. “Do you like my tattoos? You know I have a Doctor Who one on my--?”

“Dude!” Newt hisses. He was eighteen, okay? Anyway, that’s not the kind of private, personal information that Hermann should be sharing if he wants to even remotely pretend they don’t get up to hijinks in the lab after hours. 

“Dude!” Hermann echoes, perfectly.

The little crowd of their co-workers laugh. (Louder laughs than any of Newt’s impressions got.) Newt laughs, too, despite his embarrassment. And despite something beyond embarrassment, something he can’t quite put his finger on--it’s making his heart race, his palms sweat. Hermann sure must, well, know him to get him down like that, obvious comical exaggeration aside. (Or maybe it’s just because Newt talks a lot.)

“Ha, ha,” Newt says. “Okay, you win.”

“Thanks, dude,” Hermann squeaks in his Newt-voice. He winks. 

Newt corners him at the snack table crammed into the far back of the room later, while Hermann is--innocently--scooping some bat-shaped pretzels onto a plate with a large plastic spoon. Newt makes his presence known by stealing a handful and swallowing down half of them. “Gotta say, dude,” he teases, “I’m a good look on you.”

“Of course you’d think that, you narcissist,” Hermann says, but he’s smiling. He swipes a few pretzels back. “Get your own. The bowl is right there.”

Newt steals another from Hermann’s plate. “It’s a crying shame you didn’t borrow my jeans, too,” he says. “I bet you could rock ‘em.”

“Mm, I highly doubt that.”

“You absolutely could,” Newt says. He glances around to make sure no one’s looking, and quickly darts his hand out to pinch Hermann’s ass. Hermann drops the spoon back into the pretzel bowl in surprise. “Though I guess there’s not much to fill them out--”

“You’re a wretched little man,” Hermann says, for the second time that day. The guy really needs some new insults.

“Your voice was really fucking good, by the way,” Newt says, casually, as they lurk in a different corner (lit up with a blacklight) a few minutes later. He’s finally gotten his own plate of food, though he keeps stealing from Hermann’s anyway. “Your Newt voice, I mean. And the--” He waves his hands around. “Do you practice it a lot?”

This pulls a snort from Hermann. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“How’s it so good, then?” Newt pushes, and Hermann shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose I just--pay attention to you.”

Newt cracks a grin, and bumps his elbow against Hermann’s side. “I would kinda hope so.”

“Not like--” Hermann sighs; Newt shuts up fast. (Hermann’s moments of emotional candidness are very, very rare: the most he’s ever done after a fun romp in the sack, beyond leaving immediately, is pat Newt’s hand and say thank you, Newton.) “What I mean to say is that I am...fond of you. Fonder than I am of anyone else. And I watch you, occasionally, because I am fond of you, and notice small things about you--your speech patterns, how you carry yourself...”

That’s, well--it’s certainly candid, and unexpected, and good, of course, to know that Hermann like-likes him, but it’s also a little-- “That’s kinda creepy, Hermann,” Newt says. “You watch me?”

“That’s not--” Hermann stammers, and it turns into a quiet groan. “Oh, I’ve fouled this up. Newton--”

Newt saves him by stretching up on his tiptoes and planting a firm kiss on his mouth. Completely chaste. Devoid of any dirty intentions, like all of their previous kisses have been, like what they’re used to. Just a simple little kiss. It takes Hermann aback: Newt can feel him freeze up before he returns it tentatively.

It’s over in seconds. Newt pulls back and pats Hermann’s cheek. “I know what you mean,” he says. “I feel exactly the same way.” Then his grin returns. “I mean, I don’t watch you like a creep or anything--”

“Shut up,” Hermann says, pink-faced and very pleased.

Ch. 2

Colleen and Ron waved goodbye to their mother and sister as the train took off. Once it rounded a corner, the two siblings went in search of a compartment to sit in until their arrival. They searched up and down but didn't find an empty seat until Ron came across one with the boy in rounded glasses and the girl with curly hair sitting in it.

"Anyone sitting here?" Ron asked after sliding the compartment door open. "Everywhere else is full."

The two children nodded. Ron and Colleen sat down across from them.

"Hey, Ron," one of the twins' voices called from the hallway. Both of them poked their heads in. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train – Lee Jordan's got a tarantula down there."

"Right," Ron responded.

"Harry," George said as he turned to the other boy, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. And that's Colleen, our sister. See you later, then."

"Bye," the other children replied, and the twins shut the door closed.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Colleen asked, her eyes wide in wonder.

The dark-haired boy nodded.

"Oh, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes."

"And have you really got – you know…" said Ron. He pointed to his forehead.

Harry pulled back his hair from his forehead and revealed a lightning-shaped scar.

"So that's where You-Know-Who-?"

"Yes," Harry said, "but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?"

"Well – I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

"Wow."

Colleen noticed there hadn't been a single peep from the girl sitting next to Harry. She had been staring out the window in a sort of sad daze the entire time.

"What's your name?" Colleen asked her.

"Valerie," the girl answered in a hushed tone. "Valerie Dursley."

"Pleased to meet you, Valerie," Colleen smiled at her.

"Are all your family wizards?" asked Harry.

"Er – yes, I think so," Ron replied. "I think Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

"So you must know loads of magic already."

Colleen shrugged. "I mean, if I'm completely honest. I did practice only a handful of charms at home."

"When?" Ron asked.

"Why do you care?"

"What if I wanted to practice, too?"

"Because I would have made you swear by pulling your thumb as far back as it could go, and then we'd both get into trouble for fighting."

"Point taken."

Harry and Valerie chuckled at their argument, and Ron rolled his eyes.

"I heard you went to live with Muggles," he changed the subject. "What are they like?"

"Horrible – well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Valerie here has kept me company. I wish we had three wizard brothers."

"Five," Ron sighed. "Colleen and I are sixth and seventh in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say we've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're funny. Everyone expects us to do as well as the others, but if we do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five older brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat. Well, my sis here got new stuff, but they'll be passed on to our baby sister next year."

Ron then reached into his pocket and pulled out the old rat.

"His name's Scabbers," he explained while the rat slept, "and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad being made a prefect and Colleen an owl as well, but they couldn't aff – I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron went silent as his ears turned red. They weren't supposed to talk about some situations in their family with others, but sometimes it just slipped out of Ron's mouth.

Harry then began to tell about his and Valerie's lives from the time they were infants until now. Both had been verbally abused by Harry's aunt and uncle and cousin, and Valerie only adopted the surname because she didn't know whom or where her parents were. Only Harry knew what happened to his parents.

Neither of them knew what their futures would be up until Hagrid came and took them to prepare for Hogwarts.

"…and until Hagrid told us," he continued, "we didn't know anything about being a wizard and witch or about my parents or Voldemort –"

Ron gasped and Colleen shushed him.

"What?" Valerie asked.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron in a surprised tone. "I'd have thought you, of all people–"

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," Harry replied. "I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to learn…I bet. I bet I'm the worst in the class."

"You won't be," Colleen reassured him with a smile. "There's lots of people who come from Muggle families and they learn very quickly."

As the train moved out of London and sped past open fields, the four of them didn't speak until a lady with a dimpled smile and pushing a cart stopped in front of their compartment door. "Anything off the trolley, dears?" she asked.

"No, thanks," Colleen said with a glum look.

"We're all set," said Ron as he pulled out two sandwiches from is pocket; the same glum look identical to Colleen's on his face.

"We'll take the lot," Harry said after pulling out a few Sickles and Knuts.

Harry bought some of everything on the cart including Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Licorice Wands, Cauldron Cakes, and a number of other sweets. Everything was stacked in a colorful pile between him and Valerie. Colleen immediately grabbed two Cauldron Cakes, since they were her favorite; but she gave one to Valerie, who shyly took it and began unwrapping the packaging.

"Hungry are you?" Ron said.

"Starving," said Harry.

"Me too," Valerie chimed in.

Ron started to unwrap his sandwich and then let out a groan, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

Colleen giggled as she bit into her pastry.

"Swap you one for these," Harry said as he handed out one of the candies. "Go on–"

"You don't want this, it's all dry. She hasn't got much time, you know, with six of us."

Harry persisted, and Ron took it, tossing the sandwich aside. Despite growing up in a home where neither him nor Valerie were allowed hardly anything except a place to sleep, food, and hand-me-down clothing, Colleen could see the kindness in their hearts. She had a way of reading people just by watching them. If two people shook hands in greeting, Colleen could tell if they were close friends or meeting for the first time. Valerie was coming off as shy, but Colleen knew she wouldn't hurt a fly.

As Harry and Ron were busy with their conversation about Chocolate Frogs and the trading cards they came with, Colleen took the opportunity to try to get to know Valerie more.

"So what House are you hoping to get?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?" the curly-haired girl replied with a confused look.

"House. Hogwarts has four of them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Mum says we're sorted to be with others who might be our closest friends."

"What are you hoping you'll get?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"It'll be Gryffindor," Ron chimed in. "All of the Weasleys have been in Gryffindor for centuries."

"Ronald," Colleen rolled her eyes, "I might not. Only the Weasley bloodline has been in Gryffindor."

"But your last name is Weasley, is it not?" Harry asked.

"It is. You see–"

"Sorry," a round-faced, teary-eyed boy interrupted them, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

The quartet shook their heads.

"I've lost him!" the boy cried. "He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up," Valerie reassured him.

"Yes. Well, if you see him…"

"Want me to help you?"

The boy turned red. "S-Sure."

Valerie stood from her seat and followed him out of the compartment.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," Ron shrugged.

"Ronald, be nice," Colleen snapped.

"Well, if I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk. You've actually got an owl, sis."

Colleen just scoffed.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," Ron continued. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look…"

He pulled his, in this case Charlie's, very old wand out of his trunk. A little bit of white was poking out if the end.

"Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway–"

Just before he could chant the spell, a girl with bushy brown hair followed by Valerie and the round-faced boy entered the doorway.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" she asked, a bossy tone in her voice. "Neville's lost one."

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," Ron replied.

The girl didn't seem to hear him as she took the seat next to Colleen. "Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

Ron cleared his throat. "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid fat rat yellow."

Nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey.

"Are you sure that's real spell?" the girl chuckled. "Well, it's not very good, is it?"

Colleen smacked her forehead in frustration. "I'm so sorry. He's one to fall for our brother's tricks too easy."

Ron stuck his tongue out at her, and Colleen did the same.

"I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and they've all worked for me," the girl continued. "Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard – I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

Everything that had spilled out of her mouth came at such lightning speed that Colleen almost didn't catch what she said except for her name.

