H-O-P-T-F

SHORT HIATUS

2007-11-02T02:33:58Z

WE IZ HIATUZ. YOU CAN HAS FIC IN SOON TIEM. GIFT US SUM TIEM TO THINKS AND HAS SECKS WID IMAGNERY BOIFRENDZ.

history_future @ 2007-09-22T20:13:00

2007-09-23T00:14:36Z

Hey kids. Mommy's got something for you. :]

The day is his.

This sudden realization is what causes Peter to pause, his chest expanding and contracting shallowly, the beat of his heart hastening with the very idea of solitude, of self. He feels as if he is running a marathon, but here he is, in the same place with the same facts that he’s been trying to grasp for ages upon years upon days. There is a strange ache that he cannot locate, and whether there is actually a tangible place, a bit of working flesh, palpated and analyzed and pinpointed by man long ago, he cannot be sure.

This entire situation seems undiscovered, and Peter feels like Columbus.

But no, he can’t be. He’s never been compared to the explorer of lost worlds, the conqueror of continents. The very idea seems absurd to him as his poison tongue trips upon broken Spanish, seduced by a street vendor’s secret spices and his wife, fluent in the language of love. His image of life has morphed into enigmatic indifference, reluctant retaliation, overwrought fervor. Diverging emotions have been playing football with his frontal lobe and left him with the innate feeling that he may not be human at all. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

His limbs pull him in different directions, at war with each other; heart and mind rebel. The shaking won’t stop, latent vigor reawakening at the tone: too much coffee, too much force, too much of nothing at all. The very idea of freedom evokes a million different thoughts. Where to start, stay,

‘Go!’

Peter’s mind is reduced to three syllable expressions, the quickening pulse, pulse, pulse of blood demanding a faster response. A black haired specter knows his every move, the inner workings of the organs that love, hate and ignore. Nothing is safe; everything remains, but not for long.

Whose hand is that, reaching out to him? Where will he appear if he takes it? What in the hell---

Peter opens his eyes, and the world returns almost too fast for his liking. As quickly as the vision came, it fades, leaving him uneasy and dazed. He had been trying so hard to remember, to grasp, but all he feels in his hands now is a crumpled corner of his light blue bed sheet. He wonders why he is sweating.

The collective chaos of his room is the same as always, blurred by the film of sleepy morning and bright sunlight that pours in through the window. The smell of new air wafts lazily into the room and suddenly Peter realizes that he’s alone.

Alone.

Of all the things, thoughts, and feelings Peter has been in his lifetime, never has this elusive title of Alone been one of them. Nobody is there to tell him that he talks in his sleep or notice that he’s changed the way he styles his hair. Peter thinks idly of the soft, supple skin of a woman he once knew and, well, knew. Her name is lost in the confines of a drowsy, cluttered mind, even though Peter is definitely Not That Kind of Man. Man, he realizes. Unfortunately, she is not the reality of this morning, and Peter wonders what shade of white his ceiling is as consciousness returns to him, slowly, surely, too slowly, not slowly enough.

Peter grabs a tuft of his hair, ash blonde and short and a little too soft, -- he’ll never retain his masculinity at this rate, damn it-- and tugs. He blinks, his small blue eyes focusing at their own accord. Then, as suddenly as he wakes, he is energized, spurred on by the amazing adrenaline of a changing existence.

He still finds it strange to get up in the morning without the incessant mad rush of his friends who showered, dressed, yelled, and scribbled down hopeless attempts at tardy essays, all to the chorus of unceremoniously slammed trunk tops. It was the routine, the rhythm of his life as Wormtail.

Peter smiles to himself, as he remembers that certain tone of voice Remus had during exam times, and the nervous jolt of aggression James put into his playful punches before a Quidditch game against Slytherin. That peculiar audible thought process of a pensive Sirius who always popped out his hip, looking beautifully asymmetrical as he experimented with different ways to make himself look more attractive in his Hogwarts uniform.

These are the small moments that make Peter who he is.

He needs more.

He’s not sure what more entails, but he needs it: something for himself to hold and know. He wants to experience by himself, rather than with Sirius, Remus and James. Peter remembers a Muggle Atlas that had somehow made its way into their Gryffindor dormitory years ago and had never left, and the way the grainy, brittle paper felt under his fingertips as he saw another world.

The world that didn’t know Peter Pettigrew as he was then, or that he existed at all.

There is a special sort of indifference about it that Peter finds comforting rather than wounding. Perhaps those places he knows so well now, the side streets of Italy, a crowded uncharted market in Tunisia, that alluring sound of Beijing, are where he wants to be.

His mother calls in the distance from the main house and Peter cringes.

He’s not there yet.

*****

James wanders around on a rainy August afternoon and thinks of Sex. The city is all around him; the soggy commotion is unending proof of a living, breathing perpetual motion device. The grey of the storm is always an after thought, the lingering smells of summer sewer and public drunkenness washed away by rain.

This is just another average day in which James glances at every pretty girl he passes and tries not to show how much of a desperate horny man he is. It’s not becoming, and anyway he’s always looked down on those sorts of guys to begin with. He doesn’t want to be some pathetic loser with no sense of shame, walking around like a sexually deprived loner, drooling at the sight of the double-X chromosome and drowning his sorrows in lethal amounts of cheap coffee or tea or alcohol or pornography. Which he is now, damn it: the coffee, anyway.

No, I will not look at her.

This is just plain creepy, isn’t it?

Realizing this, he has tried to improve. He’s begun to mess up his hair purposely like he did in school. He’s re-mastering the art of lip pouting. He’s gone to chique centers of nightlife and tried to pick up every kind of girl that exists, even though the Hell of the Auror Academy requires him to be at attention by seven. He’s tried to take a page out of Sirius’ book and attempted to look effortlessly sexy.

When that didn’t work, he bought a pair of tight jeans.

Not even a nibble, figuratively or literally.

He licks his lips absentmindedly, tosses his empty coffee cup into a trash bin and thrusts his fists into his coat pockets, looking down at the dirty cement sidewalk. There’s a song in his head that he cannot name, and a mantra in his mouth that is ridiculously vain. It is times like these, as he walks around realizing that his free time is no longer filled with anything interesting at all, that he yearns for the Glory Days. The parties, the loyal Quidditch fans, the professors who would cast him a scrutinizing look that really meant affection, his teammates, his mortal enemies and the girls. What happened to all those girls he used to flirt with? The ones who didn’t hit him?

The world is a dark, dark place now. James is almost ashamed of it.

He suddenly realizes that the leather of his shoes has begun to wear and there’s some water in his left one. His sock is just soggy enough that there is now an unpleasant squishing noise as he puts his weight on his foot. Yet again, a Very Small Thing has brought down the mighty James Potter, who now lives in a world void of happiness, light, and sex appeal.

He wonders if this is when he would cry, if he were into that sort of thing.

Instead, James grumbles a little under his breath and begins to walk (to stomp!) across the street.

There is a sudden flash of auburn in the corner of his eye and he remembers what he never knew. It’s only for a moment, as the flicker of long hair whips lightly into his face, the wind’s one glowing favor to him, and James stops dead. His fists clench and he forgets to hate the fact that his cheeks are turning an unmanly shade of pink. James inhales sharply, exhales twice as slow. The moment exists by itself for that little stretch in time, and for some reason he can smell lilac. He swims in thoughts that he doesn’t reveal to anybody, least of all himself.

