oh look its hotd oc fixit fanfic idea i will never write (that is connected to my got fanfic i will also never write)

Being An Actress

I remember the moment I decided I wanted to be an actress. I was walking across the parking lot of my high school after an undoubtedly stellar performance as Portia in an all-girl production of The Merchant of Venice when my father turned to me and said, "Do you think you might want to do this for a living?" At the time I remembered feeling a little insulted. My grades were excellent. Didn't my father think I could be a lawyer or a veterinarian or a psychologist? It wasn't that I didn't love to act, but everyone I knew who wanted to be an actress was either egotistical or unstable. Not that one was mutually exclusive of the other. What did this say about me? No one in my family acted, although my Grandmother often hinted of an unsubstantiated family connection to Hermoine Gingold. Occasionally my parents would take us to see a play or listen to a concert, but only to help make us well-rounded individuals. When someone would go on about the Sound of Music my father would roll his eyes and say, “How can I take a nun singing on hilltops seriously?” And I found myself admitting that he had a point.

When I was four I appeared on Romper Room for an unprecedented two weeks. At the time my best friend, Mary Lou, had been selected for the local cable network but her incredibly shy demeanor had her mother worried.

“She’s gonna sit there like a sack of potatoes.” Mrs. Dean told my Mother who quickly suggested that I accompany Mary Lou for moral support.

“What do I have to do?” I asked my mother as she was tucking me into bed.

“Just be yourself,” she replied. My mother knew exactly what that meant. Naturally loquacious I kept things hopping on the set by constantly commenting on the camera man kissing the teacher. When asked what my father had in his garage, I remarked that it was presumptuous to even assume we had one. There was some discussion about a third week, but Miss Dawson put her foot down and said I was stealing the show.

Soon I was taking dance classes and skating lessons. My first stage appearance was as a rabbit in the famous ballet, Bugs Bunny's Birthday Party. I was excited because we second tiered rabbits were going to eat sandwiches on stage. Then disaster struck. The sandwiches were going to be peanut butter and I hated peanut butter. Teary eyed I complained to my mother who told me to grin and bear it. “That’s acting,” she said.

In grade four I wrote a play about a pair of motorcycle lovers and sang Baby Driver while they straddled their desks and rode off into the sunset.

“Hit the road and I’m gone.

What’s your number?

I wonder how your engine feels?”

“Okay,” Mrs. Orcutt interrupted, “I think that’s all the time we have for that today.”

After my father gave me his blessing to pursue a career on the stage, I decided to explore all of my options. I auditioned for an amateur theatre company and played bird #4 in Aristophanes’ The Birds, and a milk maid in Galt MacDermot’s musical adaptation of Shakespeare’s Two Gentlemen of Verona. Not exactly earth-shattering roles, but I knew there was a pecking order (no pun intended) and that dues must be paid. In Niagara Falls, where I lived as a teenager, there were two amateur companies. The youth group that took over the Firehall Theatre in the summer months of July and August, and the adult group that staked their claim the rest of the year. The youth company was run entirely by a handful of 18 to 20-year-olds who took themselves very seriously. We stretched ourselves artistically, which is really just another way of saying that were out of our depth. I remember as Bertha in Pippin I had to say, "Men raise flags when they can't get anything else up." At the time I had no idea what that meant but I certainly enjoyed the response I got every time I said it.  

The amateur theatre company in the neighbouring city of St. Catharines were doing large scale musicals with professional directors and a cast of a thousand. Even I could tell the difference between Garden City’s production of West Side Story and the Niagara Falls Music Theatre Production of A Shadow Box. We told ourselves that we were doing something significant for the five or six audience members who sat in the dark to watch us perform. “At least they can appreciate art.” we told ourselves, ignoring the occasional snore beyond the footlights.  When someone who had seen our production complained in the paper that “…smut didn’t belong on stage.” I was devasted. “Some people just don’t know a good thing when they see it,” I ranted, “It’s a Pulitzer award winning play.”  I forgot that we weren’t Tony award winning actors.

Anxious to spread my wings and get a taste of the real thing, I auditioned for a one-act play festival at the nearby University and managed to get the part of an uptight bible thumper in an original musical called A Hundred Bucks a Week. It was the story of a topless shampoo parlourist who castrates a guy with her teeth. Did I mention that it was narrated by a cat? I still remember singing:

“We all must be as babies in the garden.

Smiling with our mouths all bright and new.

Innocently smelling lovely roses.

Not prying with our fingers in dog doo.”

Needless to say, my father was a little shocked when an actress appeared on stage topless while I sang my heart out in a futile effort to convert her. This time as he walked me across the parking lot to the car he suggested that perhaps I should seriously consider journalism at Carleton. “Impossible!” I stated dramatically, “I’m an actress.” And I actually believed it.

I arrived at University wearing vintage clothes with frizzy hair and John Lennon glasses. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be Doris Finsecker from Fame or Janice Joplin. My dorm room-mate was an engineering student who was the first to know of a kegger and had never seen a play in her life. She often returned to our room late at night reeking of booze and sludge water after spontaneous dips in the Detroit River.

At theatre school I was told I couldn’t dance, I couldn’t sing, I had speech impediments and a wandering left eye that would completely destroy any hopes of a career in film “Too bad you didn’t have it looked at when you were a kid,”one professor told me, “It’s easily treatable if caught when you are young.” At the age of five I was a frequent visitor to Sick Kids Hospital for my eye and wore a patch over my glasses for a year. It didn’t cure me. So much for trusting the knowledge of my professors. Strike one!

I began to sink under the pressure of looks and expectations. While the rest of the women in my class wasted away proclaiming to have eaten nothing but broccoli over Thanksgiving, I gained seven pounds over a new found love of peanut butter and developed a bad attitude towards anyone who encouraged me to “feel space”. When my teacher overheard me mutter under my breath one day that I hated improve she called a class meeting to discuss why I hated her. Everyone stared at me shocked and disappointed. Why was I resisting the pu-pu platter of techniques spread out before me? “You’re a very stubborn actress,” the teacher announced, “but I’m going to break you.” That was strike two.

At my first semester tutorial I was told that I had talent, but I wasn’t tall, thin or pretty enough. “You have the face of Sally Field,” the department head told me, “but the body of Kathy Bates.” Strike three.  I went home for Christmas and announced to my father that I was dropping out to focus, instead, on getting into a proper theatre school in New York. After all, I reasoned, it’s where I really wanted to be anyway.