"I'm Colleen Weasley," she introduced herself as she shook hands with Hermione. "I see you've met Valerie Dursley, and the magician across there is my brother."

"Ron Weasley," he said.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" Hermione's eyes grew wide. "I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical Historyand The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."

"Am I?"

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me. Do any of you know what House you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad…Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

She then left, Neville trailing behind her.

"Whatever House I'm in, I hope she's not in it," Ron said before chunking his wand back in his trunk. "Stupid spell – George gave it to me, but I knew it was a dud."

"Don't believe everything Fred and George tell you, Ronald," Colleen reminded him.

"You said that everyone in the Weasleys has been in Gryffindor," Harry said.

"Yes," said Ron. "I honestly don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"That's the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"

"Yeah."

Colleen then reached into her trunk and pulled out her robes. "I'm going to find a lavatory to change."

"Hurry back," Ron joked.

The strawberry-blonde girl exited the compartment and made her way down the hallway.

Fact or Fiction: Chapter Fifteen

Rated M for abuse, sexual content, and discussion of rape/non-con.  Canon-typical violence.

Summary: It’s Ral Zarek’s sixth year at Hogwarts. And everything would be fine if Jace wasn’t totally occupied with his new girlfriend, to the point where it’s honestly kind of weird, and Ral’s starting to be concerned. Now if only everyone would stop telling Ral he’s just jealous and LISTEN to him…after all, he’s NOT just jealous, right? (Sequel to Send to Sleep.)

Ships: Jace Beleren/Ral Zarek, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Hermione Granger, Nissa Revane/Chandra Nalaar, Elspeth Tirel/Teysa Karlov

A/N: Many, many thanks to @paperclipminimizer for beta-ing and checking my timeline, as well as answering all my questions about Harry Potter. Thanks also to Juri, @dragons-suck, and everyone on Sketchydoodles’ Vorthos server for listening to me rant about this thing as it took shape.

Also available on AO3 and FFnet.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen: Mind Extraction

          It was three days after Jace had tentatively started going to class again. He still hadn’t quite managed to shake off his habit of needing Elspeth and Ral with him pretty much everywhere, even though he knew it was silly. There were only a few weeks of class remaining, or Jace didn’t think he’d even have bothered trying to go back. But something in him stubbornly didn’t want to give Liliana the satisfaction of keeping him out of class entirely for the rest of this semester.

           So he and Ral were walking to Potions, hand in hand. Neither Jace nor Ral had actually said anything about the fact they were now apparently in a handholding relationship, and Jace wasn’t sure he wanted to disturb the balance. He got to hold Ral’s hand, which meant that he always knew that his friend was right there and completely fine. And it gave him a peculiar warm sensation in the center of his chest, which maybe wasn’t surprising, because frankly he still desperately wanted to snog Ral until he couldn’t breathe. He just wasn’t exactly sure how to approach that discussion, and Ral hadn’t said anything either. Jace really wished he knew whether that was because Ral was trying to be careful with him, or whether it was because he honestly didn’t feel that way anymore. Technically, he supposed he could find out, but—no. He wasn’t going to do that. No.

           “Excuse me. Mr. Beleren?”

           Jace looked up and took half a step backwards. He didn’t recognize the man standing on the path in dark, unassuming robes.

           “Um,” he said, instinctively moving behind Ral. “Yeah, I’m Jace.”

           “My name is Venser, and I’m with the Department of Mysteries. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” With a flourish of his wand, he produced a sheaf of official-looking paperwork, which he gave to Jace to look over.

           “I—I don’t—”

           “We’ll be late to class,” Ral said, squeezing Jace’s hand firmly.

           “I can speak with your professor, or it can wait until after class if you prefer.”

           Jace, whose stomach was turning over uneasily, shrugged inside his cloak. “I—I guess—no, it’s okay, Ral. We can come now.”

           “Fantastic, this won’t take very long. I have a temporary office for the occasion.” He set off at a fast pace, his robes swirling behind him. Ral exchanged a look with Jace, then called over to Elspeth, who was trailing a few paces behind them with Teysa. “Hey, Elspeth, can you tell Professor Granger about this guy?”

           “She probably already knows,” Jace muttered to his feet, though Elspeth was nodding firmly. “We knew there’d be some kind of inquiry about all this shit.”

           “Yeah, well, I want her to know anyway,” Ral responded irritably. Despite his words, the hand that held Jace’s was gentle.

           “O-Okay,” Jace agreed faintly as they trailed after Venser.

           The man from the Department of Mysteries appeared to have set up shop in one of the old offices along the third floor corridor. Jace had passed it a fair amount. It was still mostly empty, with a desk and bookshelves lined with more dust than books, but a silver pensieve had been set up on the desk, and a sheaf of papers was scattered beside that.

           Venser bent over the desk, frowning, and carefully worried out one of the papers. “I’ll just need you to sign this,” he said, passing it over to Jace. “None of this will take long.”

           Jace stared down at it, a sudden chill suffusing his bones.

           Memory Removal Acknowledgment Form

           It has been determined that, due to a magical accident or other unfortunate incident, you possess a set of memories that are not your own. After a careful assessment of the circumstances, the Department of Mysteries has determined that said memories possess information vital for national wellbeing. As such, a professional legilimens has been tasked to perform a legilimency-based memory withdrawal and movement charm. None of your own memories will be affected. The side-effects of this procedure are minimal. Possible side-effects include minor dizziness, disorientation, and nightmares of empty spaces. All side-effects should fade within seven days. If any persist, please notify a healer.

           Please sign to indicate that you have read and understand the aforementioned procedure.          

_________________________________

           “Um,” Jace said. “Wait, what?”

           “Oh, sorry, I should’ve explained, shouldn’t I?” Venser looked up with what was probably intended to be a reassuring smile. Jace did not feel reassured. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for us to send someone. There was quite a bit of paperwork. But you don’t need the Sleeper’s memories, and there’s a lot in there that will be useful to us.”

           It was very true that Jace had been trying not to think about the set of muddled memories he had acquired during his brief stint in Liliana’s mind. And he’d been seriously considering obliviating himself, at least of those. But the way that Venser cavalierly spoke of just taking away something that was inside Jace’s head, when he’d never even met the man before—

           “No, thank you,” Jace managed.

           Venser blinked at him. “Er,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not up for debate.”

           Oh, Merlin. Jace could feel his breath snagging on something. He tried to take in more air, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “I—I—” he stammered.

           “It’s not a painful procedure,” Venser said, in confusion. “Honestly, I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you, but this will help. There’s no danger—I know the form is a bit scary, but it’s just covering all its bases.”

           “Leave him the fuck alone,” Ral said at this point. “I don’t care who you think you are, but no one else is fucking with Jace’s head if he doesn’t want them to.”

           “Mr.—er—” Venser floundered. “This is a matter of magical security. We need access to every possible angle of the Sleeper’s memories, and we can’t have them residing in the head of a seventeen-year-old boy.”

           Jace needed to say something, because he couldn’t, he couldn’t let Ral get in trouble, but he couldn’t get out a single word. He didn’t have enough breath left, he didn’t have anything. He scrabbled for the clasp on his cloak, and Ral turned to him.

           “Jace. No. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

           Jace was shaking his head, but he wasn’t sure what he was shaking his head against.

           “I’m sorry if I sprang this on you too suddenly,” Venser apologized. “It really is quite important, but we’ve been under some pressure at the department. I can give you a few minutes to yourself, if that will help. It didn’t occur to me this would be a problem.”

           The world was collapsing inwards. Ral was saying something else, something about, “why the fuck would this not be a big deal?” but Jace couldn’t hear him, because—oh no—this hadn’t happened in years, but the roaring in his ears was being replaced by screams, and the dusty shades of grey of the office were peeling away in front of him to be replaced by charred ruins, flickering green in the light of his wand.

           Someone was screaming. It was loud. There was something over his ears, but it didn’t cut the sound at all. Someone else was saying his name, but he couldn’t find them, because he didn’t know where to look, and everything was dark and the fear was rising to drown him. His breaths echoed shallow in his ears.

           A chill of cold air ran down the back of his neck. The metal of the telescope burned cold against his hand, and the grainy image of a shooting star flickered across his vision. Paper rustled at his ear, and someone’s voice was saying his name over and over again.

           “What is going on in here?”

           Jace was back, cloak still over his head and his shoulders, but the fastening was loose, and there were hands on his, breath on his mouth.

           “Ral,” he gulped hoarsely.

           “Right fucking here. No one’s gonna touch you.”

           “He punched me in the face!”

           Jace was still shaking, and it was hard to focus, but he managed to look past Ral to see that Mr. Venser was sitting on the ground, nursing what looked like a very broken nose.

           “Is this true, Mr. Zarek?” asked Professor Granger’s cool voice.

           “Nope,” Ral said insouciantly. “He was going to touch Jace, so I shoved past him. Guess I got him with my elbow.”

           “You lying—”

           “Mr. Venser. Had you touched Mr. Beleren, you would most likely have injured him and probably yourself as well. Were you not aware that he is a very powerful natural legilimens? Mr. Zarek saved you from quite a nasty experience. Jace, are you all right?”

           “I th-think so,” Jace managed. He squeezed Ral’s hand to make sure he was still there.

           “Could someone do something about this?” Venser asked irritably. “I really need to get back to the reason I was—”

           “I will punch you again,” Ral blurted, and Jace groaned.

           Hermione sighed. “Mr. Zarek, please,” she said. “You are not in trouble yet, but maybe stop talking while you’re ahead?”

           “He wants to erase Jace’s memories!” Ral growled.

           “He admitted to punching me!” Venser snapped.

           “That is ridiculous,” Hermione said coolly. “Wizards do not punch people. That’s what wands are for. Surely you’re not telling me you think Mr. Zarek cannot use that wand?”

           Venser sputtered. “They’re not his memories anyway! I was sent by the Department of Mysteries to collect the Sleeper’s memories!”

           “I d-don’t,” Jace whispered, but it was so hard to talk. Finally, he managed to force it out. “I don’t want anyone else in my head. Definitely not somebody I don’t even know!”

           “I have my orders,” Venser responded. “I told you, it’s a minor procedure and—”

           “I don’t give a fuck!” Jace responded, throat tightening. “They’re my memories, and it’s my fucking head and I just—just—”

           “They are not your memories. They are the memories of the Sleeper, and—”

           “Er-hem,” Hermione cut in sweetly. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I said that Mr. Beleren is a natural legilimens?”