It wasn’t her, he realizes too late, floored by the smallest reminder. It was just another woman, continuing on her way as he is, paying no mind to the fact that he’s going through some dramatic stupidity that is sure to get him into trouble. It wasn’t her. There’s that part of his mind that nags that this wasn’t going to happen, because he shouldn’t allow it to. She isn’t his bloody keeper, a red headed siren who he can’t escape, she’s just another girl. She's Replaceable, too hell with whatever he said before.

“OI!” James yells, as the bumper of a car nearly clips him, ending his moment of dazed nirvana (denial!). “Watch it!”

He pays no mind at all that he was the idiot who was standing in the middle of the street staring into space, and readjusts the collar of his jacket. With untold force, and other squish, he continues on his way, as though nothing had happened at all. Not that anything did.

Really.

*****

“I can’t save you, Andy. You know that, don’t you?”

She pauses for a moment between packing the bags, finding his half-face in the shadow and seeing something like reality in the moonlight that slips across his cheekbone. She brought him back to her room to see it for the last time with her, to hold her hand when she said goodbye. He’s never been in this house before but she feels like he fits. Maybe it’s because she’s wishing too hard for this to work. Maybe it’s because she feels at home wherever he is.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know where to go anymore, and he happens to be holding a map.
“If things get out of hand and they come after us, I can’t stop them.” He runs a hand through the back of his hair, and she knows he is being honest, not a coward. No question who ‘they’ are. No reason to be anything but honest about ‘them’.

No one will see her leave, she thinks. They’re all still drinking and mingling and embracing the cold society that is a family party. One of the elves will stare at her empty bed tomorrow morning and think twice before giving her mother the news. Bellatrix will roll her eyes and Narcissa will give a false sniff into her morning tea and Father will stare awkwardly at the wall. Maybe Mother will say something. Maybe.

But then someone might think to mention this to the family. And then someone might think to round up the friends of the family. And then the friends of the family might don their masks and blot out that one fatal spot of blood that is she and her descendants.

There is always the danger. The price to pay. The sacrifice. You enter the world with the Black family name and you enter the gilded hall of gold and pearl and diamond-studded lies. And then they lock you in and tell you to never, ever leave.

“I know, Ted.” She wraps her hand around his wrist, wishing he could see how confident her smile was as it formed in the darkness. “Try not to worry, okay?”

She goes back to flicking her wand at the drawers. She wishes she could just say one word and have it done, but she can’t take everything, so she has to do this part manually. What will fit in three months? That one. Not that one. Maybe this one. What can they sell in three weeks? That one is worth something. Not the other one. Ted settles into the antique chair in the far corner of the room, resting his feet on the edge of the bed. He holds up a porcelain doll, his face scrunching into a smile.

“I didn’t take you for a doll person.”

“I wasn’t. Mum just couldn’t think of anything else to send me for my birthday.”

Ted drops it as if it’s suddenly on fire, and the look on his face tells her he is already contemplating a way to stomp its gleaming face in. All those stories she’s told, the unseen bruises she’s kept on her soul…he has always noticed. And whether Andromeda has mentioned it or not, Ted has always blamed her parents for it. Her parents, and those bloody sisters of hers, too.

“Done.” She says quietly, amazed that everything she’s got left of this place is sitting in one small bag before her, level with her knees. She could wrap up her life in a tinier package, that she knows, but she also knows he’s standing now and reaching for her fingers and pressing them to his chest as he kisses her mouth.

“We’ve never done it here before.”

“Ted.”

She remembers the night that the Sorting Hat had cried “Hufflepuff!”, the way her sister’s eyes had met hers under the flicker of candlelight, the distance between her new table and the seat where Bellatrix was whispering amongst her friends. She catches Ted’s neck in her hands and remembers when Narcissa locked her in the linen closet so that she could hear every word her parents screamed at each other, the expression on her mother’s face when she discovered her, how small her mother had looked beside all that baggage when she’d stood in the entry and never kissed them goodbye. She wants so desperately to hold him here, to use his love as a blanket to cover all the stains this house left on her memories. She clings to his shoulders as his lips smother her own, and she believes with all her heart that she can honestly heal this world of hers if they just stay a little longer, kiss a little harder. Maybe all the hatred she harbors for this terrible place can be finally conquered with his affection.

She feels strangely confident tonight. Maybe it’s because the two of them are alone in this house, or maybe it’s because she knows it’s the last night she’ll be spending here.

Maybe it’s because she knows she has him, no matter what the world decides to say of it.

*****

She’s surprised to find that she’s the first one to leave for home, as this is rarely the case. Usually, Andromeda is sitting in the parlor long before anyone’s even left the event, still in her party dress as she peruses a dreadfully dull book. Father leaves the circle of cigar-chomping cousins and distantly related friends at a polite hour, retreating to his study at home once he’s changed into his dark evening robe. Narcissa will be home a few hours after, finally sick of the shifting sea of intoxicated faces and non-committal roles. Last to get back is Bellatrix, and there is really no saying what time that will be. If she hasn’t gotten completely wasted and spent the evening crucio-ing the ass off of some poor fellow, she’s probably getting her neck slimed by an eager tongue and even more eager hands. Bellatrix is the household’s last concern. She does what she wants, and wants everything she does.

But Narcissa hasn’t seen her sister since they first arrived and drifted into their appropriate groups, Narcissa to Violet Parkinson’s side and Bellatrix to a crowd of laughing young men and their hungry stares. And now Violet is off with some nice looking Spaniard and Narcissa is left to gaze at the crowds of smiling people through the tall stem of her champagne glass. It’s too early to leave and she knows this. It’s impolite and certain to upset at least someone here. But she’s tired of watching Pansy roll around in every other man’s arms. She rolls her eyes, knowing how much she is going to hate this, and apparates home.

She is terrible at long distances, a fact Bellatrix never fails to point out to her on a regular basis, and tonight is no exception. Instead of showing up on her bed, the place she was originally aiming for, she is crouched in complete darkness and surrounded by stifling amounts of fur. Someone’s closet, apparently. Although considering the exotic tastes in her family’s appetites, this could also be the pantry.

She feels in the dark for the handle, her hands closing around something cold and metallic as she pulls down. The door creaks open slightly, and a strange sound fills her ears. Yet seven years in Slytherin and its dormitories lend her no mistake as to what that sounds is, which is why she can barely breathe when she peers around the corner and takes in the sight before her.

She’s in Andromeda’s room. As is a naked Andromeda and friend.

Narcissa was not raised to be impolite. She also was not raised to be honest. She watches for a little while longer, and then apparates to her own room. She lands in the place she originally aimed for, opening her eyes to the lilac sky and silver stars of her ceiling.

The Blacks are known for their secrets. Narcissa is known for her lies. She’s not quite sure which this is going to become.

*****

The bedroom is empty the next morning. Bellatrix rolls her eyes and leans against the door, watching as their father paces in front of the bed, wringing his hands. Narcissa sips her tea, saying nothing yet.
“We’ll have to contact your mother.” Their father says, his voice wavering a bit at the mention of his wife.
“I’ll send a letter this afternoon.” Narcissa says quietly, patting her father’s hand.

There is silence for a while, the kind of silence that chokes and stifles and murders with a vengeance. Bellatrix wants to kill something.

“She’s a fucking idiot.” Bella finally snorts, throwing up her hands and stomping down the hall in the direction of her own quarters. A house elf is in tow, carrying the tray of breakfast Bellatrix has thus refused to eat.