There is probably nothing quite as depressing as returning to your hometown in the middle of winter when all of your friends are away at school having the time of their lives. The overall perception is that you have failed. It didn’t help to think that I had willfully brought myself to this point in time. The phrase, “small fish in a big pond” kept going around in my head. While my best friends were acing all of their classes and dating interesting freshmen, I was eating cookies, and counting the days until everyone would return to amuse me. In the meantime, I moped around the apartment, wrote letters to theatre schools and read a lot of plays.

“You have to get a job.” My father announced and for the first time I was forced to slog my way through the want ads in a half assed attempt to find work at either a wax museum or a fudge shop. Completely unqualified for anything except theatre, I was forced to become a chamber maid at a tacky little hotel near Clifton Hill. Picking up after the kind of clientele that honeymoon in tacky hotels in Niagara Falls is enough to get one thinking seriously about their life choices. Maybe Dad had been right. A career in the theatre wasn’t looking so good anymore. Something had been tarnished from University and I couldn’t pretend that my trajectory to success was going to be one clear straight line to the top. I’d hit rock bottom and was picking up the condom rappers and dirty Kleenex to show it.

There have been many times in my career when I’ve been very close to throwing in the towel and becoming a real-estate agent or a tour guide.  At each one of those moments of genuine universal surrender something miraculous always happens. That year it was a letter of acceptance from the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. By now my father, less convinced that I could make a go of it, made me a deal. If I could find a place to live in Manhattan within a week, he would allow me to go. So, I boarded the train in Buffalo and headed for the Big Apple.

I arrived in New York at around 2:00 PM on a very, very hot day in August. I walked straight to the library, took out the Village Voice, circled an advertisement seeking a room-mate for a four-bedroom brownstone on the Upper West Side, was interviewed at 7:00 PM and secured my living accommodations within twenty-four hours. It didn’t matter to me that I had no idea who the three men I’d be living with were. The place was nice and the price was right. I think I heard my father drop the phone when I called to tell him that I had accomplished the impossible. Studying in New York proved to be the best and possibly the worst thing that ever happened to me. I developed a philosophy of acting that has served me in every way, but it also created a high standard that hasn’t always been easy to live up to.

_________________________________________________________

A few years ago, I was invited to direct a production of Blue Stockings at the same University I had so unceremoniously departed from those many years ago. Parallel universes collided as images of my past kept imposing themselves on the present. There was the quad I had been initiated in. There was the building where I’d slept and laughed and cried. There was my window with the view of the cemetery and McDonalds. There was the library where I looked up the address of every theatre school in New York. There was the theatre I did my practicum in, all pretty much the same as the day I left it. The walls, hallways, buildings hadn’t changed, but I had. I didn’t need reassurance anymore. I didn’t need someone to tell me what I wasn’t or couldn’t be. If only we could teach students the value of tenacity and resilience.

I enjoyed directing that class. I hope I encouraged and inspired them. I was happy when they came to rehearsals in sweats and tee shirts, less concerned about how they looked than we had been. More confident in their choices. More involved. On Opening night after the cheers and flowers and the congratulations, it felt good to climb into the car and head for home. I’m not cut out for institutions. I don’t like the brick and the neon and the bureaucracy. Still, it was good to make my peace with that time in my life. On the four-hour drive to Niagara I was thinking about the young people I had just worked with making the transition from student to actor. Maybe some of them will end up in New York. Maybe not. The thing about acting is it can take you anywhere…from Romper Room to the stars with a few tacky hotels in between.

Blog Post: On Fan Fiction and Other Storytelling Traditions

When I was twelve or thirteen years old, and even our family finally had DSL internet, I discovered the joys of fan fiction. In case you haven’t been living under the same rock as I have, allow me to explain. “Fan fiction” refers to stories written by enthusiasts of a particular book, TV show, or other creative work. While most “fics” – as my friends and I would call them – take place within the particular universe of the original story, others take known characters and put them in an entirely new setting. (That’s how 50 Shades of Grey was born.) There’s also fan fiction that doesn’t deliberately draw on any work but revolves around real, famous people in imagined situations. (See Graham Norton and Daniel Radcliffe discuss this type on the former’s show.)

The stories that interested me ranged from shorter “one shots” to multi-chapter epics, but most were placed in the Harry Potter universe and nearly all were tales of romance – if you could call it that.

The pairings I read about (and often ‘shipped’ – a verb that comes from the ‘ship’ in ‘relationship’ and means “hoped would bang”) – whether true to canon (i.e. the original books), such as Lily and James Potter, or wildly inventive, such as Hermione and a Tom Riddle to whom she has traveled back in time – usually engaged in the kind of love/hate banter that sends real couples to therapy. The pair would glare at and insult each other (often employing strangely American turns of phrase for a pair of ostensible Brits), their apparent mutual disgust hiding a deeper attraction. For my friends and I, it was riveting stuff.

While I was mainly a Lily/James shipper myself, you can’t talk about Harry Potter fan fiction and not mention Dramione. The fan-invented romance between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger was a tale of forbidden passion, a defiance of Hogwarts housing norms and the mandates of Potter canon itself. Draco did need to be less of a whiny loser to be a deserving match for Hermione, but this could be arranged without too much trouble. In the fan fiction world, Draco was dark and brooding, and he didn’t bring his dad up in conversation quite as often as in the books. Hermione was clever and empathetic, and although she was rarely depicted with less than Yule Ball-level beauty, her looks were not her main characteristic.

Sometimes fan fiction Draco and Hermione fell for each other while at Hogwarts. In other fics, they met again under changed circumstances years after the fall of Voldemort. Then there were the AU fics in which a brilliant young paralegal named Hermione Granger begins work at the firm where successful lawyer Draco Malfoy practices. You get the idea.

Photoshop creations starring Tom Felton and Emma Watson (no credit belongs to me). The purple one in particular has stayed in my memory for years, and brings on a familiar feeling of excitement at all the great content to peruse in the world. It was the banner for a website that allowed fans to nominate and vote for their favorite Dramione fics.

A particularly sexy iteration of the Draco/Hermione story was called Water by kissherdraco. In it, Draco and Hermione are Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts. Of course, this means that they must live sequestered in their own dormitory, with its own entrance, common room and adjoining bathroom that ensure they see each other in a state of partial undress when the story demands it.

Water was held by many to be the pinnacle of the genre. It had lust and angst in equal measure, executed with a liberal dose of swear words and aggression. Moreover, Water took the common flaws of the Dramione world’s characters and actually explored them, allowing character to drive plot. In the story, Draco is brooding and cruel as ever, but these traits are linked to vicious abuse at the hands of Lucius. This backstory is not seen as an excuse for Draco’s behavior and he is forced to grow and change as the story progresses (although not quite enough, tbh).