           “I—yes, I heard you, but what does that—”

           “Well, if you’ll recall the Ministry Statute on Modification of Memory, only memories that are acquired via learned magic constitute grounds for removal. Jace’s legilimency isn’t learned magic.”

           “That’s absurd—and in any case, we’d only need an extra signature—”

           “I’m not signing anything,” Jace stammered, and Ral’s arms tightened around him.

           “The boy is underage—”

           “I assure you, his guardian will sign no such thing. You’re lucky you’re talking to me and not Ranna, because she would do a great deal more than punching you in the nose for trying to coerce Jace into a mind modification he’s afraid of.”

           “You mean Ranna Beleren, the—” Venser caught Jace’s murderous look and bit off whatever he’d been about to say. “Look, Professor, the Department of Mysteries believes this information is necessary for everyone’s protection. I promise you, even if you send me away—”

           “Absolutely no one will be touching Jace without his consent ever again,” Professor Granger said tightly. “I don’t care what you think you need it for, I will personally—”

           Venser got to his feet. “This isn’t going to be the end of this.”

           The door opened. “I’ve heard more than enough. Get off of my school grounds.” Professor Potter entered, followed by two redheaded adults Jace didn’t recognize.

           Blinking rapidly, Venser took a step backwards. “Mr. P-Potter, I—”

           “Professor, actually,” Professor Potter said. “You might also remember that I’m the Boy Who Lived, as well as being on good terms with pretty much the entire Auror Office. And I don’t know if you know Ron?”

           “Hi,” said the redheaded man. Professor Granger made a soft surprised noise as he stepped forward. “Ron Weasley? Think we met last year at that awful departmental mixer. You won’t be getting any support from my office, mate.”

           Venser’s lips tightened slightly. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “The Sleeper’s dying quickly, and these will be the only memories left of some of what she’s accomplished.”

           “You want to know how to rape someone better?” Jace snarled incredulously.

           “No, we want to know how to better protect people, and sometimes the best defense is a good offense,” Venser replied testily. “There’s no need to be so melodramatic. I suppose your memories aren’t going anywhere. If you change your mind, here’s my card. You may be hearing from my office again in the future.”

           As soon as he was out the door, Jace ripped the card in half before leaning against Ral. “Can everyone please just leave me alone?” he said tiredly. “I’m late for class, Professor Malfoy will want to know where the hell I’ve been.”

           “Yes, of course, Jace,” Professor Granger said immediately. “You can go ahead to class and tell Draco I can give you both a late note if he requires it, though I don’t think he will.”          

           The redheaded woman who hadn’t spoken thus far put out a hand and helped Jace back to his feet. “Hi,” she said. “I’m not going to give you my card, but I’ll be around for a few days if you want to talk. I’m Ginny Weasley. Spent the first year of my Hogwarts career crying to a best friend who turned out to be Voldemort so I’ve got a bit of an idea of what you’re going through.”

           Her frank manner was disarming, and Jace managed a small smile at her. “Thanks,” he said carefully. “I’ll, um, I’ll drop by.”

           Hermione leaned back against the wall as Jace left the room with Ral still hovering in a way that was more like a mother hen than Hermione had ever seen in a seventeen-year-old boy and definitely odd for the notoriously irascible Mr. Zarek.

           “That was amazing timing, Harry,” she said, and then she turned to Ginny and to the third person in the room, whom she had been trying to avoid thinking about too hard. “Ginny. R-Ron. Nice to see you both.”

           Ginny gave her a bright smile and a little wave. Ron shuffled his feet awkwardly, ran his hand through his hair, and then stepped forward. “Hermione,” he said, and there was almost a stilted, foreign sound in his words. “I wanted to apologize.”

           She blinked. “What?”

           “I am an ass, a twat, and a pillock,” Ron said to his feet. “I was jealous, and I didn’t trust you, and I shoved all my shite at you without listening when you tried to help, didn’t help with any of your shite, ruined our relationship, and I’m bloody afraid I’ve ruined our friendship as well. Which I miss. A lot. But I don’t want you to take me back as a friend if you’re not all right with that, I just wanted you to know that I know that I, Ron Weasley, am a giant great git, and I know it.”

           That hadn’t been what Hermione had expected at all. She felt her stomach turn over, tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh,” she sniffed, then her lips twisted to the side. “Can I punch you?”

           “I definitely deserve to be punched. You can punch me if it’ll help.” Ron shuffled awkwardly. “Although, I mean, you’re a wizard, aren’t you? Didn’t I just hear you say that wizards don’t punch people?”

           Hermione punched him. “Ouch,” she said, shaking out her hand. At least she’d remembered to keep the thumb on the outside. Ron stared at her with his mouth open, then put a hand to his jaw.

           “Mean right hook,” he said, working it as he rubbed it.

           She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Ron, I missed you so much!” she sobbed into his shirt.          

          He froze for a minute, then gingerly put a hand on her hair.

           “Merlin, I am really sorry, ’Mione. Oy, don’t cry. I let you punch me so you wouldn’t cry.”

           “Too bad,” sniffed Hermione. “You get to deal with both, you ass.”

           “S’pose that’s fair.”

           “He’s been practicing being less of a git,” Harry said affably. “Can I join in on this hug?”

           For answer, Hermione stretched out with one arm, snagged his shirt front, and pulled him into it. For one long moment, it was just three old friends once again, and everything seemed to swing into place. And then, of course, it got awkward—Ron shuffled his feet, Hermione felt her hair tickling her nose—but there was still a filled-in warm spot in the middle of Hermione’s stomach that had been aching a little up until then, and now it wasn’t.

           The sunlight that filtered in through the curtains of the Hufflepuff common room caught golden in Emmara’s hair. Jace lay back in her lap and looked up at her, and she smiled back at him. Her hand running through his hair was inexpressibly gentle. “Is this nice?” she asked, and he nodded, trying not to stare too hard, trying to figure out if there was something he needed to do to make this keep happening. Part of him wanted to touch her perfect breasts, feel the way her grey sweater rucked up beneath them, but part of him just wanted to look.

           The warmth of the sunlight became the warmth of a quilt as Jace slowly blinked his eyes open. The pleasant feeling left from the dream evaporated into horror as he realized he was lying next to Ral, back pressed against the other boy’s. A gasping sob rose into Jace’s throat, and the next second he was throwing himself out of bed. He struck the floor hard enough to send pain twingeing through both knees, and he barely stopped himself from crying out.

           He’d been having good dreams about Liliana. He’d been having good dreams about the woman who’d violated him, who’d tortured his best friend in front of him. Jace thought he was going to be sick. In the bed, Ral made a sleepy little questioning noise, and Jace scrabbled to his feet. He had to get out of the suddenly-suffocating darkness.

           Stumbling into the corridor, the bright yellow lights helped calm his racing heart, but he still felt close to vomiting. Jace slid slowly down the wall, trying to stifle his sobs, desperate not to wake anyone else up.

           “Oy, you okay?”

           Jace sniffed, gulped, and gasped, hastily trying to press the tears back into his eyes. “F-Fine,” he muttered and looked up to see the red-haired woman who had introduced herself as Ginny Weasley.

           “You look about done-in,” she said. “Want to come by my room for a butterbeer and tell me about it?”

           “As long as I’m not bothering you, I guess.”

           Ginny shrugged. “I never sleep well in strange beds, so, no, you’re not bothering me.”

           Miserably, Jace trailed after her. A few steps down the corridor, he realized that Kallist had followed him and was now dribbling concernedly on his shoes. “Kallist, I’m fine, go back to Ral.” Jace waved a tired hand, but the little cloud just vibrated slightly, as if he were shaking his head, and spat lightning. “Sorry,” Jace mumbled. “I think he might get your room wet.”

           Ginny shrugged. “It’s not really my room anyway,” she pointed out. “C’mon in.”

           She waved him into a cosy little room, starting a roaring fire in the fireplace with a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation, then went over to the cupboard in one corner and came back with two mugs and an amber bottle.

           “Here,” she used her wand to vanish the top of the bottle and poured a generous helping of the foaming liquid into a mug, which she handed to him. “Knock yourself out.”

           “Thanks.” Jace sipped at it automatically. The warmth of the liquid was grounding, he had to admit.

           “Go ahead, sit.” She waved at the little sofa in front of the fire. “I’ll take the arm so you don’t feel crowded.”

           Awkwardly, Jace sat down. The pillows sank under him, and he had to grab at the sofa arm to avoid overbalancing.

           “Oh, yeah, should’ve warned you, sorry.” She hopped onto the sofa arm on the opposite side of the couch, which Jace appreciated. Kallist floated into his lap.

           “Don’t drizzle,” Jace told the cloud sternly, and Kallist spat a happy lightning bolt at Jace’s nose.

           “So,” Ginny said, taking a long draft of her own butterbeer. “Bad dreams?”

           Jace hunched his shoulders inwards, wishing he could say yes. Well, he could, but what was the point of deceiving everyone? He was pretty sure he deserved whatever response he’d get. He shook his head. “No,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Good ones.”

           “Oof.” Ginny groans, running a hand through her hair. “Fuck, those are the worst.”

           “Wh-What?” Jace had been prepared for responses running from awkward sympathy to horrified disgust. He hadn’t been expecting what sounded like actual commiseration.

           “Yeah, back when Harry and I were still together, I once had this really—domestic dream about Tom Riddle. You know. Voldemort. We were baking a pie or something together, everything was really fluffy and happy, and that was it, there wasn’t anything dark or weird or bad.” She sighed. “I woke up at 2 am and didn’t feel like I deserved to be sleeping near Harry, so I went into the kitchen and got very, very drunk.” She winced. “Noooot a great idea when I had an important match the next day. Harry tried to be Very Supportive, but he’d no idea how to even start.”

           Jace swallowed. “I hate myself,” he said in a low voice. “I mean, how could I dream something good about her? I was asleep next to Ral. I got him tortured. She tortured him.”

           “You can’t control your brain,” Ginny said. “I mean, you just can’t. It’s horrible. It’s awful. Dreams like that are one of the worst things I can remember having over the past decade, and I can remember some pretty fucked-up things. It’s not your fault.”

           “But it is, I’m so sick of people telling me it’s not.”

           “Me, too.” Ginny shrugged. “I mean, Jace, would you say an eleven-year-old girl was at fault for being duped by Voldemort?”

           He shook his head.

           “Most people wouldn’t. But I did. Because I was that eleven-year-old girl, and I shouldn’t’ve listened to him. I should’ve seen through him, or asked for help, or done anything to stop the possession before it was too late. I was so lucky I didn’t get anyone killed. That’s—what I was most grateful to Harry for. Not so much that he saved my life but that he saved everyone else’s.”