Her room is at the farthest end of the house, the East Wing. She lifts her hand to the doorknob, and the elf behind her gives a slight squeak. Her sleeve has fallen back and she sees what he is staring at, but she only snarls.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

*****

“Sirius,” Remus says mid-yawn into the near darkness of their bedroom, and flops onto his bed. The yellow light of a candle burns near the window, where the black haired figure leans over something the other’s drowsy eyes can’t quite see or care to see. “James seemed angry at dinner. Wonder what’s going on”

There is something to be said about Sleepy Moony, as his figure melts to the curves of his lumpy mattress, because it happens to be one of Sirius’ favorite kinds. But tonight he is seemingly indifferent him, even as Remus lies on his side and studies his companion absentmindedly, his last statement still hanging in the air and waiting for a continuation to the conversation. His eyes glow a yellow-green, a sight no longer frightening to Sirius after years of knowing and loving the boy in one way or another. He is poring over a piece of paper, although Remus can’t see that and he would rather it stay that way for now. He’s read it several times now, wondering what to write back or even where to write back.

He knows what it is like to be disowned.

Sirius hardly regrets it, and laughs in the face of anybody who assumes otherwise. They’re all devils in his family, corrupted by their own inflated sense of self satisfaction, and he is disgusted by them. He always will be. Just the thought of them brings a putrid taste, that of pure hatred, to his mouth and he fills like spitting in the next pureblood, self righteous face he sees. His jaw clenches.

So he writes what he believes, and spares her the bullshit, quill scratching quickly and swiftly, scrawling down dark black letters,

Good riddance.

Remus sees him smile, the flicker of the candle casting a shadow on his upper lip. There’s something about it that confuses him and scares him for a moment and reminds him of memories he’d rather forget. And he does, along with any thought that connected Sirius to it.

He hears the other boy fold up a sheet of paper, stretches tentatively, and then asks in a worn voice, “Who’s that to?”

Sirius snaps to attention, as if noticing Remus is in the room for the first time and hides a stutter, “Oh. Um, nobody.” He ties the note to his owl’s leg, and trusts that he’ll find her somehow. God knows the bird’s done more elaborate biddings in his ownership.

He realizes it’s the worst lie he’s told in a while, and isn’t even sure if such an idiotic ploy counts. Remus isn’t an idiot, and he’s definitely a skeptic. He wiggles his fingers and then remembers to shut the window, for once taking care to close it softly to keep himself busy. Sirius knows it’s ridiculous to keep this sort of thing from Remus, but for once he feels the need for privacy. A nerve that shouldn’t be touched at all is suddenly out in the open again.

Maybe he doesn’t even care, already half asleep, but Sirius feels a twinge of guilt. He kneels in front of his bed, and waits for a moment before he says quietly, “Really, it’s nothing.” He kisses him, until Moony disregards everything but Now, and tries to ignore the things he can’t control.

Whoa, hello, Kate changed the layout.

history_future @ 2007-08-14T20:24:00

2007-08-15T00:26:26Z

Not an update, yet, but I have a little present for you. Inspired by Velvet Goldmine, no less.

Sirius’ introduction into the world as a renegade can be tracked down to the exact moment.

Remus remembers clearly, as a tawny haired boy of sixteen, sharp rib, elbow, collar, hip bones hidden under the small comfort of a green cotton jumper, sticking his thumb through the hole in his sleeve; the fabric stretched more than his soul ever would. Sirius stared at him through the sharp reflection of the mirror, then at himself, and deemed it the day of Reawakening.

Remus could smell change on him as it fought with the blandness of oxygen and the keen, incessant fragrance of formal education. This was the cusp of a new generation of learning, the textbook unwritten and unknown. Transcendent knowledge chafed in the confines of skull and flesh and jet black hair.

Nicked mascara and white glitter shadow suited him, Remus thought insanely, as a secret smirk of alteration danced on Sirius’ lips, an eyebrow quirked in the direction of controversy. Androgyny was what got them, and the tight pants kept them. Humanity, their minds garbled, sought an answer to the unspoken question.

The array of looks Sirius got was enough, a brilliant bouquet in the arms of the blushing bride of human sexuality. He slipped into his title of Radical with unnatural feline fluidity, with dazzling smirks and a glare in the face of social faux-pas. As brilliant as he was mad, magnificently defined as he was enigmatic, he kissed James straight on the mouth whenever the poor boy was liquored up enough, mortification be damned. That tricky word, “Bisexual,” capitalized for the sake of its significance, escaped his lips in the company of one or another, an inquisitive woman or a ridiculously pretty man, when the air was static with sex.

That was Sirius all along, an identity he’d been destined to take since his very conception, speak of the Divine Devil.

The beat of a bass line electrocuted any sense of the world that they had taught him to assume, eyeliner scribbling out grubby, raunchy, impolite truths on a dirty pub napkin. The smell of patent leather dirtied with the wet gutter water of an unknown side street, the sharp scented musk of a transsexual, cheap whiskey, combining and coagulating and becoming his own, his only. Sirius defined. Sirius sublime.

Only Sirius knew why, but instead blamed the whole of it on destiny. The real idea was in whim and that distinctive being Remus knew lurked beneath, his own divine beast with which he wielded the power to mystify and intrigue. That cool, roguish air he had about him that told the world he was deserving of something big. Fingers with nails painted black, led them all so calmly, assuredly to the bedroom, chilling the nervousness from them with the easy flow of brogue speech. It felt good because that’s the nature of the human race, void of the laws of religion, government, countless generations misled before them.

Yet, all Remus could bear to know was that he was the exception.

Sirius’ adventures as the Sexual Prophet had never compelled him to take his friend, the fool who always wanted the privilege, but knew it was poison. Remus was a blank canvas, yearning, wanting, needing that crimson hue on Sirius’ fingertips to seep into his skin, take him over, and make him a masterpiece. He sat naked in the throes of a revolution, and he was the conscientious objector, the observer that had no idea how this world might be his.

The only thing they shared was the mirror.

That morning, the contrast of beating, pulsing, existing bodies and frigid weather made the air stand still. The dresser was cluttered with everything Sirius, the living work of art, eyes and lips accentuated carefully with colors Remus could no longer associate with anything but human flesh: bold, proud, and seductive. The subtle scent of powdered make up made him blink with the innate sense that he needed this to happen.

The kiss tasted like shock. Hot, rough, urgent, all the things that Remus was not converged in Sirius’ mouth, as ruby red smudged over his cheeks and neither seemed to care. He could feel him arching back, hips pressed against the edge of the dresser, hands clutching, knees quivering. Masculine and feminine found no place in the silent conversation of bodies crashing together, and then it was over.

Remus saw something curious in Sirius’ eyes. Divine, devastating, that was what it was. But there was nothing, save Sirius’ soft panting which overpowered the quiet workings of his frazzled mind. His hand still gripped the edge of the dresser so hard that they might as well have been one. Remus had succeeded in surprising a man who had known nothing but the most outrageous in what seemed like millennia. Sirius looked furtively at the door and then to him as he felt the waxy aftertaste of lipstick in his mouth.

He pulled forward, pressing a kiss to Remus’ lips that forced all the energy he had out of him. Then he was gone. Quick, but effective.

Remus smiled at his reflection in the mirror and saw himself change. Well, that was something.

history_future @ 2007-08-05T08:38:00

2007-08-05T12:56:22Z

Is everybody enjoying their Harry Potter filled summer?

I bet you've all been busy spending your money on movie tickets and hardcover deluxe editions of DH, when you haven't been drooling over shoebox_project's semi-update, squeeing over the returns of half a million of the best Harry Potter communities ever or laughing over a certain Malfoy's peacock affinity.

I know I have.