I never finished the story, perhaps because my young brain was alarmed by all the hate-sex, but I revisited it with curiosity for this piece. Here is a relatively benign excerpt from the text, although please skip if you’d rather avoid themes of physical dominance:

“You’re crying,” growled Draco, leaning in and flicking his tongue onto her cheek. He tasted salt.

She struggled then, and he brought his hands to her shoulders to hold her still. “Don’t, Granger,” he warned. “I fucking need this. I can’t fucking…” He trailed off.

He never would have noticed before. Not like he did now, at least. Her lips were wet. They were red and moist and magnificently ripened for him. So full of blood. Hot, heated, sullied blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.

Other fics situated romance within a larger plot about the politics of the wizarding world. Prelude to Destiny by AnotherDreamer took place in the Marauder era (i.e. the time of Harry’s parents) and focused on the coming-of-age of Lily Evans and her role in the battle against evil. It begins, “Two cultures and a thousand miles from you, there is a castle on a hill…”

Another fave began life under the title Ancient and Most Noble and is now called Druella Black’s Guide to Womanhood. It is about the diverging lives of the three Black sisters — Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa — in the early years of Voldemort’s power. The sisters confront the crumbling of the their easy closeness as they make different choices in a changing world.

”It’ll be a laugh, you’ll see,” Bellatrix whispered into her ear, her breath sweet and thick from wine. They were curled in the cool grass, tangled in the layers upon layers of lace and satin that were their dress robes; it had taken them an hour to get them on right and just ten minutes to unsettle them. Andromeda’s head was spinning: from the liquor, from the heat, from far too much dancing. “It’ll all be just like this,” Bella was murmuring, her lips brushing against her ear. Stars whirled by overhead, maybe close enough to touch. Close enough to try.

“Always just like this.”

—

Andromeda swore as she stepped off the train. From inside the nicely cool travel car, summer had looked so charming, green and bright and gloriously school-free…

I was most interested in these fics, the ones that revolved around the generations before Harry’s. There was something compelling about the knowledge of forthcoming tragedy for many of the characters…Plucked away from the happy ending of the books, these fics became an exploration of why life is meaningful even in its flawed and finite scope.

I look back on my fan fiction experiences as belonging to a beautiful time when the internet was less like Janet from The Good Place* (if Janet were selling everything she knew about us to profit-hungry corporations and belligerent, militarized governments), and more like a library you went to when you felt like checking out a book. Nobody knew what I ate and where I went every minute of the day, because I didn’t put that stuff online, nor did I (to my knowledge) carry a tracking device with me when I went downstairs to play with my friends. At 5 pm, our moms would have to call each friend’s landline to reach us and remind us to stop home for our daily glass of milk or what-have-you.

*Janet is a humanoid presence in the afterlife who holds all knowledge in the universe and can create objects out of the void.

Fan fiction was a commerce-free creative space – devoid of ad revenue and the quick accumulation of likes. Since there was neither money nor social capital to be gained, everyone who participated did so out of pure interest. One did have the hope of raking in reviews from other community members, but these were about more than validation; reviews allowed people to have conversations about a shared passion and often included constructive criticism along with praise. There was little need for bitterness – if a fic was well-written, everybody won, since it meant they got to read it.

Below are some examples from the reviews section of Prelude to Destiny. It’s certainly no Twitter.

Written by rach on chapter #13. (March 28th 2009, 5am) Hey,

So I’ve read your whole story before, and now I’m reading it again, because I saw it spotlighted on the site. And this chapter is amazing. I love the end…I’ve never (well, before I read this the first time) compared Lily to Mrs Crouch. But it’s so true. They both gave their lives for their sons and…this chapter is phenomenal. Just thought I’d let you know

Rach

Written by Smith on chapter #26. (April 29th 2008, 11am)

…If I am to find any fault in the story, then I should say that Remus was rather dull. Not that it was completely out of character, but I imagine him being funnier and also good Lily’s friend. Their friendship is mentioned by Lupin in the third film and, I should think, in the book as well, though I don’t have a copy right now and thus can’t provide a quote. Pity, that. [Given my extensive knowledge of canon, I can tell you that the reviewer is mistaken on this last point.]

Thank you very much for writing this story. Reading it was an enjoyable experience that I might repeat in the future. You’re brilliant, to put it short.

Author Response: Thanks for the review!Yeah, Remus was a bit dull. Actually, I didn’t intend for Lily to be friends with any of the marauders besides James. I just wanted them out of the way. But I know what you mean. After Sirius entered the story, Remus was even duller in comparison. Plus, I wanted to make Peter seem like he fit in, and Remus just fell by the wayside, you know?I’m enjoying writing Gertrude again after taking over a story from my friend who used my characters. Anyway, thanks again!Miranda

For me, too, fandom was a more than a casual hobby. Since I was only allowed an hour of internet use a day, I would spend the time copying and pasting chapter after chapter of fan fiction onto Microsoft Word, allowing me to read all I wanted later. (As you might imagine, Water was not stored on the family computer.) I remember scouring for new fics on fanfiction.net and clicking through page after page of fan art on deviantart.com (both of which retain their early-2000s layouts, unlike Mugglenet or JK Rowling’s official site), very differently from how I scroll through Instagram today. I admired works of fandom the way one appreciates springtime’s first flower, or the décor of a friend’s bedroom – I admired the stamp of individuality they bore and that inspired me to create something myself, to express my joys and sorrows, to be a part of the world.

RIP old websites

When I did put Harry Potter-inspired art out there, somewhere around age fourteen, it was of course in the form of fan fiction, writing being my weapon of choice. I wrote two one-shot pieces, one funny and the other sad — or such were my intentions, though perhaps the results were inverted. While some friends wrote longer stories, I never felt talented or inspired enough to commit, which is a typical self-doubting move of the kind I am trying to leave behind. (I now plan to write no matter how untalented and uninspired I may be.)

One piece was about a character of my own invention, a Slytherin guy with the requisite pure-blood, Dark magic-loving family, and a perky, ponytailed Huffelpuff girl on whom he develops an obsessive crush. It was intended to be a BBC-inspired mockery of the character, taking all the gloomy sexiness of the Dramione universe and making it ridiculous. It was also a thorough exploration of really wanting to make out with somebody sitting in the same classroom as you, not that I’d know anything about that myself.