           “But—”

           “But this is you?”

           He glared at her. “Okay, I get it, I’m selfish.”

           “Okay.” Ginny smiled at him. “Then be selfish. Take care of yourself.”

           “I don’t—I don’t deserve to.”

           “Well, that’s not very selfish.”

           “God, are we doing fucking logic traps now?” Jace hunched his shoulders inward, trying to stop himself from throwing his damn mug at the wall.

           Ginny shook her head. “No. I’m just not too good at this. Honestly? I dealt with a lot of this shite by getting preeeeetty smashed. It just sucks. It’s not going to magically get better, no matter what I say. And I’m really sorry about that.” She pulled a face at him. “I’d give you some firewhiskey, but Hermione would probably skin me alive.”

           He had to laugh a little at that. “I just want to not feel like this, but not having the feelings is almost as bad as having them. I know my mum gets worried when I act like I don’t care, but I—I don’t want to care? It really hurts.”

           “It’ll get better.” Ginny tugged at her long hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so very fucking sorry that I can’t tell you something more useful than that. But, Jace—just hang on, okay? Your friends care about you. Even if you’re going to blame yourself and hate yourself and feel awful, remember that they want you to be okay. If you can’t take care of yourself for yourself, take care of yourself for them.”

           Jace squirmed, thinking about Ral’s reaction if he knew the kinds of things Jace was thinking about himself right now. “Ugh. I’ll try.”

           “Best thing you can do.” Ginny gave him an awkward smile. “Um, cheers?”

“You boosted a Gremlin?”: ‘Justified’ Recap, Season 1, Episodes 2-5

For those just tuning in, I have taken on the ambitious and probably foolish task of recapping the FX series Justified-- my notes on the pilot are here. I’m batching them together in order to make slightly less work for myself; we’ll see how it goes. In this first chunk of Season 1, the series is pretty clearly still finding its feet, but there’s some great stuff here. Again, I will be making connections to later material, so keep that in mind...

Episode Two: “Riverbrook”

-Raylan visits Boyd in the jail’s infirmary, and Boyd expounds on his newfound faith. It’s tempting, given what we’ve seen so far, to dismiss this ‘conversion’ as a smokescreen, but this, to me, constitutes a grave misreading of Boyd’s character. This is not someone who does things by halves.

-Raylan also picks up Dewey Crowe, to transport him back to Harlan. Despite his broken nose, Dewey appears to bear Raylan no particular ill will, and chatters on about his Florida escapades, including a stint working at Disney World. He wanted to play Goofy, but couldn’t get the hang of the Jet-Ski.

-Case of the week: a group of convicts who hire out as a band to play at parties escapes their minders, and Art tells Raylan to be on the lookout. My one complaint here is that Art refers to them as a ‘bluegrass band’-- not with a full drum kit and a resonator guitar, they aren’t, and I would expect Art to know that, but that’s just me.

-Raylan encounters the bandits at a gas station, and the elder, Cooper, dispatches his associate and takes Raylan’s guns, wallet, and hat before locking him in the storeroom. At least Raylan had time for a corny musician joke (Q. “How do you tell if there’s a shitty drummer at the door?” A. “The knock speeds up.”)

-Next morning, Art tells Raylan that the U.S. Attorney’s Office is investigating him, in light of the shooting in Miami and the incident with Boyd Crowder. “Say you’re in the first grade, and you bite a kid every week-- people might start to think of you as a biter.”

-Winona drops by to tell Raylan that he’s made Gary extremely nervous.

-As Raylan, Tim, and Rachel track down Cooper, Tim fills Raylan in on his past as a sniper in Afghanistan-- they were encouraged to make up stories about their targets to pass the time, until some got too emotionally involved. Raylan asks Tim if he was one of them, and Tim doesn’t answer.

-Raylan tells another corny joke, this time to Ava: “Know why Pentecostals don’t have sex standing up? It could lead to dancing.”

Episode Three: “Fixer”

-Art brings Raylan news that his father, Arlo Givens, has been arrested. Raylan remains uninterested.

-Case of the week: Arnold Pinter (David Eigenberg), a reluctant Brooklyn transplant, former bookie, and confidential informant may be under threat. He attempts to introduce Raylan to the delights of a chocolate egg cream, but Raylan settles for vanilla ice cream.

-Turns out, Arnold is trying to scam a lowlife named Travis Travers (license plate: TNT 6969), with the help of aspiring landscaper/enforcer Curtis Mims. 1 heads-up-- Curtis used to work for an organized crime outfit in Detroit.

-Major theme of this episode is people wanting out: Arnold wants to return to Brooklyn, Ava has ideas about Costa Rica, Raylan just wants to be anywhere other than where he is. He tells Ava that when he and Winona were young, they both swore never to come back to Kentucky.

Episode Four: “Long in the Tooth”

-We’re in LA this week, on the trail of the so-called “Crazy Dentist”, whom Raylan knew in a previous life as Rollie Pike (played by Alan Ruck). Pike escaped Raylan’s clutches in Brownsville, owing to Raylan’s unfortunate ice cream habit.

-Rachel is in charge, to make sure Raylan doesn’t make more work for the U.S. Attorney’s Office. In the car, Raylan clumsily tries to ingratiate himself by expressing sympathy for ‘how hard it must have been’ for Rachel to progress as far as she has, and she rightly calls him out, “Why? Because I’m black, or because I’m a woman?” 

-Rollie, with his receptionist/accomplice Mindy in tow, attempts to steal a car, and ends up trading with a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued veteran, Mr. Jones. Seeing that Mr. Jones has lost his leg, Rollie thanks him for his service. Jones replies, “I lost the leg to diabetes. But you’re welcome.”

-Raylan and Rollie have a chat, and we get our first glimpse of the Miami cartel-- two guys in a car, watching Raylan, while the older of the two talks to ‘Gio’ on the phone.

-LAPD finds Rollie’s car, driven by Mr. Jones, who has no time for cops. “I was greasing slopes in the Mekong Delta while you were still sucking your mama’s tit-tays.”

-Episode ends with a desert standoff near the border-- Rollie and Mindy (suffering the after-effects of food-truck ceviche), Raylan, the cartel flunkies, and a sniper on the other side. Rollie explains to Raylan that he wanted to become a dentist after seeing the Rankin-Bass Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer special as a kid, with the character Hermie the elf. “The little gay dude?” Raylan asks, incredulous. (My mother loves that movie, and I’ve probably watched it every year at Christmas. I went through an adolescent period of hating it, and I still would rather watch almost anything else, but it’s just One of Those Things. At least we don’t do Christmas Eve lutefisk anymore.)

Episode Five: “The Lord of War and Thunder”

-Case of the week: A stakeout; they believe a fugitive is hiding at his ex-wife’s house. Raylan decides to offer some free yard work, and the woman skeptically agrees.

-Major character introductions in Harlan: Arlo Givens (Raymond J. Barry), Raylan’s criminally-inclined estranged father, first seen breaking into a property he’s been renting out. He calls the local sheriff, Hunter Mosley (Brent Sexton), himself, and explains that the tenant, Stan Perkins, is behind on his rent.

-Raylan’s Aunt Helen (Linda Gehringer), now married to Arlo, calls and asks Raylan to come down and bail his father out of jail. She explains that she has a restraining order preventing her from going onto the premises. Raylan goes to visit Perkins, suspecting something else is going on, and Perkins hints that he is also trying to leave Kentucky.

-on a comic note, Assistant U.S. Attorney David Vasquez (Rick Gomez) brings Ava Crowder in for questioning, and has court-reporter Winona to take notes. Winona excuses herself abruptly, explaining her marriage to Raylan.

-Arlo, taking revenge on Perkins’ ‘nephews’ for threatening Helen, cites “the great Henry Aaron” before lighting into the pair of them with a baseball bat. He collapses from a heart attack, and Helen calls Raylan to the hospital.

-this week’s corny joke, courtesy of Arlo: he and his friend were being menaced by a bear, and his friend hurriedly put on sneakers. Arlo told him he couldn’t possibly outrun a bear, and his friend said, “I don’t have to be faster than the bear, I just have to be faster than you.”

-In conversation with Raylan, Arlo reflects on his own father, a Bible-thumping preacher. Rebellion, it seems, is a constant in the Givens family. When Helen comes up, Arlo asks where she was. “Down in the parking lot, giving blowjobs for cash,” she replies. “Were they paying, or were you?” Arlo fires back, not without affection.

-First appearance of Johnny Crowder (David Meunier): cousin to Boyd and Bowman, played baseball with Raylan in high school. He seems amiable enough-- he informs Raylan that Perkins is trafficking OxyContin, and passes along a warning: Bo Crowder, father of Boyd and Bowman, is due to be released from prison, and will be looking for Ava.

That’s all for now, the next installment will cover Episodes 6-9.

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity. 