Thankfully, canon did not horribly maim our plot line, even if Kate and I both had moments of, "WTF, THIS IS NOT THE WAY IT GOES, JKR," but that's only because we're spoiled on fanon, and have an unhealthy attachment to different members of the HP cast of characters. I now have an entire month off... I think you see where this is going. Hopefully you won't reduce me to groveling for your forgiveness, as that would be shameful and humiliating. And have you seen the floors around here? I definitely do not want my face anywhere near it before we slap down a cleaning charm or two, preferably accompanied with some good old fashioned Pine-Sol.

So amuse yourself a bit longer with all of those worthy HP groups out there, and we'll be up and running again ASAP.

PREVIEW

2007-05-09T01:48:39Z

EPISODE SIX PREVIEW! YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT!

Well, here is some well-needed Lucius/Narcissa. And some biting. Mmmm, biting.

She shoves him into the grass, forcing him down until his pale blue sleeves are bright against the fresh green of the ground. Every inch of her hates him, loathes him. Every centimeter wants nothing more than to rip him to pieces, to tear out his little bachelor heart and stomp on it with her three inch heels, stab it right through the middle until there’s blood on her pantyhose and something dark in her eyes. He fights back with the violin bow, still in his hands, his arms flailing madly and unmanly through the air as he sputters beneath her.

“You’re being…ridicul-” He starts, grabbing at the back of her dress and tugging it upwards. She frowns and slaps him across the face with her gloves, almost grinning when his face shows shock and fear at the blow.

“Are you going to cry?” She asks sweetly, bending over and blowing in his ear. She means to draw back the gloves and hit him again, but he has taken her hand in his and slammed it to the ground, pinning her on top of him just as his head comes up and his mouth mingles with hers.

It’s her turn to be confused now, and she struggles against it at first. No, she is not to get it yet. Not when she doesn’t want it. Even if she does want it, has always wanted it. No. He’s not supposed to enjoy this.

But his tongue collides wonderfully with hers, and suddenly she knows his pain is becoming his pleasure, her teeth coming down on his lips, his soft grunts muffled as he meshes with her mouth again and again. She remembers the days when her father used to call her the same name as the little white cat, and she scratches and hisses, digging her claws into his back and feeling that feral lust creep over her senses, replacing her reason with a wonderful ache. She bites down hard on his lower lip, her eyes closing and opening as he manages onto his elbows, still keeping her hands gripped firmly in his own. She wants blood, she wants to see him whimper or cry or release something of a defeat. But all he is doing is giving her the other satisfaction she desires, and she wants so desperately to take it all from him.

And then, without warning, her body decides its time to move to his neck, his noble and smooth neck, and against her mind’s wishes begins a perusal of his skin. She abandons the fine stubble of his jawbone, the sweet taste of his tongue curled against her own. Something in her tingles with curiosity, with a pulsating need to overtake him here and now, to win him over with the caresses only the others have known, only the great throngs of other women have ever owed him. She owes him nothing, and this is why she kisses him now. And as her lips begin to suck beneath his chin, against the long muscles of his shoulders, he’s finding her collarbone, the crests of her breasts, the parts of her a future husband has every right to know. His mouth is warm and wet against her, and when she draws back, his hands are sliding beneath her bodice, gliding over her again, and drawing her near to him.

She collapses against him for a moment, suddenly exhausted by the sheer effort of releasing so much pent-up lust. She hides her surprise when his arm falls over her back, wrapping her in a cool and natural embrace that gives away nothing. He could be in love, or he could be thinking about the next girl he’s going to do this with. Just to turn the tables in her direction, she finds the flesh through his unbuttoned shirt and gives his skin a quick nip, brushing her tongue momentarily against his nipple and hearing his sharp intake of breath against her ear when she lays her head back onto his chest.

“We should do this more often.” He says after a while, a careful hand resting on her hip. She straightens her jacket, giving him a look even she cannot place. “You’re quite the fighter.”

“Yes.” She says simply, and smiles, letting their lips meet one last time before parting. Oh, he tastes like sex.

history_future @ 2007-04-13T17:58:00

2007-04-13T21:57:25Z

The whole point is that they know anything, everything and yet, nothing.

James wonders how rainy August mornings have somehow become his ‘thing,’ as he roams for no reason in particular; the absent minded activity keeps him sane, he’s realized more than once, but forgets whenever the sounds of the city come back to him. Soggy commotion, unending proof of a living, breathing perpetual motion device. The grey of the storm acts as a twisted silver lining for James, as the lingering smells of summer sewer and public drunkenness wash away. Suddenly he’s reminded of home.

Damnit.

Independence isn’t for him, the hell with whatever Sirius thinks. He isn’t quite sure what the make of the fact that he is on his own, free to do what he wants. Yet he’s bound by the obligatory sentence of society and survival and reality.

Please accept the meager preview as a heartfelt apology. And then wish me luck on my ACT's tomorrow because Junior year is a dirty whoring bitch.

-Lex

history_future @ 2007-01-19T23:45:00

2007-01-20T04:47:46Z

You all deserve an explanation as to why we, Kate and Lex are not awesome fic writing machines.

Basically, it's because a lot of the things we come up with end up being suck-tacular...(DRACULAR?)

Anyway, so Kate and I figured it would be amusing to post a little bit of the

[21:51] Kate: poppin that black ova
[21:52] Kate: poppin it like the black ova hot
[21:52] Kate: damn nigga
[21:52] Kate: sounds so fly
[21:52] Lex: You and your rapper quotationes.
[21:52] Kate: lalalala
[21:52] Lex: *QUOTATIONS
[21:52] Kate: I know it
[21:52] Kate: I'm amazing
[21:52] Kate: amazing
[21:52] Kate: amazing
[21:52] Lex: My little car jacker.
[21:52] Kate: aamaazing
[21:52] Kate: well, I'm good at that too
[21:52] Lex: jackalacker.
[21:52] Kate: fo shizzle up my vizzle
[21:53] Kate: vagizzle
[21:53] Kate: drizzle on my vagizzle
[21:53] Lex: *DIES*
[21:53] Kate: )0____0
[21:53] Lex: O____o
[21:53] Kate: yeah, that was too far there

[21:53] Lex: YEAH TOTALLY
[21:53] Kate: OH BABAY
[21:54] Kate: YOU KNOW IT
[21:54] Lex: (I almost wrote TITALLY)
[21:54] Lex: ...screw it....TITALLY.
[21:54] Kate: Titular!
[21:54] Kate: mine could cut glass right now
[21:54] Lex: Tittation!

[21:55] Kate: you and your homophilism...
[21:55] Lex: I am destined to never date
[21:55] Kate: haha Mayumi definitely taught us favorite Japanese sex positions in lunch yesterday
[21:55] Lex: As I will be hitting on the gays.
[21:55] Kate: boys have to be on top
[21:55] Kate: they hate being on the bottom
[21:56] Lex: I would assume so
[21:56] Kate: well, you know aout the whole...
[21:56] Kate: yeah.
[21:56] Lex: That sort of limits you.
[21:56] Kate: definitely.
[21:56] Lex: The thing with the stuff. Yes.
[21:56] Kate: That looks like you know?
[21:56] Kate: You know.
[21:56] Lex: Like what's his name.