The other short story was a sincere ode to the books and an exploration of some of their core questions on death and loss. It followed Harry in an imagined scene that takes place (SPOILER ALERT lol) after Dumbledore’s death in the Half-Blood Prince. Harry is climbing the steps to the Owlery with a package in his hand, thinking over his relationship with Dumbledore. As I wrote, I found that I absolutely had to include excerpts from a fairly unexpected source, a chapter in the first and most overlooked of the Harry Potter books. The chapter is “The Mirror of Erised,” whose titular object reveals to the onlooker their deepest desire.

“Professor Dumbledore. Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.” Harry stared. “One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful.

In my story, Harry gazes out at the Forbidden Forest for a little while, wondering who Dumbledore had been behind the mask of calm wisdom and pondering the burden of those left alive and grieving. Harry then ties the package he’s been holding to Hedwig’s arm and sends her off, chuckling a little through tears. In the last line it is revealed that – OMG – he has just sent off a pair of thick, woolen SOCKS. To DUMBLEDORE. Even though Dumbledore is DEAD. Isn’t that profound?

Two years later, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, and to my complete surprise, it delved deep into some of the questions about Dumbledore that had tumbled out of me, stream-of-consciousness-like, in the story I wrote. The text even includes part of the above excerpt from “The Mirror of Erised”. At the outset of Deathly Hallows, Harry learns that Dumbledore’s childhood was a difficult one, the true details of which remain murky and contested by his admirers and critics. Harry regrets never having asked Dumbledore about his past, but recalls that, after all, the one personal question he had asked Dumbledore was not answered honestly…

While writing my story, I had imagined Harry’s pain and longing to know Dumbledore better. Because fan fiction allowed me to externalize my interpretation of the text, the questions in my mind took on concrete form. Their answers, when the next book presented them, became all the more striking and emotionally impactful. It was as though I had written a letter to the series of books that had shaped me and received, in a way, a gentle but meaningful response.

In 2004, JK Rowling released a statement about the phenomenon of fan fiction. She was flattered by fans’ desire to write about her characters, and her only caveats were that fan fiction should remain suitable for children (unfortunately that ship had already sailed, and Water was truly the least of it), as well as a non-commercial activity so that fans’ creative pursuits would remain unexploited. Other authors have not been as accepting, and have asked for fan fiction based on their work to be removed from popular websites. After all, in our current world, a story is classified as property. A sentence, a verse, a character’s name, can belong to someone the same way as the furniture in their house and the dollar figure in their bank account.

In the long history of storytelling, however, ownership is a relatively recent idea. Bear with me while I make an analogy – in pre-industrial Britain, every town had a commons, an area of land where anyone could gather firewood, take their cattle to graze, or hunt and fish to supplement a year of poor harvest. Storytelling has historically functioned as a kind of commons of ideas, one that anyone could pull from when the time came to tell a tale. Want to warn your kid against going near a well? Tell them about the hungry demon that lives in it. Were you hired to entertain a crowd at a wedding? Maybe you dust off an old poem about a prince and princess who meet one evening in the forest but spend years apart, not knowing each others’ true identity until it turns out they were betrothed all along.

Nobody invented well-dwelling monsters or estranged lovers for the first time – they simply existed in a shared cultural space, available when needed (or when it was particularly enjoyable to use them), ready to be shaped into something new and old at the same time. Even today, no one questions the use of familiar tropes in books and movies; we know that all storytelling involves a certain amount of borrowing and repetition, and we deem this acceptable as long as the storyteller has put an adequately original spin on the themes they utilize. The legal line is drawn once you get to the particulars – character names, or sentences and dialogue. These must be brand spanking new if you want to avoid a lawsuit and getting dropped by your publishers. (Does anyone else remember How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life?)

But for thousands of years, people told and re-told stories of beloved and familiar characters, not just unnamed archetypes – characters like Odysseus and Arjuna, Gilgamesh and King Arthur. The Sanskrit Mahabharata (Maha-BHA-rata) an epicly long, genre-defying story from South Asia, especially challenges the idea of a single, canonical text (much like other ancient story traditions from the subcontinent). It was told so many times by so many people that modern-day folks are not always able to agree on what the Mahabharata even is. The story is like a vast ocean — recognizable to all, but appears different depending on where you happen to be standing.

In the 20th century, some scholars collected Mahabharata manuscripts from all over the subcontinent, extracted the most commonly occurring parts to form a text, and detailed the many variations of each verse in footnotes that turned out longer than the text itself. No one can quite agree whether to treat this resulting (multi-volume) “Critical Edition” as the essential Sanskrit Mahabharata tradition, or as some kind of strange, post-colonial Mahabharata scrapbook. All this so that whenever somebody wrote an essay about the story, there was a single text, pieced together as it was, to use as a point of reference. (My Bachelor’s thesis was one of the lesser works of this scholarly genre.)

The plot of the Mahabharata goes like this: The five Pandava brothers, namely the prone-to-gambling leader Yudhishthira, morally-conflicted archer Arjuna, lovable beefcake Bhima, and something-to-do-with-horses twins Nakula and Sachdeva, along with their badass wife Draupadi, are exiled from their kingdom and forced into a year of disguise after a rigged dice game that Yudhishthira loses, and in which Draupadi is stripped and humiliated before a hall full of men. Eventually the Pandavas regain what they lost through a bloody war that leaves both sides devastated and questioning the point of all this conflict. The End.

Does my summary reflect my biases a little bit? For somebody else, the Pandavas might be perfect heroes, Draupadi a whiny ungrateful shrew who won’t stop yelling at them. To me, she is the moral backbone of the Pandavas, unafraid to call for what she feels is right even as everyone around her takes the coward’s way out of trouble.

Interpretations of Draupadi from various traditions

But it’s not just me who has a take on the story: the Mahabharata itself reflects a range of interacting and conflicting views, which might indicate that people from various backgrounds heard it and were able, in some way, to influence it. For example, although the text generally upholds hierarchies of caste and gender, it also pulls at the listener’s heartstrings with stories of characters who must confront these oppressive norms.

There’s Amba, who is stolen from her future-husband at her wedding and rejected by him when she manages to return; she later chooses to be re-born as a man in order to kill her kidnapper in battle. There’s Ekalavya, the talented archer from a forest tribe who trains with the Pandavas in youth and asks to prove his devotion to his archery guru any way he can; the guru, who favors the upper-caste prince Arjuna, asks Ekalavya to cut off his right thumb. There’s Kunti, who finds herself pregnant after an illicit affair with a god and places her baby, Karna, in a river; Karna is adopted by a lower-caste charioteer couple and goes on to fight against Kunti’s legitimate sons in the great battle that destroys the universe. And there’s Satyavati, whose husband/baby daddy pretends not to recognize her in front of his kingly court but gets completely schooled on how not to be an asshole.