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

Owls

Ron's euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch cup was such that he couldn't settle to anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over the match, so Harry and Hermione found it very difficult to find an opening in which to mention Grawp. Not that either of them tried very hard; neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join them in revising under the beech tree at the edge of the lake, where they had less chance of being overheard than in the common room. Ron was not particularly keen on this idea at first--he was thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by every Gryffindor who walked past his chair, not to mention the occasional outbursts of 'Weasley is our King'--but after a while he agreed that some fresh air might do him good. They spread their books out in the shade of the beech tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth time. 'Well, I mean, I'd already let in that one of Davies's, so I wasn't feeling all that confident, but I dunno, when Bradley came towards me, just out of nowhere, I thought--you can do this! And I had about a second to decide which way to fly, you know, because he looked like he was aiming for the right goalhoop-- my right, obviously, his left--but I had a funny feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance and flew left--his right, I mean--and--well--you saw what happened,' he concluded modestly, sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it looked interestingly windswept and glancing around to see whether the people nearest to them--a bunch of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs--had heard him. 'And then, when Chambers came at me about five minutes later--What?' Ron asked, having stopped mid-sentence at the look on Harry's face. 'Why are you grinning?' 'I'm not,' said Harry quickly, and looked down at his Transfiguration notes, attempting to straighten his lace. The truth was that Ron had just reminded Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very tree. 'I'm just glad we won, that's all.' 'Yeah,' said Ron slowly, savouring the words, 'we won.Did you see the look on Chang's face when Ginny got the Snitch right out from under her nose?' 'I suppose she cried, did she?' said Harry bitterly. 'Well, yeah-- more out of temper than anything, though ...' Ron frowned slightly. 'But you saw her chuck her broom away when she got back to the ground, didn't you?' 'Er--' said Harry. 'Well, actually ... no, Ron,' said Hermione with a heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him apologetically. 'As a matter of fact, the only bit of the match Harry and I saw was Davies's first goal.' Ron's carefully ruffled hair seemed to wilt with disappointment. 'You didn't watch?' he said faintly, looking from one to the other. 'You didn't see me make any of those saves?' 'Well--no,' said Hermione, stretching out a placatory hand towards him. 'But Ron, we didn't want to leave--we had to!' 'Yeah?' said Ron, whose face was growing rather red. 'How come?' 'It was Hagrid,' said Harry. 'He decided to tell us why he's been covered in injuries ever since he got back from the giants. He wanted us to go into the Forest with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets. Anyway ...' The story was told in five minutes, by the end of which Ron's indignation had been replaced by a look of total incredulity. 'He brought one back and hid it in the Forest?' 'Yep,' said Harry grimly. 'No,' said Ron, as though by saying this he could make it untrue. 'No, he can't have.' 'Well, he has,' said Hermione firmly. 'Grawp's about sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine trees, and knows me,' she snorted, 'as Hermy.' Ron gave a nervous laugh. 'And Hagrid wants us to ... ?' 'Teach him English, yeah,' said Harry. 'He's lost his mind,' said Ron in an almost awed voice. 'Yes,' said Hermione irritably, turning a page of Intermediate Transfiguration and glaring at a series of diagrams showing an owl turning into a pair of opera glasses. 'Yes, I'm starting to think he has. But, unfortunately, he made Harry and me promise.' 'Well, you're just going to have to break your promise, that's all,' said Ron firmly. 'I mean, come on ... we've got exams and we're about that far--' he held up his hand to show thumb and forefinger almost touching '--from being chucked out as it is. And anyway ... remember Norbert? Remember Aragog? Have we ever come off better for mixing with any of Hagrid's monster mates?' 'I know, it's just that--we promised,' said Hermione in a small voice. Ron smoothed his hair flat again, looking preoccupied. 'Well,' he sighed, 'Hagrid hasn't been sacked yet, has he? He's hung on this long, maybe he'll hang on till the end of term and we won't have to go near Grawp at all.' The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake; the satin green lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze. June had arrived, but to the fifth-years this meant only one thing: their OWLs were upon them at last. Their teachers were no longer setting them homework; lessons were devoted to revising those topics the teachers thought most likely to come up in the exams. The purposeful, feverish atmosphere drove nearly everything but the OWLs from Harry's mind, though he did wonder occasionally during Potions lessons whether Lupin had ever told Snape that he must continue giving Harry Ooclumency tuition. If he had, then Snape had ignored Lupin as thoroughly as he was now ignoring Harry. This suited Harry very well; he was quite busy and tense enough without extra classes with Snape, and to his relief Hermione was much too preoccupied these days to badger him about Occlumency; she was spending a lot of time muttering to herself, and had not laid out any elf clothes for days. She was not the only person acting oddly as the OWLs drew steadily nearer. Ernie Macmillan had developed an irritating habit of interrogating people about their revision practices. 'How many hours d'you think you're doing a day?' he demanded of Harry and Ron as they queued outside Herbology, a manic gleam in his eyes. 'I dunno,' said Ron. 'A few.' 'More or less than eight?' 'Less, I s'pose,' said Ron, looking slightly alarmed. 'I'm doing eight,' said Ernie, puffing out his chest. 'Eight or nine. I'm getting an hour in before breakfast every day. Eights my average. I can do ten on a good weekend day. I did nine and a half on Monday. Not so good on Tuesday--only seven and a quarter. Then on Wednesday--' Harry was deeply thankful that Professor Sprout ushered them into greenhouse three at that point, forcing Ernie to abandon his recital. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy had found a different way to induce panic. 'Of course, it's not what you know,' he was heard to tell Crabbe and Goyle loudly outside Potions a few days before the exams were to start, 'it's who you know. Now, Father's been friendly with the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years--old Griselda Marchbanks--we've had her round for dinner and everthing ...' 'Do you think that's true?' Hermione whispered in alarm to Harry and Ron. 'Nothing we can do about it if it is,' said Ron gloomily. 'I don't think it's true,' said Neville quietly from behind them. 'Because Griselda Marchbanks is a friend of my gran's, and she's never mentioned the Malfoy's.' 'What's she like, Neville?' asked Hermione at once. 'Is she strict?' 'Bit like Gran, really,' said Neville in a subdued voice. 'Knowing her won't hurt your chances, though, will it?' Ron told him encouragingly. 'Oh, I don't think it will make any difference,' said Neville, still more miserably. 'Gran's always telling Professor Marchbanks I'm not as good as my dad ... well ... you saw what she's like at St. Mungo's ...' Neville looked fixedly at the floor. Harry, Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, but didn't know what to say. It was the first time Neville had acknowledged that they had met at the wizarding hospital. Meanwhile, a flourishing black-market trade in aids to concentration, mental agility and wakefulness had sprung up among the fifth- and seventh-years. Harry and Ron were much tempted by the bottle of Baruffio's Brain Elixir offered to them by Ravenclaw sixth-year Eddie Carmichael, who swore it was solely responsible for the nine 'Outstanding' OWLs he had gained the previous summer and was offering a whole pint for a mere twelve Galleons. Ron assured Harry he would reimburse him for his half the moment he left Hogwarts and got a job, but before they could close the deal, Hermione had confiscated the bottle from Carmichael and poured the contents down a toilet. 'Hermione, we wanted to buy that!' shouted Ron. 'Don't be stupid,' she snarled. 'You might as well take Harold Dingle's powdered dragon claw and have done with it.' 'Dingle's got powdered dragon claw?' said Ron eagerly. 'Not any more,' said Hermione. 'I confiscated that, too. None of these things actually work, you know.' 'Dragon claw does work!' said Ron. 'It's supposed to be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you come over all cunning for a few hours--Hermione, let me have a pinch, go on, it can't hurt--' 'This stuff can,' said Hermione grimly. 'I've had a look at it, and it's actually dried doxy droppings.' This information took the edge off Harry and Ron's desire for brain stimulants. They received their examination timetables and details of the procedure for OWLs during their next Transfiguration lesson. 'As you can see,' Professor McGonagall told the class as they copied down the dates and times of their exams from the blackboard, 'your OWLs are spread over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory papers in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night. 'Now, I must warn you that the most stringent anti-cheating charms have been applied to your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned from the examination hall, as are Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs and Self-Correcting Ink. Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbour at least one student who thinks that he or she can get around the Wizarding Examinations Authority's rules. I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our new--Headmistress--' Professor McGonagall pronounced the word with the same look on her face that Aunt Petunia had whenever she was contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt '--has asked the Heads of House to tell their students that cheating will be punished most severely--because, of course, your examination results will reflect upon the Headmistress's new regime at the school--' Professor McGonagall gave a tiny sigh; Harry saw the nostrils of her sharp nose flare. '--however, that is no reason not to do your very best. You have your own futures to think about.' 'Please, Professor,' said Hermione, her hand in the air, 'when will we find out our results?' 'An owl will be sent to you some time in July,' said Professcr McGonagall. 'Excellent,' said Dean Thomas in an audible whisper, 'so we don't have to worry about it till the holidays.' Harry imagined sitting in his bedroom in Privet Drive in six weeks' time, waiting for his OWL results. Well, he thought dully, at least he would be sure of one bit of post that summer. Their first examination, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for Monday morning. Harry agreed to test Hermione after lunch on Sunday, but regretted it almost at once; she was very agitated and kept snatching the book back from him to check that she had got the answer completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming. 'Why don't you just do it yourself?' he said firmly, handing the book back to her, his eyes watering. Meanwhile, Ron was reading two years' worth of Charms notes with his fingers in his ears, his lips moving soundlessly; Seamus Finnigan was lying flat on his back on the floor, reciting the definition of a Substantive Charm while Dean checked it against The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5; and Parvati and Lavender, who were practising basic Locomotion Charms, were making their pencil-cases race each other around the edge of the table. Dinner was a subdued affair that night. Harry and Ron did not talk much, but ate with gusto, having studied hard all day. Hermione, on the other hand, kept putting down her knife and fork and diving under the table for her bag, from which she would seize a book to check some fact or figure. Ron was just telling her that she ought to eat a decent meal or she would not sleep that night, when her fork slid from her limp fingers and landed with a loud tinkle on her plate. 'Oh, my goodness,' she said faintly, staring into the Entrance Hall. 'Is that them? Is that the examiners?' Harry and Ron whipped around on their bench. Through the doors to the Great Hall they could see Umbridge standing with a small group of ancient-looking witches and wizards. Umbridge, Harry was pleased to see, looked rather nervous. 'Shall we go and have a closer look?' said Ron. Harry and Hermione nodded and they hastened towards the double doors into the Entrance Hall, slowing down as they stepped over the threshold to walk sedately past the examiners. Harry thought Professor Marchbanks must be the tiny, stooped witch with a face so lined it looked as though it had been draped in cobwebs; Umbridge was speaking to her deferentially. Professor Marchbanks seemed to be a little deaf; she was answering Professor Umbridge very loudly considering they were only a foot apart. 'Journey was fine, journey was fine, we've made it plenty of times before!' she said impatiently. 'Now, I haven't heard from Dumbledore lately!' she added, peering around the Hall as though hopeful he might suddenly emerge from a broom cupboard. 'No idea where he is, I suppose?' 'None at all,' said Umbridge, shooting a malevolent look at Harry, Ron and Hermione, who were now dawdling around the foot of the stairs as Ron pretended to do up his shoelace. 'But I daresay the Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough.' 'I doubt it,' shouted tiny Professor Marchbanks, 'not it Dumbledore doesn't want to be found! I should know ... examined him personally in Transfiguration and Charms when he did NEWTs ... did things with a wand I'd never seen before.' 