[22:22] Kate: I don't know. SHOULD HE?
[22:22] Lex: WHAT DO YOU THINK?
[22:22] Kate: I DON'T KNOW. BUT CAPSLOCK WILL MAKE IT ALL CLEARER.
[22:22] Lex: IT USUALLY DOES
[22:22] Kate: I KNOW. I'VE FIGURED THAT OUT
[22:23] Lex: I HAVE TO MAKE UP FOR YOUR LACK OF CAPS BEFORE THIS.
[22:23] Kate: THAT'S YOUR JOB
[22:23] Lex: IT TITALLY IS
[22:23] Kate: MY TITS ITCH
[22:23] Lex: I DON'T HAVE THAT PROBLEM
[22:24] Lex: BUT MY HAIR SURE IS LUXURIOUSLY SILKY AND MANAGABLE
[22:24] Kate: WHICH HAIR?
[22:24] Lex: YOU HAD TO ASK THAT, DIDN'T YOU?
[22:24] Kate: OF COURSE I DID

[22:37] Lex: I thought it was about bagels.
[22:37] Kate: you're setting up for a Yiddish fest aren't you?
[22:37] Lex: It's my life-long aspiration

[22:48] Lex: Mrs Black [wandering through meeting duhnah, spies Lucius and decides to talk to him with the motive of checking up on Regulus. She tries to hide this and feign interest in Lucius' day duh nah]
[22:49] Kate: Lucius {typical jesus I am so pissed off everyone is incompetent I wanna fuck chicks and go home}
[22:49] Lex: Mrs Black [diplomatic smile] Hello Lucius.
[22:50] Kate: lUCIUS [FEIGNS SURPIRSE] Madame Black! Shit for this capslock huh?
[22:51] Lex: Mrs Black: I must thank you again for allowing Regulus to accompany you.
[22:53] Kate: Lucius: [he didn't actually know about this, but he understands what Mrs. Black wants Mrs. Black gets] *leaning across and resting his elbow slightly on Narcissa's chair; she recoils from habit and then adjusts herself, giving him a curt glance* Anything that is required...
[22:54] Lex: Mrs Black: [maintaining regal stance] He's very enthusiastic about DE, you know.
[22:56] Kate: Lucius [really not interested, but was raised polite at any rate] *taking note of Narcissa's cool attitude towards, him silently figuring out how to deal* Considering the family history, I would have expected no loess. [notes the slight twinge in Mrs. Black's cheek at the mention fo family history, realizes he may have gone a bit too far]
[22:59] Lex: Mrs Black [always one to not show her true emotions, lest she display any signs of weakness / anything that represents anything less than a strong matriarch] I suppose so... *grins warmly at Narcissa, seemingly unaware of the tension*
[23:01] Kate: Narcissa: [seizing opportunity to somehow smite Lucius] *smiles politely in return and leans toward Mrs Black, causing her arm to cross over Lucius' who frowns slightly* You know Mrs. Black, my mother is returning home from Paris next week, and she's been talking of having you and Master Black over from an evening. Do you think Regulus would be able to attend as well?
[23:03] Lex: Mrs Black: [takes warmer tone with Narcissa who she regards as family rather than a social connection which she uses to her advatage] It's always a pleasure, Dear. And I'm sure Regulus would love to come.
[23:04] Kate: Narcissa: [sinking in for kill, not sure wht kill is as of yet but will figure out, just like Kate is right now since she has no idea what the hella she was doing in brining Narcissa in here int he first place] Well, I don't want to be the one to say this, but...
[23:05] Lex: Mrs Black: [leans in, genuinely interested in what sounds like gossip]
[23:07] Kate: Narcissa [thinking oh shit like Kate because what the fuck is she going to say, I mean she genuinely has no gossip but Lucius has starting pricking up his ears because maybe it is about Narcissa which means maybe it is slightly related to him and he is awesome to himself so...] There has been so much talk of Regulus' achievements lately, and I have a feeling that my sister Andromeda [oh yeah, Andromeda, she thinks. no one think stwice about her nor considers her feelings so you can lie striahgt up an ass about her and you're in no threat of losing face] has taken a sudden interest in these as well.
[23:08] Lex: Mrs Black: [raises eyebrow] Really? Narcissa, darling, you cannot just leave me with that.
[23:11] Kate: Narcissa: [oh yes I can actually, lex] [she has maybe detecetd a hint of disappointment seeing as Mrs Black has never anticipated a match between her son and the least appealing fo the Black sisters, plus incest but oh well, so she feels slightly at hand to defend her sister oddly] I'm afriad we don't see much of Regulus in the social circles, and he's such a dear to all of us who know them that we'd be delighted to see his return again. I remember when we were younger he was such a card at parties, but now I hardly ever get a chance to have an honest talk with him.
[23:14] Lex: Mrs Black: [dainty hand to chest] Oh, well, he's just so wrapped up in his studies I suppose he's become a bit of a recluse. Don't mistaken, though, he's quite fond of all of you. [Lex is not making good dialogue tonight but she does know that Mrs Black's mind is pondering the match and thinking that Reggie is too good for Andromeda.]
[23:15] Kate: Narcissa: Oh we would never doubt that. Honstly, we haven't spoken in what seems like years and already he's given me more attention than my own fiancee [ahahahaha little dainty laugh of haha suckface]
[23:17] Lex: Mrs Black: [not sure what to make of this but feels the need to defend her son] Regulus may not make a great effort to speak a lot, but what he says is very meaningful and profound. Wouldn't you agree?
[23:19] Kate: Lucius: [steps in, not willing to hear another word fo what Narcissa has to saya nd obviously afriad she's going ot make an injection here as well] Mrs Black, your son is an honor to have. [ooh that sounds sexual haha] I cannot think of another show of gratitude except in the promise that I will do everything to keep him out fo harm's way this evening.
[23:21] Lex: Mrs Black: [snaps out of defensive mode, has nearly forgotten Lucius was there] *small smile* Thank you, Lucius. It's very comendable of you to take my son under your wing. Especially after...ehm [...and realizes she's said too much.]
[23:21] Kate: author cut-in: I'm sorry, what is the hem she's not talking about?
[23:22] Lex: The whole Sirius-is-disowned bit
[23:22] Kate: oh like he is a good role model okay
[23:23] Kate: Lucius: [well, everyone knows what she'd be talking about anyway] *seeks to reassure her, as Sirius was a thron in his ass for too many years and he doesn't want another one in Reggie, even though he's not fond of him to begin with] Regulu sis his mother's son.
[23:26] Lex: Mrs Black: [true thoughts shown by eyes, strong face] *laugh* Why thank you. I hope that is a compliment, although sometimes I can't be sure.
[23:27] Kate: Narcissa: [bitting at the thing in horse's mouth for chance to speak up again] Dear Mrs. Black, surely you must know that anything out fo Lucius' mouth is meant as flattery. The man's tongue is seldom dripping with anything but honey. *sharp glance at Lucius when Mrs. Black can't see. Lucius looks floured but exhilirated by the challenge*
[23:28] Lex: Mrs Black: As any gentleman's should be.
[23:30] Kate: Lucius: [not entirely sure what to say, rushes through his sentence] My mother always said the same thing. It's a pity you two were unable to become close before her passing. [actually, he knows perfectly well they knew each other as girls and weren't very fond fo one another, but Mrs. Black like her husband so go figure]
[23:31] Lex: Mrs Black: [lip twitches] Ehm...yes. Oh, what one might do with a second chance. No?
[23:32] Kate: Lucius: How often I think the same thing.
[23:32] Kate: OMG THSI IS BORING.
[23:32] Kate: READERS ARE ASLEEP
[23:32] Lex: I KNOW I THINK I AM DEAD
[23:32] Kate: I AM NOT EVEN HEE I AM MAKING ICONS OH GOD
[23:32] Lex: WTF IS WRONG WITH US?
[23:32] Kate: I DON'T KNOW
[23:33] Kate: THIS IS BEYOND SHIT
[23:33] Kate: WTF ABOUT LUCIUS' DEAD MOTHER...
[23:33] Lex: I think it's because it's regents week
[23:33] Lex: HAHAHA I KNOW WTF

So yeah. Um. We're obviously not using this. It's like the blooper reel except a lot more sexual.

history_future @ 2007-01-18T23:29:00

2007-01-19T04:32:47Z

we love you, we honestly do. (like Olivia Newton John does.)

and we promise we will get the new chapter up soon. but it's (legible excuse!) MIDTERM SEASON and we have AP courses up to our hoohahs, and this is not what you'd call prime fic writing times. so it has slowed...just a bit.

wait until spring. I will actually write an R rated sex scene. and Lex will do something slashy porn-ish. bird and bees, my friend...birds and bees.

thanks for being patient. just for that, I offer my sexual services. yay!

history_future @ 2006-12-31T20:19:00

2007-01-01T01:23:30Z

I do believe that this is the last night of what the general public and money hungry executives would call the Holiday Season, hmm?