“You know very well [who I am], your majesty; why do you say that you don’t, lying like a common man? Your heart knows the truth, and knows your lie. A man who does something wrong thinks, ‘No one knows me,’ but the gods know. If you do not do what I ask, your head will burst into a hundred pieces.” She discoursed at length on the reasons why a man should honor his wife, quoting the dharma texts.

(from The Ring of Truth: And Other Myths of Sex and Jewelry by Wendy Doniger)

Perhaps, among the traveling bards and indulgent grandmas who told the Mahabharata over centuries, there were some who identified or empathized with the pain of oppression and through whom otherwise-marginalized voices could ring out into the millennia.

The many Mahabharatas, along with the many conversations inside the Mahabharata, illustrate how the human imagination is prolific and messy, not content with merely absorbing information but impelled to remake, to take inspiration, to create, create, create. Isn’t that what happens when we read? We see the world we are reading about in our own way. We make up something in our own head as we go along, and that’s where the entertainment lies. The book itself is but a wonderful tool.

Perhaps if I had a right-wing patron who paid me to tell stories, I would tell the Mahabharata a little differently from how I do here, focusing on how the Pandavas were self-made men or how the ethnic minorities they killed were thieving encroachers. Or if I were telling the story to children, I might leave out anything particularly frightening. In the telling of a story, the will and whims of the teller have influence, as do those of the listener (or reader) and the financial benefactor (or publishing house).

What remains inevitable, however, is that rarely is a story told the same way twice. Even in our post-printing press, post-internet world, where stories are replicated identically again and again, we continue to dissect, analyze, and change them, whether it be through everyday conversations, online forums, or the prestige lens of a critic’s review. (A perfect example is the adaptation of works from one medium into another, be it from literature to film or from film to theater.) Sometimes the authors themselves continue to tweak and interpret their work – Virginia Wolf was known to make changes to her books prior to reprinting, and we all know that JK Rowling can’t leave the Potter universe well enough alone (love you Jo!).

For me, fan fiction is a grand storytelling and textual tradition not entirely unlike the Mahabharata. Fan fiction not only illustrates the malleable, generative nature of stories, it also provides a rare space, in our capitalist global economy, for storytelling to be that malleable, generative thing it has always been. It allows for democratic engagement in the storytelling traditions of our time, free from the boxes of profit and ownership. It lets us expand the possibilities of our collective imagination. Importantly, it allows voices from the margins into the story, where our canonical texts routinely fail us.

I’m also thankful to fan fiction for being a rare space, outside overpriced college English classes, where literary discussion can thrive. When I say discussion, I don’t mean mere binary criticism – like book reviews, or the Goodreads star rating-aggregates that help determine book sales. I mean questions about how a text makes you feel, what it reflects or critiques about our world, the things that literary characters, beloved and abhorred, may teach us about our shared humanity and flawed choices. And yes, some of these conversations involve Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy as co-Heads of Hogwarts, using the same bathroom.

Are you a reader or writer of fan fiction? Have you you dabbled in fan art? Or do you engage in a non-online form of fandom, like a book club? Please share!

Thanks for reading.

Agape | Yuri Plisetsky

"You really shouldn't be so rude and uncouth around women and children, it's not attractive at all Yuri," Chris offhandedly comments on the way to his room. Yuri immediately growled, "Shut up, you old man. At least I look attractive." Chris ignores his comment, and upon closing the door to his room he turns to the two, "Now tell me, what are you guys here for?" "The rumors are true, aren't they? That the Sorcerer is sealed in that Lake just beyond the forest," Yuri asked. Chris' expression steeled and he nodded, "Yes, but we are in contact with headquarters to find the method to permanently seal him. There only records from back then that survived until now belongs to the descendants of the White Witch, but even they are a mystery." "Tch, all we have to do is beat him up and it'd be as simple as that," Yuri scoffed as he settled into a chair. He kicked his legs on top of the desk, crossing them and Chris sighed, "Oh child, you know nothing about the legends. Don't you know about it? The White Witch and her Hunter?" "That old folklore?" Yuri spat out, his eyes narrowed dangerously, "I hate it." Chris raised an eyebrow and Yuri continued, "That folklore was the reason my family died. It's the reason why almost everyone I love is gone." Chris narrowed his eyes, and he asked, "Why is that so?" Otabek and Yuri exchanged a glance, and with hesitance, Yuri answered, "16 years ago... the attack on the Nameless Town, we were of the few survivors."

Chris' eyes widened. If one of the three children from that town that survived are the descendants... then the only missing piece of the puzzle is the White Witch. "What," Yuri growled out and Chris looked at him and the blonde asked again, "What is it? You're staring at us like we're some sort of freaks." "Yura, calm down," Otabek sighed. Chris looked between the two of them and asked, "Where's your third partner?" "Pork cutlet is probably at the library still." "Mm, I can wait til all three of you guys are here to brief you guys," Chris drawled, but upon seeing the daggers that practically emitted from Yuri's eyes the latter sighed, "Alright, alright. I'll brief you two first. Just make sure you guys don't miss a single detail for your other partner, understood?" "Yeah, yeah," Yuri rolled his eyes, "Let's just get this over with."

After you finished the story, and answered the children's questions, you sat there for a few more minutes before turning to Yuuri and you asked, "Can I help you? You've been staring for quite a while and you seem to have quite a lot of questions." Yuuri flushed pink and he mumbled a quick apology. No, she's not her. They're not the same person, Viktor and [F/N] didn't have that eye color... "Ah! No, I was just captivated by the story.. You're a really good story teller, Miss..." he trailed off and you offered him a polite smile, "My name is Soleil. Soleil Nyxvor." And once again, I must hide my name. "Ah, I'm Yuuri," he returned the gesture and you smiled, "Thank you, sir. You're new from around here, aren't you?" "Ah, yes! We were just dispatched here," he sends you a small smile and yours turns brighter, "I see, welcome then, to Town Lithi. I do hope you enjoy your stay. There isn't much for Witch Hunters to do here, so it's often quite bland and dry." Yuuri tilted his head in confusion and your eyes slightly widened and you apologized, "Ah, slip of the tongue. I always forget many people don't know the legend behind Lake Lithi that's located just beyond the forest range." "Lake... Lithi?" You nod and continued, "I'm sure you overheard the story of the Nameless Town and the Sorceror, the White Witch, and her hunter." You stand up, brushing off your coat, "I can go in detail if you have the time for that." Yuuri was intrigued, but he glanced at the clock. He was told to be back at latest, 7 PM, before the festival started. He bit his lower lip and nodded, "I have a few minutes," and you smiled as you slipped into the seat before him. You pulled out a map hidden in the folds of the old diary and you laid it out, "This is Lake Lithi, and this is where we are now." Your finger gently drags from the lake towards the town. The distance wasn't too far, but what surprised Yuuri the most was the distance between this town to the Nameless Town. He looks up at you and you send him a small smile, "Yes, the two towns aren't too far apart from each other, in fact there are rumors that the descendants of the White Witch and her Hunter are from these two towns." "Is it true though?" Yuuri asked, he knew that if you were truly who he believed you to be. You simply folded your hands before you and placed them on the table, "Who knows? I do know that the Sorcerer's home town is here though." You hear the bell chime and you motion to get up, "I suppose I'll see you around, Sir Yuuri, it was a pleasure meeting you." Again. "Wha- Wait, is it-" Yuuri's questions fall on deaf ears though as you stand up. You gather your belongings. The last thing he hears is you wishing him a good day and he's shaking. If this is the Sorcerer's home town... then isn't this where the war will hit first?