'Yes ... well ...' said Professor Umbridge as Harry, Ron and Hermione dragged their feet up the marble staircase as slowly as they dared, 'let me show you to the staff room. I daresay you'd like a cup of tea after your journey.' It was an uncomfortable sort of an evening. Everyone was trying to do some last-minute revising but nobody seemed to be getting very far. Harry went to bed early but then lay awake for what felt like hours. He remembered his careers consultation and McGonagall's furious declaration that she would help him become an Auror if it was the last thing she did. He wished he had expressed a more achievable ambition now that exam time was here. He knew he was not the only one lying awake, but none of the others in the dormitory spoke and finally, one by one, they fell asleep. None of the fifth-years talked very much at breakfast next day, either: Parvati was practising incantations under her breath while the salt cellar in front of her twitched; Hermione was rereading Achievements in Charming so fast that her eyes appeared blurred; and Neville kept dropping his knife and fork and knocking over the marmalade. Once breakfast was over, the fifth- and seventh-years milled around in the Entrance Hall while the other students went off to lessons; then, at half past nine, they were called forwards class by class to re-enter the Great Hall, which had been rearranged exactly as Harry had seen it in the Pensieve when his father, Sirius and Snape had been taking their OWLs; the four house tables had been removed and replaced instead with many tables for one, all facing the staff-table end of the Hall where Professor McGonagall stood facing them. When they were all seated and quiet, she said, 'You may begin,' and turned over an enormous hour-glass on the desk beside her, on which there were also spare quills, ink bottles and rolls of parchment. Harry turned over his paper, his heart thumping hard--three rows to his right and four seats ahead Hermione was already scribbling--and lowered his eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation and b) describe the wand movement required to make objects fly. Harry had a fleeting memory of a club soaring high into the air and landing loudly on the thick skull of a troll ... smiling slightly, he bent over the paper and began to write. 'Well, it wasn't too bad, was it?' asked Hermione anxiously in the Entrance Hall two hours later, still clutching the exam paper. 'I'm not sure I did myself justice on Cheering Charms, I just ran out of time. Did you put in the counter-charm for hiccoughs? I wasn't sure whether I ought to, it felt like too much--and on question twenty-three--' 'Hermione,' said Ron sternly, 'we've been through this before ... we're not going through every exam afterwards, it's bad enough doing them once.' The fifth-years ate lunch with the rest of the school (the four house tables had reappeared for the lunch hour), then they trooped off into the small chamber beside the Great Hall, where they were to wait until called for their practical examination. As small groups of students were called forwards in alphabetical order, those left behind muttered incantations and practised wand movements, occasionally poking each other in the back or eye by mistake. Hermione's name was called. Trembling, she left the chamber with Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle and Daphne Greengrass. Students who had already been tested did not return afterwards, so Harry and Ron had no idea how Hermione had done. 'She'll be fine, remember she got a hundred and twelve per cent on one of our Charms tests?' said Ron. Ten minutes later, Professor Flitwick called, 'Parkinson, Pansy--Patil, Padma--Patil, Parvati--Potter, Harry.' 'Good luck,' said Ron quietly. Harry walked into the Great Hall, clutching his wand so tightly his hand shook. 'Professor Tofty is free, Potter,' squeaked Professor Flitwick, who was standing just inside the door. He pointed Harry towards what looked like the very oldest and baldest examiner who was sitting behind a small table in a far corner, a short distance from Professor Marchbanks, who was halfway through testing Draco Malfoy. 'Potter, is it?' said Professor Tofty, consulting his notes and peering over his pince-nez at Harry as he approached. 'The famous Potter?' Out of the corner of his eye, Harry distinctly saw Malfoy throw a scathing look over at him; the wine-glass Malfoy had been levitating fell to the floor and smashed. Harry could not suppress a grin; Professor Tofty smiled back at him encouragingly. 'That's it,' he said in his quavery old voice, 'no need to be nervous. Now, if I could ask you to take this egg cup and make it do some cartwheels for me.' On the whole, Harry thought it went rather well. His Levitation Charm was certainly much better than Malfoy's had been, though he wished he had not mixed up the incantations for Colour Change and Growth Charms, so that the rat he was supposed to be turning orange swelled shockingly and was the size of a badger before Harry could rectify his mistake. He was glad Hermione had not been in the Hall at the time and neglected to mention it to her afterwards. He could tell Ron, though; Ron had caused a dinner plate to mutate into a large mushroom and had no idea how it had happened. There was no time to relax that night; they went straight to the common room after dinner and submerged themselves in revision for Transfiguration next day; Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with complex spell models and theories. He forgot the definition of a Switching Spell during his written paper next morning but thought his practical could have been a lot worse. At least he managed to Vanish the whole of his iguana, whereas poor Hannah Abbott lost her head completely at the next table and somehow managed to multiply her ferret into a flock of flamingos, causing the examination to be halted for ten minute; while the birds were captured and carried out of the Hall. They had their Herbology exam on Wednesday (other than a small bite from a Fanged Geranium, Harry felt he had done reasonably well); and then, on Thursday, Defence Against the Dark Arts. Here, for the first time, Harry felt sure he had passed. He had no problem with any of the written questions and took particular pleasure, during the practical examination, in performing all the counter-jinxes and defensive spells right in front of Umbridge, who was watching coolly from near the doors into the Entrance Hall. 'Oh, bravo!' cried Professor Tolty, who was examining Harry again, when Harry demonstrated a perfect boggart banishing spell. 'Very good indeed! Well, I think that's all, Potter ... unless ...' He leaned forwards a little. 'I heard, from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point ... ?' Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge and imagined her being sacked. 'Expecto patronum!' His silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and cantered the length of the Hall. All of the examiners looked around to watch its progress and when it dissolved into silver mist Professor Tofty clapped his veined and knotted hands enthusiastically. 'Excellent!' he said. 'Very well, Potter, you may go!' As Harry passed Umbridge beside the door, their eyes met. There was a nasty smile playing around her wide, slack mouth, but he did not care. Unless he was very much mistaken (and he was not planning on telling anybody, in case he was), he had just achieved an 'Outstanding' OWL. On Friday, Harry and Ron had a day off while Hermione sat her Ancient Runes exam, and as they had the whole weekend in front of them they permitted themselves a break from revision. They stretched and yawned beside the open window, through which warm summer air was wafting as they played wizard chess. Harry could see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on the edge of the Forest. He was trying to guess what creatures they were examining--he thought it must be unicorns, because the boys seemed to be standing back a little--when the portrait hole opened and Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad-tempered. 'How were the Runes?' said Ron, yawning and stretching. 'I mis-translated ehwaz,' said Hermione furiously. 'It means partnership, not defence,I mixed it up with eihwaz.' 'Ah well,' said Ron lazily, 'that's only one mistake, isn't it, you'll still get--' 'Oh, shut up!' said Hermione angrily. 'It could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass and a fail. And what's more, someone's put another Niffler in Umbridge's office. I don't know how they got it through that new door, but I just walked past there and Umbridge is shrieking her head off--by the sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg--' 'Good,' said Harry and Ron together. 'It is not good!' said Hermione hotly. 'She thinks it's Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want Hagrid chucked out!' 'He's teaching at the moment; she can't blame him,' said Harry, gesturing out of the window. 'Oh, you're so naive sometimes, Harry. You really think Umbridge will wait for proof?' said Hermione, who seemed determined to be in a towering temper, and she swept off towards the girls' dormitories, banging the door behind her. 'Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,' said Ron, very quietly, prodding his queen forward to beat up one of Harry's knights. Hermione's bad mood persisted for most of the weekend, though Harry and Ron found it quite easy to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday revising for Potions on Monday, the exam which Harry had been looking forward to least--and which he was sure would be the downfall of his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he found the written paper difficult, though he thought he might have got full marks on the question about Polyjuice Potion; he could describe its effects accurately, having taken it illegally in his second year. The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had expected, it to be. With Snape absent from the proceedings, he found that he was much more relaxed than he usually was while making potions. Neville, who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class. When Professor Marchbanks said, 'Step away from your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,' Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might not have achieved a good grade but he had, with luck, avoided a fail. 'Only four exams left,' said Parvati Patil wearily as they headed back to Gryffindor common room. 'Only!' said Hermione snappishly. 'I've got Arithmancy and it's probably the toughest subject there is!' Nobody was foolish enough to snap back, so she was unable to vent her spleen on any of them and was reduced to telling off some first-years for giggling too loudly in the common room. Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday's Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where students were required to correctly identify the Knarl hidden among a dozen hedgehogs (the trick was to offer them all milk in turn: Knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills had many magical properties, generally went berserk at what they saw as an attempt to poison them); then demonstrate correct handling of a Bowtruckle; feed and clean out a Fire Crab without sustaining serious burns; and choose, from a wide selection of food, the diet they would give a sick unicorn. Harry could see Hagrid watching anxiously out of his cabin window. When Harry's examiner, a plump little witch this time, smiled at him and told him he could leave, Harry gave Hagrid a fleeting thumbs-up before heading back to the castle. The Astronomy theory paper on Wednesday morning went well enough. Harry was not convinced he had got the names of all Jupiter's moons right, but was at least confident that none of them was inhabited by mice. They had to wait until evening for their practical Astronomy; the afternoon was devoted instead to Divination. Even by Harry's low standards in Divination, the exam went very badly. He might as well have tried to see moving pictures on the desktop as in the stubbornly blank crystal ball; he lost his head completely during tea-leaf reading, saying it looked to him as though Professor Marchbanks would shortly be meeting a round, dark, soggy stranger, and rounded off the whole fiasco by mixing up the life and head lines on her palm and informing her that she ought to have died the previous Tuesday. 'Well, we were always going to fail that one,' said Ron gloomily as they ascended the marble staircase. He had just made Harry feel rather better by telling him how he had told the examiner in detail about the ugly man with a wart on his nose in his crystal ball, only to look up and realise he had been describing his examiner's reflection. 'We shouldn't have taken the stupid subject in the first place,' said Harry. 'Still, at least we can give it up now.' 'Yeah,' said Harry. 'No more pretending we care what happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly.' 'And from now on, I don't care if my tea-leaves spell die, Ron, die--I'm just chucking them in the bin where they belong.' Harry laughed just as Hermione came running up behind them. He stopped laughing at once, in case it annoyed her. 'Well, I think I've done all right in Arithmancy,' she said, and Harry and Ron both sighed with relief. 'Just time for a quick look over our star-charts before dinner, then ...' When they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower at eleven o'clock, they found a perfect night for stargazing, cloudless and still. The grounds were bathed in silvery moonlight and there was a slight chill in the air. Each of them set up his or her telescope and, when Professor Marchbanks gave the word, proceeded to fill in the blank star-chart they had been given. Professors Marchbanks and Tofty strolled among them, watching as they entered the precise positions of the stars and planets they were observing. All was quiet except for the rustle of parchment, the occasional creak of a telescope as it was adjusted on its stand, and the scribbling of many quills. Half an hour passed, then ar hour; the little squares of reflected gold light flickering on the: ground below started to vanish as lights in the castle windows were extinguished. As Harry completed the constellation Orion on his chart, however, the front doors of the castle opened directly below the parapet where he was standing, so that light spilled down the stone steps a little way across the lawn. Harry glanced down as he made a slight adjustment to the position of his telescope and saw five or six elongated shadows moving over the brightly lit grass before the doors swung shut and the lawn became a sea of darkness once more. Harry put his eye back to his telescope and refocused it, now examining Venus. He looked down at his chart to enter the planet there, but something distracted him; pausing with his quill suspended over the parchment, he squinted down into the shadowy grounds and saw half a dozen figures walking over the lawn. If they had not been moving, and the moonlight had not been gilding the tops of their heads, they would have been indistinguishable from the dark ground on which they walked. Even at this distance, Harry had a funny feeling he recognised the walk of the squattest of them, who seemed to be leading the group. He could not think why Umbridge would be taking a stroll outside after midnight, much less accompanied by five others. Then somebody coughed behind him, and he remembered that he was halfway through an exam. He had quite forgotten Venus's position. Jamming his eye to his telescope, he found it again and was once more about to enter it on his chart when, alert for any odd sound, he heard a distant knock which echoed through the deserted grounds, followed immediately by the muffled barking of a large dog. He looked up, his heart hammering. There were lights on in Hagrid's windows and the people he had observed crossing the lawn were now silhouetted against them. The door opened and he distinctly saw six sharply defined figures walk over the threshold. The door closed again and there was silence. Harry felt very uneasy. He glanced around to see whether Ron or Hermione had noticed what he had, but Professor Marchbanks came walking behind him at that moment and, not wanting to look as though he was sneaking looks at anyone else's work, Harry hastily bent over his star-chart and pretended to be adding notes to it while really peering over the top of the parapet towards Hagrid's cabin. Figures were now moving across the cabin windows, temporarily blocking the light. He could feel Professor Marchbanks's eyes on the back of his neck and pressed his eye again to his telescope, staring up at the moon though he had marked its position an hour ago, but as Professor Marchbanks moved on he heard a roar from the distant cabin that echoed through the darkness right to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Several of the people around Harry ducked out from behind their telescopes and peered instead in the direction of Hagrid's cabin. Professor Tofty gave another dry little cough. 