Well, I think you all deserve a gift from history_future.

I've been working on this first part of Episode V for a couple of days now and I figure, what the hell? It's ready.

(It's a particular treat for all those R/S and Regulus fans. Because let me tell you, that's what it is. This is Lex's stuff all over and there's more to come. And I swear James and Peter are coming. Really. REAAALLLY.)

So in favor of my favorite holiday, New Year's (Yes. I know that I am crazy.) here is the first part of Episode V...

Episode V

The guests have all gone, and the only ones to remain are the servants. Everything must now be put back into their proper places and that is where they come in; the floor is swept and the instruments have been retired. Soon it will be time to return the room to its average size, from a ball room to a dining room. The favorable aspects of the top rate construction of 12 Grimmauld Place have been deemed priceless many times over and this is one of the most prominent reasons.

As always, Mrs. Black supervises this stage of the party, as she does every other. She has always been taught that one cannot be too careful when it comes to their employees; she ignores the fact that the majority of the cleaning staff has lived on the premises since she was a girl, and is more than capable of putting a few champagne glasses away and rearranging furniture. They are aware this such-and-such is antique, and that was handed down by so-and-so. They are also quite aware of what they are being paid, even if by current standards Mrs. Black could be regarded as cheap by an inadvertent case of Trapped-In-The-Past.

They can’t really complain, though, considering that they are generally appreciated in the house and usually receive a Christmas bonus or a few extra days off when the individual is deserving of them. There aren’t any bratty children to deal with or overly bothersome eccentricities. The past few years have been relatively quiet with the “departure” of the eldest son and thank God for it.

“It was a lovely party, wasn’t it?”

There’s something about the small talk, though. The staff wants no part of it; they nod or grunt in agreement but provide nothing more constructive to the conversation, trying to look busy. It’s a very delicate balance between ignoring and politely disregarding but the servants in the Black Household have become experts. Mrs. Black sighs, her eyelids feeling heavy as she begins to remember what it feels like to need to sleep, no longer a slave to her own adrenaline and endless cups of coffee. Still, she does not want to leave until everything is done and, therefore, will not.

The clock strikes two o’clock, unseen but heard throughout the first floor of the house, amidst the clanging of plates and the clacking of Mrs. Black’s shoes on the floor as she paces idly as she tries to keep herself alert. Some unnamed party song dances in her head and it will be trapped there for at least another few hours. She rubs her temples.

“Mum?” Regulus ducks into the room again, finally free of his costume. He wears the collared shirt that he hates and the pleated pants that he hates more. But his mother loves and bought them especially for him, and so he wears the outfit often. His hair is combed neatly, though he takes great pride in the fact that it has grown past his ears, the only slight form of rebellion he has allowed himself. Sirius once tried to introduce him to punk fashion; Madame Pomfrey had had to re-grow the hair on one side of his head when all was said and done. It could have been worse, Regulus later recounted, thanking the fates that he hadn’t stood over an open flame at any point during his introduction to new fashions that he hadn’t wanted any part of. No, this overgrown style suited him just fine.

Mrs. Black turns to him, somewhat disoriented, stirred from deep thought.

“Regulus, you’re still awake?”

“Yes. And so are you, by the way.”

“Well, the party isn’t over until everything is put back in order. You know that.”
“You’ve been up since five, Mum.” Mrs. Black puts a dainty hand to base of her throat and gives Regulus an incredulous look that reminds him where Sirius got it.

“Dear me, I wasn’t awake until nearly eight. You must have been dreaming.” Regulus has his hands behind his back, keeping an unthreatening stance as to not challenge his mother’s authority. Still, he raises an eyebrow at her because they both know that isn’t true.

“I heard you going downstairs at five,” he insists. “You’ve been in this room the entire day.”

It is silent for a moment. The servants move to another part of the hall, though each of them has one ear on the conversation; they are relying on Regulus to get his mother out of their hair, having spent the entire day listening to her “helpful suggestions.” Mrs. Black’s lips quiver in teetering defiance, trying not to let the alcohol of hours past loosen them. She plays with the fingertip of one of her white gloves, too tired to come up with a better argument but not willing to relent.

“I’ve been pondering something, Regulus.” So she changes the subject.

Regulus maintains his patience, knowing that it nobody can suggest anything to his mother and that it is better to wait until she turns the idea into her own.

“What’s that, Mum?”

“Where do you suppose Sirius is now?” She says with caution.

He freezes.

“I-I dunno. I haven’t seen him since school let out.”

“Was it something I did, Regulus?” Suddenly it’s more than just a fleeting thought, but one that makes the constant lump of guilt in her throat make itself known once again. Regulus in the middle of it, between his mother and dread-ridden oblivion. “All I ever tried to do was raise you boys the way that your father and I thought was right. I don’t understand it…”

Regulus knows the answer to this question. He always has. Sirius never wanted this; the rich and powerful were not the sorts he admired. This house, family, lifestyle had nothing to keep him. Nothing could have stopped it but Regulus often wonders if his mother was the person ultimately caused this rift.

Regulus pretended to read as Sirius stormed into the room and flopped himself onto his bed, fuming. His mother had won the battle, for now. It was a never-ending war between Sirius and Mrs. Black, as he learned more curse words and her patience grew thinner by the second. And, as always, the other little boy had been sent out of the room right when another bout had begun.

“I hate her,” Sirius said into his pillow with particular malice. “Y’know how you hate Kreacher, Reg? That’s how much I hate Mum.”

The younger boy felt his toes curl at the mere mention of the house elf. In reality, Kreacher terrified Regulus, rather than being the object of his hatred. At the age of seven he was not sure how to hate, but he imagined that whatever Sirius felt towards their mother must have been a horrible thing.

“One day she won’t be able to send me to my room. She won’t get to tell me what to do anymore. I’ll be bigger and stronger than her and then she’ll be sorry.”

“Mmm,” Regulus offered, wanting to relate to what his brother was saying but failing to. He put his book down and rested his head on his own pillow, now on the same level with Sirius, looking at him with the big smoky grey eyes that they both had.

“I wish she would die,” were the words of an angry eight year old who could not fully comprehend the meaning of death, but knowing that it would keep his mother from ordering him around. “Everything would be better if Mum just died.”

“Yeah,” Regulus said, following his older brother’s example. “If Mummy died everything would be perfect.”

They were only children then. Neither of them meant what they said, but Regulus will always remember it. He will always feel horribly about the day he learned to hate, to hurt, even if only his brother had heard.

And so he feels compelled to comfort his mother and make up for Sirius.