"Hmm, princess, you seem distressed," Viktor commented as he watched you pace the shared room. You sighed and glanced at him, "I'm sure you know why." "Yes, I ran into Beka earlier, but it seems our disguises work well." You ran a hand through your silver locks and you asked, "Must we do this? What good will we get out of hiding our identity to them? And besides Brother, the only thing we changed is our names and our eye color." "We cannot risk it my dear, I want to be with my precious Yuuri as well too, but even I know it's too dangerous." "Yuratchka doesn't remember me," you softly commented, and Viktor raised a brow, "How can you tell?" "His pendant is dull, but it sparkled once when my gaze landed on it." Viktor gently pats the spot on his bed next to him and you immediately sit down. He scoots behind you, taking your hair in his hands and begins to braid it idly, "Take your mind off of it for now. We still know nothing about what the Black Coats plan to do... and we'd rather not risk it my dear." You sighed, "I just wish things weren't so complicated.." "Have you been able to decipher it all though?" "No Brother, not yet," you slowly shake your head, only to feel him gently tug at your hair and you still yourself, "It's much more complex than what Mother and Father taught us, but I'm sure I can figure it out in due time." He hums, "I hope so, if we can figure out the last part of the story that speaks of the seal..." "Then we can end this madness," you finished for him and you slowly tilt your head back, "Brother, do you perceive it to be safe enough tonight to attend the festivities?" "Well, I quite want to, especially if my Yuuri is there, it would be quite fun to tease him," Viktor chuckled and you pouted, "Don't do that, he may recognize you and all our hard work will be for naught." Viktor chuckled and he gently kissed your forehead, "You can have fun tonight princess, I'm sure the boys will be vying for your hand once again. Will you give me the honors of fashioning your hair?" "Well, I'd rather you do it for me, you were always the more knowledgeable one between the two of us in that factor." "Well yes, I once had hair as long as yours, sestrichka," he teased. You shook your head fondly. Truly even in times of trouble, Brother is the best person to calm me down.

"He has to be shitting us," Yuri growled as he paced the floor. Otabek sat on his side of the bed and he mumbled, "I don't think so, Christophe is a 1st Tier from the top branch, he wouldn't have the wrong information." "So they plan to start another war with the witches?! What for!? To eradicate them?! The obvious answer is to defeat the Sorcerer!" Yuri scowled as he literally threw himself at his bed. He landed and the bed creaked and squeaked under his weight. He groaned and he muttered into his pillow, "What's the fucking point of telling us to research the White Witch if she's just a fucking myth." "Well, Chris did mention they wanted to seal the Sorcerer." "I just don't get it," Yuri responded, a pout evident on his face, "I thought he was already sealed." "Apparently the seal is weakening," Otabek responded and spared Yuri a glance, "I thought you paid attention during the emergency briefing." "I did." "Not enough," Yuuri teased as he walked through the door. Otabek and Yuri looked at him expectantly and he said, "I ran into Chris on the way here so I know the details about the briefing... but I think I found out something a bit important that they don't quite know yet."

"Oh, Chris, you look tired today," Viktor teased. Chris puckered his lips momentarily and sighed, "New recruits are quite a handful." Chris turned to Viktor and asked, "Do you think your sister will be willing to dance with me for tonight to make me feel better?" Viktor's eyes narrowed, "No." "But Vince!" "Absolutely not. You are not to lay a single hand on my sister. Do not even touch a strand of her hair, do you hear me?" "You're so protective of her, it's no wonder you're the talk of the town," Chris chuckled. "Well, I have to be a good example to my sestrichka, of course I'm the talk of the town," Viktor winked and then he glanced at the town's clock tower. "I suppose it's time for me to prepare dinner, I'll see you around Chris." "Oh, but Vince," Chris calls him out one last time, and the silver haired male turns around, providing his full attention, "You and your sister will continue to provide as much information right?" "Chris, you wound me," Viktor feigned offense, and then he sighed, "Of course, but even you should know that we know nothing of Witches or Hunters. We escaped to Town Lithi after the damage done back at our home town." "I understand that, but I must ask," Chris' voice dropped to a low tone, "Were there two escape groups? Or just yours?" Viktor tilted his head in confusion and he shook it, "I'm not too sure... I don't recall that night very well... except that it was cold, and frightening.. And my precious sister almost died." Viktor's tone of voice was steely and cold, his eyes burned with anger and pain. Chris would have flinched if it weren't for the distance between the two of them, and he muttered a quick apology. But by the time he looks back at Viktor, the silver male had his simple carefree smile on his face again. So even the two stars of our quiet little town have suffered from the collateral damages of us... Chris clenched his fist. Damn it all.