'Try and concentrate, now, boys and girls,' he said softly. Most people returned to their telescopes. Harry looked to his left. Hermione was gazing transfixed at Hagrid's cabin. 'Ahem--twenty minutes to go,' said Professor Tofty. Hermione jumped and returned at once to her star-chart; Harry looked down at his own and noticed that he had mis-labelled Venus as Mars. He bent to correct it. There was a loud BANG from the grounds. Several people cried 'Ouch!' when they poked themselves in the face with the ends of their telescopes as they hastened to see what was going on below. Hagrid's door had burst open and by the light flooding out of the cabin they saw him quite clearly, a massive figure roaring and brandishing his fists, surrounded by six people, all of whom, judging by the tiny threads of red light they were casting in his direction, seemed to be attempting to Stun him. 'No!' cried Hermione. 'My dear!' said Professor Tofty in a scandalised voice. 'This is an examination!' But nobody was paying the slightest attention to their star-charts any more. Jets of red light were still flying about beside Hagrid's cabin, yet somehow they seemed to be bouncing off him; he was still upright and still, as far as Harry could see, fighting. Cries and yells echoed across the grounds; a man yelled, 'Be reasonable, Hagrid!' Hagrid roared, 'Reasonable be damned, yeh won' take me like this, Dawlish!' Harry could see the tiny outline of Fang, attempting to defend Hagrid, leaping repeatedly at the wizards surrounding him until a Stunning Spell caught him and he fell to the ground. Hagrid gave a howl of fury, lifted the culprit bodily from the ground and threw him; the man flew what looked like ten feet and did not get up again. Hermione gasped, both hands over her mouth; Harry looked round at Ron and saw that he, too, was looking scared. None of them had ever seen Hagrid in a real temper before. 'Look!' squealed Parvati, who was leaning over the parapet and pointing to the foot of the castle where the front doors had opened again; more light was spilling out on to the dark lawn and a single long black shadow was now rippling across the lawn. 'Now, really!' said Professor Tofty anxiously. 'Only sixteen minutes left, you know!' But nobody paid him the slightest attention: they were watching the person now sprinting towards the battle beside Hagrid's cabin. 'How dare you!' the figure shouted as she ran. 'How dare you!' 'It's McGonagall!' whispered Hermione. 'Leave him alone! Alone,I say!' said Professor McGonagall's voice through the darkness. 'On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant such--' Hermione, Parvati and Lavender all screamed. The figures around the cabin had shot no fewer than four Stunners at Professor McGonagall. Halfway between cabin and castle the red beams collided with her; for a moment she looked luminous and glowed an eerie red, then she lifted right off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no more. 'Galloping gargoyles!' shouted Professor Tofty, who also seemed to have forgotten the exam completely. 'Not so much as a warning! Outrageous behaviour!' 'COWARDS!' bellowed Hagrid; his voice carried clearly to the top of the tower, and several lights flickered back on inside the castle. 'RUDDY COWARDS! HAVE SOME O' THAT-- AN' THAT--' 'Oh my--' gasped Hermione. Hagrid took two massive swipes at his closest attackers; judging by their immediate collapse, they had been knocked cold. Harry saw Hagrid double over, and thought he had finally been overcome by a spell. But, on the contrary, next moment Hagrid was standing again with what appeared to be a sack on his back--then Harry realised that bangs limp body was draped around his shoulders. 'Get him, get him!' screamed Umbridge, but her remaining helper seemed highly reluctant to go within reach of Hagrid's fists; indeed, he was backing away so fast he tripped over one of his unconscious colleagues and fell over. Hagrid had turned and begun to run with Fang still hung around his neck. Umbridge sent one last Stunning Spell after him but it missed; and Hagrid, running full-pelt towards the distant gates, disappeared into the darkness. There was a long minute's quivering silence as everybody gazed open-mouthed into the grounds. Then Professor Tofty's voice said feebly, 'Um ... five minutes to go, everybody.' Though he had only filled in two-thirds of his chart, Harry was desperate for the exam to end. When it came at last he, Ron and Hermione forced their telescopes haphazardly back into their holders and dashed back down the spiral staircase. None of the students were going to bed; they were all talking loudly and excitedly at the foot of the stairs about what they had witnessed. 'That evil woman!' gasped Hermione, who seemed to be having difficulty talking due to rage. 'Trying to sneak up on Hagrid in the dead of night!' 'She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like Trelawney's,' said Ernie Macmillan sagely, squeezing over to join them. 'Hagrid did well, didn't he?' said Ron, who looked more alarmed than impressed. 'How come all the spells bounced off him?' 'It'll be his giant blood,' said Hermione shakily. 'Its very hard to Stun a giant, they're like trolls, really tough ... but poor Professor McGonagall ... four Stunners straight in the chest and she's not exactly young, is she?' 'Dreadful, dreadful,' said Ernie, shaking his head pompously. 'Well, I'm off to bed. Night, all.' People around them were drifting away, still talking excitedly about what they had just seen. 'At least they didn't get to take Hagrid off to Azkaban,' said Ron. 'I 'spect he's gone to join Dumbledore, hasn't he?' 'I suppose so,' said Hermione, who looked tearful. 'Oh, this is awful, I really thought Dumbledore would be back before long, but now we've lost Hagrid too.' They traipsed back to the Gryffindor common room to find it full. The commotion out in the grounds had woken several people, who had hastened to rouse their friends. Seamus and Dean, who had arrived ahead of Harry, Ron and Hermione, were now telling everyone what they had seen and heard from the top of the Astronomy Tower. 'But why sack Hagrid now?' asked Angelina Johnson, shaking her head. 'It's not like Trelawney; he's been teaching much better than usual this year!' 'Urnbridge hates part-humans,' said Hermione bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. 'She was always going to try and get Hagrid out.' 'And she thought Hagrid was putting Nifflers in her office,' piped up Katie Bell. 'Oh, blimey,' said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. 'It's me who's been putting the Nifflers in her office. Fred and George left me a couple; I've been levitating them in through her window.' 'She'd have sacked him anyway,' said Dean. 'He was too close to Dumbledore.' 'That's true,' said Harry, sinking into an armchair beside Hermione's. 'I just hope Professor McGonagall's all right,' said Lavender tearfully. 'They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,' said Colin Creevey. 'She didn't look very well.' 'Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,' said Alicia Spinnet firmly. 'She's never failed yet.' It was nearly four in the morning before the common room cleared. Harry felt wide awake; the image of Hagrid sprinting away into the dark was haunting him; he was so angry with Umbridge he could not think of a punishment bad enough for her, though Ron's suggestion of having her fed to a box of starving Blast-Ended Skrewts had its merits. He fell asleep contemplating hideous revenges and arose from bed three hours later feeling distinctly unrested. Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take place until that afternoon. Harry would very much have liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but he had been counting on the morning for a spot of last-minute revision, so instead he sat with his head in his hands by the common-room window, trying hard not to doze off as he read through some of the three-and-a-half-feet-high stack of notes that Hermione had lent him. The fifth-years entered the Great Hall at two o'clock and took their places in front of their face-down examination papers. Harry felt exhausted. He just wanted this to be over, so that he could go and sleep; then tomorrow, he and Ron were going to go down to the Quidditch pitch--he was going to have a fly on Ron's broom--and savour their freedom from revision. 'Turn over your papers,' said Professor Marchbanks from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant hour-glass. 'You may begin ' Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was several seconds before it occurred to him that he had not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing distractingly against one of the high windows. Slowly, tortuously, he at last began to write an answer. He was finding it very difficult to remember names and kept confusing dates. He simply skipped question four (In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the eighteenth century?), thinking that he would go back to it if he had time at the end. He had a stab at question five (How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?) but had a nagging suspicion that he had missed several important points; he had a feeling vampires had come into the story somewhere. He looked ahead for a question he could definitely answer and his eyes alighted upon number ten: Describe the circumstances that led to the formation of the International Confederation of Wizards and explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to join. I know this, Harry thought, though his brain felt torpid and slack. He could visualise a heading, in Hermione's handwriting: The formation of the International Confederation of Wizards ... he had read those notes only this morning. He began to write, looking up now and again to check the large hour-glass on the desk beside Professor Marchbanks. He was sitting right behind Parvati Patil, whose long dark hair fell below the back of her chair. Once or twice he found himself staring at the tiny golden lights that glistened in it when she moved her head slightly, and had to give his own head a little shake to clear it. ... the first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was Pierre Bonaccord, but his appointment was contested by the wizarding community of Liechtenstein, because-- All around Harry quills were scratching on parchment like scurrying, burrowing rats. The sun was very hot on the back of his head. What was it that Bonaccord had done to offend the wizards of Liechtenstein? Harry had a feeling it had something to do with trolls ... he gazed blankly at the back of Parvati's head again. If he could only perform Legilimency and open a window in the back of her head and see what it was about trolls that had caused the breach between Pierre Bonaccord and Liechtenstein ... Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, so that the glowing red of his eyelids grew dark and cool. Bonaccord had wanted to stop troll-hunting and give the trolls rights ... but Liechtenstein was having problems with a tribe of particularly vicious mountain trolls ... that was it. He opened his eyes; they stung and watered at the sight of the blazing white parchment. Slowly, he wrote two lines about the trolls, then read through what he had done so far. It did not seem very informative or detailed, yet he was sure Hermione's notes on the Confederation had gone on for pages and pages. He closed his eyes again, trying to see them, trying to remember ... the Confederation had met for the first time in France, yes, he had written that already ... Goblins had tried to attend and been ousted ... he had written that, too ... And nobody from Liechtenstein had wanted to come ... Think, he told himself, his face in his hands, while all around him quills scratched out never-ending answers and the sand trickled through the hour-glass at the front ... He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the Department of Mysteries again, walking with a firm and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a run, determined to reach his destination at last ... the black door swung open for him as usual, and here he was in the circular room with its many doors ... Straight across the stone floor and through the second door ... patches of dancing light on the walls and floor and that odd mechanical clicking, but no time to explore, he must hurry ... He jogged the last few feet to the third door, which swung open just like the others ... Once again he was in the cathedral-sized room full of shelves and glass spheres ... his heart was beating very fast now ... he was going to get there this time ... when he reached number ninety-seven he turned left and hurried along the aisle between two rows ... But there was a shape on the floor at the very end, a black shape moving on the floor like a wounded animal ... Harry's stomach contracted with fear ... with excitement ... A voice issued from his own mouth, a high, cold voice empty of any human kindness ... 'Take it for me ... lift it down, now ... I cannot touch it ... but you can ...' The black shape on the floor shifted a little. Harry saw a long-fingered white hand clutching a wand rise at the end of his own arm ... heard the high, cold voice say 'Crucio!' The man on the floor let out a scream of pain, attempted to stand but fell back, writhing. Harry was laughing. He raised his wand, the curse lifted and the figure groaned and became motionless. 'Lord Voldemort is waiting ...' Very slowly, his arms trembling, the man on the ground raised his shoulders a few inches and lifted his head. His face was bloodstained and gaunt, twisted in pain yet rigid with defiance ... 'You'll have to kill me,' whispered Sirius. 'Undoubtedly I shall in the end,' said the cold voice. 'But you will fetch it for me first, Black ... you think you have felt pain thus far? Think again ... we have hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream ...' But somebody screamed as Voldemort lowered his wand again; somebody yelled and fell sideways off a hot desk on to the cold stone floor; Harry awoke as he hit the ground, still yelling, his scar on fire, as the Great Hall erupted all around him.