“It wasn’t anything you did,” he tells her simply with a hand on her shoulder. “It was just…Sirius.”

“Poor boy,” Mrs. Black responds. She sighs wearily, making her shudder and strokes Regulus’ cheek for a moment. “Thank goodness I still have you.”

She smiles and he smiles back, weakly.

And he’s back here again. Always the mediator, always the liar.

*****

“Sirius…” Remus said in spite of himself. His hands were resting on Sirius’ chest, his back against the cool stone wall. It felt good in contrast to the blazing heat of the numerous ever-lit fireplaces throughout the school. It cooled the back his neck, diffused the heat that had been soaked in by his robes. However, he felt his face grow hot as Sirius explored his mouth, arm wrapped protectively around his waist, pulling him forward.

This was divine. The entire school was empty, save the Great Hall. A winter night had set in once again, when four o’clock looked a lot eight. The humming bustle of Yuletide celebration had long since disappeared behind them. They had wandered as far away as the Transfiguration classroom, Remus walking innocently ahead of his counterpart, before Sirius’ impatient nature and Remus’ general eagerness had gotten the better of them. Remus had never known anything but broom sheds and bathrooms when it came to Sirius, and one rushed stint in their dormitory when they had been exceptionally daring. The idea of it all was a relatively new one, having only started this whatever-it-was during the Halloween Feast. Sugar headaches had never been so rewarding. So it seemed appropriate that they skip the Christmas Feast as well, only hours before Remus would return home for the holidays and Sirius would be with The Potters. Every minute was vital, valuable.

It was quiet, the world sleeping in the wake of fresh snowfall and evening. Shadows contrasted with moon light, and for once Remus associated the satellite with something good. It bounced off the stone archways and walls that separated the walkway from the Courtyard. Light continued to tell the tale of architectural mystery and youthful discovery, a pleasant change from cramped confinement and stagnant air. There was nothing sticking uncomfortably into Remus’ side, or knocking Sirius off balance.

When they had the opportunity, Remus noticed, they actually fit quite well together.

Sirius walked two cold fingers up the back of Remus’ neck, who felt himself pantomiming ‘Sirius, you didn’t even wear gloves? You’re going to freeze.’ through hot breath and lips. He felt the worn cuff of a sweater he’d been missing for weeks, which was now the only thing that kept Sirius warm save a pair of jeans and the other boy’s body.

Remus laughed at it and soon he felt self-conscious. He hated the way he laughed, not being very manly at all. Everything that seemed to be vocalized during these romps was just outright embarrassing, in Remus’ case. He didn’t growl like Sirius, nor did he say anything remotely alluring. He—

“Oh…!” Remus heard himself articulate as he felt Sirius kiss just the right spot on his neck. He felt so utterly feminine, which sort of defeated the purpose of his homosexuality. Didn’t it? He pondered this as he saw his breath billow into the cold air and rise and swirl. Perhaps it was the way that made Sirius comfortable, after countless stints with girls. Soft and delicate, yielding to his masculine adolescent need to assert himself and dominate. Batting eyelashes, heady laughs, sweet smells, long hair…but still, it didn’t help the fact that Remus was inexplicably not-a-girl-and-not-wanting-to-be-one-thank-you. It made him crazy to even think about Sirius with…eh.

‘Well then…’

Remus’ pupils dilated as he became more aggressive and his lips collided with Sirius’ roughly. Sirius’ hips slammed forward in a gesture so painfully marvelous that it seemed to further coax Remus’ animal instincts from him. There was no reason to blame it on the moon. He nipped at Sirius’ lips, ear. Remus heard him gasp and recoiled suddenly, surprised. Sirius' grey eyes were smoky with arousal. He gazed at Remus with a smirk on his face that the other boy couldn’t quite analyze.

“B-bloody hell, Moony,” Sirius stuttered, perfectly sharp teeth digging into his rosy bottom lip, his hair in a state of sexual disarray, his nose cold but going unnoticed. Remus’ nostrils were filled with the smell of musk and sexual desire, and his fingers were pulling nervously at Sirius’ left hand. “…Fuck, when did you learn to do that?”

“Heh…” Remus was out of breath, and still inexplicably mortified despite the fact that it had worked out well…he pulled his hat down idly. He was still an insecure boy, even if he was of legal age and that homosexual issue wasn’t actually an issue anymore; he thought so, anyway. And this was all so…so…

Sirius grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him into another kiss. Remus could feel him smiling. Warm lips contrasted with a cold breeze and the black haired boy pulled him closer as he shivered. Remus wondered if this was bliss or maybe something close. He knew the definition of bliss, he knew how it was described in books, by other people, but he couldn’t be sure if this was his variation of it. Who could be sure at the age of seventeen?

‘Mmm, kiss, bliss, bliss, kiss --- Jesus, I am deranged.’

Suddenly Sirius looked at him and it was different. There was something on the tip of his tongue, something quixotic and quizzical on his lips…and Remus didn’t leave it there. But it’s something he wanted…

“Remus.”

“Yeah?”

“I think…” He stumbled on his words. “I mean, that is to say, I am almost completely certain that I…well, I lo---“

“---Sirius!” He turned at the sound of his name and Remus jumped away, both still gun shy about the issue when it came to others and rightfully afraid of the wrong people finding out. “Oh god. Sorry…”

Regulus grew distraught, confronted with another reminder of PDA and the fact that he didn’t receive any. Even if he wasn’t exactly certain what PDA stood for…and wait, was that who he thought it was?

“Um…Remus.” It wasn’t a question, but more a need to say the name out loud to verify something.

He couldn’t remember what he was planning to say to Sirius, how he was planning to convince him to come home for Christmas. Just this once. He knew that he had rehearsed it, thought about it in copious amounts when he should have been concentrating on his Arithmancy midterm. He wasn’t aware that he still couldn’t accept the fact that Sirius would never come home again and so he persisted to combine the two vastly different worlds he struggled to exist in.

His brother looked back at him, waiting to see his next move, waiting to see a reaction. It wasn’t a humoring look of fraternal understanding…but rather a wolf whose territory has been invaded. He was wary, unsure of how to proceed but still prepared to pounce.

Suddenly Regulus was an alien in his brother’s world…an interloper.

Sirius had other priorities.

This was different from the flings that Regulus had witnessed, because it was Remus. He wasn’t a brother like James, like Regulus but not a companion like Peter. Involuntarily, Younger Brother’s instinct sensed something, taking over where his mind was not able to register or rationalize. Regulus felt threatened; Remus was Sirius’ kindred spirit whether anybody realized it or not. But maybe that was what Sirius was to Regulus, and maybe he wasn’t willing to share. God damned if his brother was going to be pulled farther away. No. Not again. Not ever.

Soon his mind got the better of him, though. He remembered reality and all it’s tangible relationships and laws. Regulus knew this was futile. He wasn’t needed any longer. It was unbearable, inevitable and… ‘Gods, what is wrong with me?’ His chest tightened as he stood there, faced with an instance that would change his relationship with Sirius forever.

Without reply, he turned and left.

A brother scorned.

May all acquaintance be forgot, and all that jazz...!

EPISODE FOUR- PART TWO

2006-12-20T03:49:34Z

This was so big we had to post it in two sections- SQUEE OF DELIGHT!

There are things about these sorts of events that Regulus finds to be inevitable, as his life continues to become an endless cycle of predictable chaos. It is not just the certainty of public drunkenness or uncomfortable clothing or blood relatives hitting on each other (unknowingly or not), but the fact that Regulus, who inevitably hates all things in this world that could possibly be interpreted as a party, would like nothing better at this moment than to put himself out of his enochlophobic, run-on sentencing misery. Seventy-five percent of his life has involved awkwardly existing amongst tipsy house guests of variously pungent odors, trying desperately not to ingest something laced with laxatives. Eighty-two percent, if we’re being exact.