"Excuse me," there was a knock at the door, rousing the three new Witch Hunters to rise. Both Yuri's refused to move, with one dead asleep and the other clutching his pillow closed to him as he woke up. Yuri rubbed his eyes and groggily asked, "Who is it, Beka?" Otabek shrugged and approached the door, "Yes?" "Ah!" the young lady noticed the sleepy looks on their faces, and she holds back a smile before explaining, "I'm sorry for disturbing. We just wanted to inform you that the Celebration of Nyx will be going on for the next week, you're all invited to come join us." "Celebration of Nyx?" The young lady nodded, and she asks, "Have you never heard of it?" She receives two shakes of the head, and she makes a small 'o' and smiles, "I see. We celebrate this one week of Nyx, in Town Lithi, since we're located so far up North, during this time of the year we begin to lose the daylight, so we hold a celebration to enjoy the last fleeting moments before the Winter Solstice hits." "How interesting," Yuuri mumbles. He's awake now, but his hair is sticking up everywhere and there's slight drool on a corner of his mouth. Yuri scowls at the appearance of his older friend and shakes his head in distaste. "Of course, we understand that the Witch Hunters are required to wear their uniforms, so we won't be asking you to dress up like we do to some others, but it would be nice to let you guys experience it while you're here!" She hands them three letters and she smiles brightly, "May you enjoy your stay here and the festivities!" Otabek slowly closes the door and turns to the other two and he asked, "So-" "Let's go," Yuri announced. He was already putting on his uniform and he playfully smiled, "We haven't had in fun in such a long time, we might as well enjoy it before shit hits the fan right?" He brushes past the other two and makes his way towards the bathroom. Yuuri and Otabek exchange glances and Yuuri smiles softly, "Sometimes I forget he's the youngest in our group... Especially since he was promoted to 1st Tier." "Mm, he always did show a lot of promise though," Otabek commented. But it made him mature too quickly... and forget what it is that's truly important to him. Otabek sighed and Yuuri gently patted the younger male on his shoulder, "It's okay, we'll find them." "You still believe in them," Otabek commented. It wasn't quite a question, and his tone was laced with relief, and it was visibly shown when Yuuri nods to confirm. The older male readjusts his glasses and smiles, "I'm glad you do too."

"Vince! Dance with us next!" "I'd love to, but I need to go find my precious sister," he chuckled before blowing them a kiss and waving them off. "Hey there cutie, come dance with us." "I'm sorry, but I'm waiting for my brother," you politely turned them down, but your patience was beginning to wear thin. You had agreed to only go at the very last couple of hours for the festivities, but with Viktor being dragged in by Chris, you were dragged in too. "Come on now sweetheart, you know such a flimsy excuse like that is useless," you can practically smell the alcohol on him, and you frowned. Seriously, are you kidding me? "Sir, look, I'm not interested." "What, huh? Why? What's your problem with me? Am I not good looking en-" "Move fat ass." "Hah?! What was that you piece of-" The burly older man freezes upon seeing the pitch black uniform and Yuri scowled, "Don't make me repeat myself you piece of trash." "T-Tch! Cm'ere, lass!" "Hey! Let go of me!" You struggled, but physical strength was never your strong point. The man barely dragged you one step off the porch of the entrance when Yuri literally kicked him away and Otabek managed to catch you after stumbling from the momentum. You flicked your wrist, your eyes narrowing at the older man that was now struggling to get up. His eyes narrowed and he pointed at Yuri, "You blasted Black Coats think you're all that. It's because of scum like you that this war is still ongoing! If you had just left those stupid witches alone, my daughter wouldn't have died, my wife would still be alive and-" "That's enough, sir," your voice was strained with thin patience, but also with gentleness. You offered him a hand to pull him up, much against the wishes of the people who witnessed the scene. But as soon as he gets up you let go and you said, "The past cannot be changed, only the present and the future. So continue to live on with them in your memory, because that's what they would have wanted you to do." You unknowingly slipped in some soothing magic into the tone of your voice, and everyone around you seemed to relax. You sighed as the man apologized to both you and the Witch Hunters before apologizing to the land lord of the inn for creating a ruckus right outside his place. "Are you okay, Miss?" Otabek asked. You nodded and Yuuri's eyes widened, "Miss Nyxvor?" "Ah, Sir Yuuri, what a pleasant surprise," you gave him a weary smile, "I do apologize you had to see a scene like that though." "Well, not surprising with how pretty you are tonight," Chris chuckled as he approached you guys. Yuri was standing behind Otabek, his eyes not drifting too far away from you. He had noticed it, there was definitely something different about you compared to everyone else. His eyes narrowed and he huffed before stepping forward. You stop your small talk with Chris as he continues to ask for the details about what happened and you turned to Yuri and Otabek. You give them a small nod and a slight curtsy, "Thank you for your assistance earlier." Yuri merely scoffed, "Girls like you are the easy victims to men, especially when there's booze involved." Otabek slightly frowns at Yuri's response, but he shakes his head and offers you his hand, "Otabek Atlin." You blinked once before gently taking it with yours, "S-Soleil Nyxvor." Your hesitance did not go unnoticed by either Otabek or Yuri, but both of them make no inquiries about it afterwards. Otabek scans over your features, he still thinks something about you is familiar, but he doesn't quite remember. "Yuri, you should introduce yourself," Chris teased, "Or is she so pretty you can't even talk to her properly? Have you ever even talked to a girl before?" "S-Shut up!" Yuri hissed. The way he whipped his head away from Chris towards you made his bangs momentarily reveal his eye, and you noticed the slight scar that was hidden underneath his bangs, just above his eye. He sees your eyes widen slightly and he scowls, but refrains from biting and mutters, "Yuri Plisetsky." "Nice to meet you, Yuri," you give him a weak smile. His pendant was still dull, there was no flicker of light or sparkles of the ocean blue like there was years ago. He did forget... or he can't remember. A flicker of something must have crossed your features, because he looks confused afterwards. But before he can question, the sound of your name being called is obviously heard. "Were you waiting here this entire time?" Viktor asked, slightly panting. He ran from the Square all the way to the inn and you nodded. He sighed, "I'm so sorry, I-" He cuts off when he makes eye contact with Yuuri, and almost immediately you gently slap his face and poke his chest, "Stop it." "B-But, he-" you roll your eyes and said, "Stop it, you're going to scare them off. Introduce yourself before you randomly mislead people, Brother." Your tone was motherly, but anyone in the vicinity can tell you were scolding him. The landlord laughed, "Vince, you're the older one yet you're being scolded by your younger sister? You're completely wrapped around the Princess' finger." "Well," Viktor sheepishly laughed, "She is my princess, isn't that right, sestrichka?" You looked away, clearly slightly flustered by Viktor's affections. Sure, he was your brother, but you were never good with handling affection to begin with. Yuri narrows his eyes at the display, there was something oddly familiar about the scene, and the tones in which you and Viktor referred to the other. "Vince, you ditched the ladies to find your sister? That's not charming at all," Chris sighed, and Viktor shrugged, "I wanted to find a new dance partner." He playfully makes eye contact with Yuuri and the spectacled male flushed pink and you sighed, "Brother." "Yes, princess," he turned to you and you gave up, "Okay, just don't do anything inappropriate." "Of course not," Viktor winked and smoothly made his way towards Yuuri, immediately hitting it up with him. Externally, you were smiling, but internally you were itching to smack that carefree idiot across the head. So much for be patient and distant from them. Viktor you selfish kid. There must have been a pout on your face, because Chris laughed, "Were you after him too?" "Eh?" you snapped out of your reverie and Chris continued, "You can always dance with me, I'll take very good-" "Thank you, but no." you gave him a small smile and sighed. Otabek and Yuri glanced at each other and Otabek approaches you, gently tapping your shoulder. You turned back, and he noted that your eyes were indeed not the same shade of blue as Yuri's, but instead a deep violet. He offers a hand and you tilt your head in confusion, "Yes?" "Would you mind dancing with me?" Yuri's eyes widened, that was not what he had expected Otabek to do when the latter had exchanged glances with him. Almost primally, Yuri growled and Otabek glanced back and you glanced between the two before gently taking Otabek's hand, surprising everyone around them. "Oh, sweet Soleil, I've asked you for the past three years since I've been here and not even once-" Chris is cut off though and Yuri growled, "Shouldn't I be getting the first dance? I saved you earlier after all." You blinked in surprise, and upon seeing the astonishment on your face, Yuri flushes red after realizing what he said. Otabek glances at you and you sigh, "This is why I dislike festivities." You look between the two of them and you smiled, "I'll go with Otabek first, and you may have my last dance." "Oi-" But Yuri's call falls on deaf ears as he watches the two of you walk off towards the Square. He scowls as he noticed he's stuck with Chris, a singular thought going through his head. What the fuck.