multiplies of 3 for that ask meme?

thank you!!!!!i suck at math so i might do this wrong

3: what random objects do you use to bookmark your books?usually a receipt or random index card i find on the floor

6: do you keep plants?just one. two actually, but they share a pot. they’re both aloe. i’ve had them for almost two years, when we planted them in the pagan club i go to

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself?kind of but i’m really self-conscious about it

12: what’s your favorite planet?i know this probably means real planet but all i can think of is coruscant from star wars. if it has to be real i guess i’d pick neptune.

15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is!If two pieces of the same type of metal touch in space, they will bond and be stuck together permanently.

18: tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up.i don’t have friends tbh but i can tell you about one with my family? we were playing apples to apples (basically a family friends version of cards against humanity) and there was one card with the word “hippopotamus”. i was like ten and while i totally knew what a hippopotamus was i had never seen it written down so i horribly mispronounced it. they bring it up Every Time. the same thing happened a few years ago when we were playing this american history trivia game and i mispronounced monticello. also with one of my friends in high school (hi gabby) we were hiding in the stairwell during lunch because we didn’t want to go to the cafeteria and she picked up the lid of my water bottle and pretended to ring it like a bell and made this ridiculous noise and i laughed so hard i had to go back downstairs to the water fountain so i wouldn’t literally choke and die.

21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces.my favorite bag? idk. i used to carry this purse that had a blackbird embroidered on it. it was grey and had a really cool design. i’d pinned a lot of stuff to it like a rainbow ribbon (for gay pride and all) and a few band pins and others from hot topic. the bag started getting really worn out and i decided not to replace it because i feel like carrying a purse really feminizes me. other than that i guess it’s just my backpack. i mostly use it for school but it’s also really great for carrying stuff when i’m going into the city or headed up to boston to stay with my sister. the trials of not having any one specific home…

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets?hell no i have so many horrifying secrets even i would run screaming if i hadn’t lived through it

27: what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor?i did not know bubblegum came in different flavors. i thought bubblegum was its own flavor. i’m so uncultured

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared?yes

33: what’s your fave pastry?probably cinnamon rolls? i don’t know that many different pastries

36: which band’s sound would fit your mood right now?fall out boy. specifically folie a deux

39: what color do you wear the most?black

42: do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it!it’s this new place you might’ve heard of it. starbucks?

45: do you trust your instincts a lot?i try to but idk if i have that much opportunity

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today?when i was a kid it was ghosts/monsters. also being abandoned by people but i didn’t really put it into words at the time. and it kind of is still the same? i hate being alone in the dark because the monsters could get me and also i feel abandoned

51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them?idk what person to pick… sick little games by all time low makes me think of stuff my cousin and i talk about a lot

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face?does myself in the mirror count?

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics?it reminds me of sitting in the car with my sister driving when i was like fourteen. also my dad relentlessly mocking us for literally everything we’ve ever done. overall i like the song, but it has Memories

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves?yes i love poetry!! my favorite poems are the fairy reel by neil gaiman, alone by edgar allan poe, do not go gentle into that good night by dylan thomas, and everything ever written by either emily dickinson or sylvia plath

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be?i try to keep anything from getting damaged but other than that i’m only fussy about collector’s items, irreplaceable stuff and vinyls

66: what would your ideal flower crown look like?white roses are my favorite flowers but i feel like i’d need something in black. with vines or something badass.

69: what are your favorite board games?it isn’t a board game but i just found this cool card game called timeline. there’s a deck of cards with historical events on them and you have to put them in order of when they happened (dates are on the back). they have different themed packs and you can combine them it’s really cool

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it?i should but i don’t. i sometimes make lists or schedules of what i’m going to do but i always end up ignoring it.

75: tell us about your pets!i only have one dog. her name is Chloe Belle we got her when i was eight. my entire family picked the name Chloe but the name Belle was my suggestion. she’s a yellow lab. we also used to have cats (Rainbow and Sunshine) but they died a few years ago. we had them since i was two. before we had Chloe we had another dog named Chelsea but she died. we also used to have my sister’s rabbit named Honey, my hamster named Acorn, and our three hermit crabs (Hermie, Hermietta, and Hermione, yes we were in fact that stupid)

78: are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub?they annoy me but i guess they’re not that bad

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of.i suck at writing but i’ll tryI’ve only been to the ocean a few times in my life but I’m ok with that. The depth and complexity of the sea is no comparison to whatever is raging inside this girl, and you don’t need to be in love with her to see it. I still can’t decide if her eyes were blue or green but I can promise you they were the exact color of the water that morning at Thunder Rock when we said goodbye. When she smiles at you somehow her eyes get wider and you feel like she’s pulling you into her soul. She really is, but it’s still a trap. You’ll never be able to stand by the shore again without remembering her every word and the way she grabbed your hand and how the particles of sunlight reflected equally of the water and through her eyes. She was a source of light herself and when she finally noticed she left to irradiate the life of someone who deserves it, taking that intensity with her.

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones?hells yeah i want so many tattoos. the first one i’m going to get is the thing frank drew for me at the show last week. i’m doing that one really soon because i’d like to be able to show him when i see him in april. i also want to get a constellation on my left wrist, i’m thinking the pleiades. i have a vague design for an mcr tattoo in progress, involving a compass and the lyrics “nothing you can say can stop me going home”. i also kinda want to get fall out boy lyrics “mummified my teenage dreams no it’s nothing wrong with me the kids are all wrong the story’s all of heavy metal broke my heart” tattooed on the back of my left shoulder. also idk how safe it is but i kinda want a metallic gold bird wing tattooed on my entire right side but i’ve hear metallic tattooes are dangerous. when i get top surgery i’m going to design something to cover the scars. also i want a spiderweb on the right side of my neck (not sure if i want a spider in it or not) and on my right hand and forearm (just the back) i want the human skeletal system as it actually appears in my body, in greyscale. the last two i’m not getting unless the musician career works out because i need to be able to get a real job. also if i ever end up getting married i want the date of my wedding tattooed on the inside of my right wrist in roman numerals. i will probably add many more but that’s all i’ve thought out so far

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives?Pan’s Labyrinth, Mad Max: Fury Road, Gone Girl

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities.NYC is anyone at all surprised? sadly i have never lived there but it has always felt like home even since i was too young to have any concept of that. especially at night in the snow. walking through central park on a winter evening is a profound experience. also there’s just so much there!! so much culture and so many people something is always happening. i know beyond any doubt that that’s where i belong

93: what’s the hairstyle you wear the most?since i got my hair cut short i can’t really do different styles. right now it’s buzzed on one side and a few inches long (but uneven) on the other. it just sits like that. i want to grow out the long side so that it’s chin length and leave the short side buzzed but i don’t think i have the patience.

96: do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot?hardcore procrastinate

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them.twin skeletons, you’re crashing but you’re no wave and headfirst slide into cooperstown on a bad bet by fall out boy. ghost of you, the world is ugly, the light behind your eyes, the only hope for me is you, mama and all of i brought you my bullets you brought me your love by mcr. holy, eyelids, and fire by pvris. the wasp, dead as fuck, abigail, eternally yours and immaculate misconception by motionless in white. paralytic states and dead rats by against me! therapy, a love like war, satellites, cinderblock garden and painting flowers by all time low. wrecking ball and little pistol by mother mother. oceans, world destroyer, all i want is nothing, and where do we belong? anywhere but here by frank iero and the whatever the fuck he’s calling it now.

also my apologies for going into way too much detail about most of this i know no one cares but i had nothing else to doand thank you so much for asking!!!!!!