Otabek wasn't a bad dancer, although there were times he wasn't as flexible as either you had thought, but he certainly wasn't fantastic like Viktor. You glanced over his shoulder, noticing that Viktor and Yuuri were still dancing. They have been for the past 5 songs or so. You had already done one song with the handsome man before you, and were beginning your second one, but you wanted nothing more than to escape into the forest like you had originally planned to. After all, no better time to decipher the seal than during festivities where no one would look for you. Otabek must have noticed your distant attention and he asked, "Am I that boring?" Your gaze turned to him and you gasped, "Oh no! Not at all!" You flash him a small smile as he twirls you gently before bringing you back to him, "On the contrary, you're much more pleasant than the others who have attempted to dance with me. I'm just slightly distracted and worried for my older brother... he's quite forgetful and a bit too carefree." Otabek turns the two of you so he's facing Yuuri and Viktor and you see a flicker of a smile on his lips, "Yes, but my companion looks happy with your brother." "Is that so?" you asked, although you knew the answer. Of course Viktor and Yuuri would be happy together. By the time Viktor had turned 18, he had already claimed that Yuuri was his soulmate. It took both families by surprise, but seeing the way Yuuri was basically capable of sensing Viktor's masked emotions made it clear. But now he's blocked Yuuri from being able to do that... Just like how I can't sense Yuratchka anymore. You smiled and you nodded, leaning your head a bit closer to Otabek's shoulder, "You're right, they are quite happy together." Otabek catches Yuri's glare out of the corner of his eyes and he mouthed, "What." Yuri merely glares, his hands stuffed in his pocket, slightly slouching and Otabek frowns, "Strange." "Hmm?" you hummed as you enjoyed the music as Otabek gently twirled you once more, matching the rhythm and beat of the people around him, "My other companion seems upset with me." "I wonder why," you murmured, and Otabek glanced down at you, "It's probably because he's being swarmed by females." You looked up at him before glancing towards the direction of his gaze. Indeed, poor Yuri was flanked on all sides by women of all ages as they all vied for his attention. There was a clear look of annoyance and slight disgust as he felt one of them loop his arms around his and press themselves against him. You almost frowned at how close they were to him, but you control your emotions, calming yourself and you muttered, "How desperate." Surprisingly, Otabek chuckles at the venom in your voice, and you look at him in shock and he explained, "I wouldn't have perceived someone as gentle looking as you to be so.. sharp with your words." "Even a rose has its thorns, my dear sir," your witty remark leaves a smile on his lips, and upon glancing back at Yuri who's now begging for help with his eyes, Otabek slowly gravitates towards the outskirts of the dance floor before stopping both of you. He bows, flashing a small smile before thanking you for the dance as he walks away towards Yuri. "What took you so long?!" Yuri immediately lashes out. Otabek craftily explains his situation before listening to the other's complain. You looked around before slipping your coat off, revealing the top of your slate blue dress. Chris whistled and you sighed, a fond smile playing at your lips and you tossed the coat him, "Watch that for me, will you?" "Of course Miss Nyxvor," he winks and you shake your head as you approach the makeshift bar at the outskirts of the bonfire. The bartender looks up, a fatherly smile on his face, "How're ya doin' Princess?" "Perfectly fine my good sir, can you do me a favor and make me a simple hot chocolate?" "Ya nevah do drink do ya?" He sees you shake your head as you lean against the counter. Your gaze watchful and happy as you observe the dancers, he gently places the hot chocolate on the counter, sliding it over and he asks, "Not goin' to dance dis year too?" "I just finished three songs, actually," you responded as you took a sip and you raised an eyebrow, "Cinnamon?" "Mmhmm, ya older siblin' said ya liked it. Got ma hands on some just for ya," his eyes twinkled with mirth before he bursts into laughter, "Da two of ya are like ma grandchildren. It's da least I can do for ya afta bringin' back life to da town." You smiled, finishing the rest of the drink at once and gently pushed the cup over and you gently patted his hand that was resting on the counter, "Thank you." "Of course," he smiled again. His aura and demeanor towards you really did remind you of your late grandfather and he chuckled, "Now go, it's da last dance of da night." You feel him gently push you forward and you make your way slowly to the edge of the dance floor. Your eyes immediately spot silver as you watch Viktor and Yuuri practically claim the spotlight no matter where they were located. Something about them just captivated the audience. But unknown to you, a watchful eye is gazing upon you. No matter how many times Yuri tried to tear his gaze away from you, in the end it always went back. He frowned and muttered, "Oh what the hell." He ignored the girls that were literally throwing themselves at him as he approached you. His hand finds yours, shocking both you and him when he laces your fingers with his. His eyes widened slightly. Why does this feel so familiar? He frowns, but instead drags you along, ignoring the protests from the guys that were all planning to approach you and the flocks of girls. You looked at him in surprise as you chased after his broad back. Just like 16 years ago. But unlike back then, your hair was not whipping in the wind as the explosives blew up around you, there was no fear or anxiety of being alive or dead afterwards. Your hair was tied up neatly neatly into an intricate braided updo, preventing it from whipping around in the wind. Why is he... But your thoughts are cut off when you feel his hand tighten around yours and you try to keep up, but heels and a body fitting dress weren't quite exactly what you were expecting. "Yu-" "Dance with me."