Really, really is remarkable that he is breathing.

Is there an award for existence, he wonders. Furthermore, if such an award exists, is it a medal? Gold plated trophy? Cash prize? Fame, adoration, women? A nice little place in Tuscany with impenetrable protection charms and a basement full of solidified silence slathered in rainbow colored milk chocolate? Not that he would accept the last one, lest he have guilt rot him from the inside out for being so selfish and all the wonderful Tuscan bliss would be ruined.

…or something.

Everything seems confusing and overwhelming when you’re forced to coexist in a large crowd of people who could care less about Whatever Regulus is Doing.

The swoops of a string section of orchestral magnitude continue; the instruments levitate above the guests. Regulus cannot name the composer, but the movement is screams allegro and couples continue to dance in the middle of the room and could care less about what sort of musical integrity whozzname has outside their pure blood bubble. A dark aura of Continual Adolescent Pout claims any who venture too close to the group of underage party guests who aren’t clever enough to pilfer alcohol and such. Suddenly there is nothing more crucial than their Hopeless Virgin Status and I Cannot Believe I Can’t Even Have a Bloody Drink, Bugger All. Of course, none of them had any interest in past years of taking cues from their elder cousins, pompous teenage attitudes setting in at younger and more unfortunate ages with every passing generation.

Regulus seems to be the only one under seventeen with other thoughts in their mind as he cannot comprehend how generations of Blacks, Malfoys and Lestranges have acquired the innate ability to see out of these bloody masks. Perhaps it his own fault that he is struggling, though. He was the one who refused the offer for a new costume, and instead wore the dusty wilted heirloom his mother already had in mind. Damnit.

Regulus smells like old people…and illicit sex.

He will never be able to scrub off the shame, nor will he ever escape the clutches of seams in…well, unseemly places. Not to mention his great-grandfather’s love affair with ruffles. The only consolation is the fact that the costume is not an unfortunate shade of pink and that his maddening mask conceals his identity…or so he prays.
“Oh, ah-ha-ha!”
His mother’s voice somehow has the ability to carry perfectly over a very crowded room no matter what the circumstance. It’s a social necessity, Regulus assumes, as her choices of dressing dwindle, make up won’t cover the age lines any longer. One must be the center of attention either way, if they are to be remembered by anyone. It’s a pleasant voice, tones reminiscent of a mezzo soprano, clear annunciation.
It’s her party voice. Nothing can disguise it.
Regulus has hidden himself in a corner near table of food, hoping that nobody will go out of their way to converse with him if he is continually nibbling at one hor d’oeuvre or another. He’s learned over the years that if he acts as though he is not there, a boy of no importance, that most of his family will leave him alone, either too distant a relative to remember him or too old to see him clearly. The rest are too engrossed with themselves (not to mention their carnal needs) to notice anything at all.

Unlike Sirius, Regulus is forgettable.

Mostly because he allows himself to be.

He does not want to have a woman thrown onto him again because Mrs. Black seems to think he needs to get his Black heiring ass married, or father himself a bastard child, like the rest of the clan seems to make a habit of. Not that Regulus hasn’t gotten his fill of that already, seeing as every woman that has ever thrown herself on his brother has ended up in some sort of awkwardly intimate bodily contact with him. It seems that everybody in the world counts Regulus as being a closeted homosexual or, at the very least, a socially retarded hermit void of sexually motivated thought processes. Even the ones who have had experienced the clammy-handed contrary. Regulus doubts they would ever want to know about the things he can do with his tongue, though, even if it's a legend among the sixth year crowd aside from that one time…

It is the ideal irony, considering that Sirius was the one who disguised himself as a woman for multiple galas he attended, officially christening the closet in the back hall as Homosexual Hand-job HQ.

Sexually explicit alliteration was always Sirius’ forte.

Sirius would be classified a sexual deviant if he came from any other family, disowned or not. He copped feels from more pure blood man ass than he will readily admit to in his homo-exploration heyday. Rather, the Oh-Shit-Remus-Gay-Oh-Nooo-Unrequited-Pining Years, should they be properly referred to. Yet, Regulus will always be the younger brother plagued by emasculating questions of his orientation and it is probably destined to stay that way. Even if he were to proposition that brunette in the red billowing gown he’s been furtively eying all night, and then proceed to dry hump her in front of everybody, resistance would be futile.

It seems more plausible that he would have been the one disowned; Sirius is far more reminiscent of the Black Family aside from the obvious refusal to conform to pure-blood prejudice. In some ways, that makes him more of a Black. He’s rebellious and that is what the entire family shares in one way or another…except Regulus. Regulus is a white sheep in a flock of black, and he is painfully aware of it. Regulus isn’t sure if he’s being melodramatic or honest with himself, another psychotic break that leads to a brief moment of reality. Over-analyzing is not a healthy character trait in any case. And, suddenly, the room becomes claustrophobic and he might just be too antisocial to function.

The fact of the matter is that he positively is.

Regulus is---“buggerhellingwhat?!”--- being pulled under a table, apparently. Having the back of your head smacked against a very hard section of wooden floor is not something he would recommend. The nape of his neck is being held rather gruffly; the only thing Regulus can make out is a full head of jet black hair and a feather tickling his nose. He feels the rather uncomfortable presence of hot alcohol-ridden breath on his face, the underside of a table not exactly the ideal place for two people to be.

“…you’re not Remus.”

The sod. Regulus rips off his mask in agitation.

“Knew it.” Regulus glares at his brother, who is grinning widely beneath his insanely oversized hat, still holding him in a very inappropriate manner. It really is no wonder that people think they’re sleeping together when Sirius is the way he is. Ewgh.

“You knew you weren’t Remus? Well, I would hope so. I don’t think our dear mumsie would react well to having a homosexual werewolf for an heir.”

“Shut up. You know what I meant. By the way, could you please let go?”

“I---”

“And, what it Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

“What’s with the questions?”

“What’s with being an enormous wanker?”

“My Way, I suppose. My Way also happens to be genetic.”

“Smashing.” It is only now that Sirius lets go of Regulus, their obligatory amount of bickering salutations sufficiently achieved. Both brothers are hunched over, Sirius causing the table to creak slightly whenever his head comes in contact with the well polished wood. “…so, wait…Remus is here?”

“Well not here exactly, but in the general vicinity, yes. The poor boy has a weak bladder, see, and he went off to find a bathroom. Seeing as he also has a small amount of willpower, he made me stay behind. I don’t know what his problem is. This event is practically an orgy. I mean, christ, I’ve had to shoo away three different pairings from this hiding spot in the last forty minutes. A viable brothel, I tell you! Though the first girl had amazing tits. Damn, sometimes I wish I was still into that sort of thing. Ah well…”

“…uh-huh.”

Regulus gropes for an appropriate response to all of this, half-pissed off that Sirius made a fool out of him only to come to the gala, but mostly baffled. Why he would set foot here again? Something has the older boy riled up, and Regulus suspects the manic adrenaline rush that being back here must be causing it. His lips are loose, his regular fidgets have increased a hundred fold, and furthermore he’s rather tipsy.

“Well, listen Reggie. I think I am going to help myself to some food…a dance…and possibly some Moony-Sex if I can find the bastard. But I’ll see you later, alright?”

And with that, Sirius is gone and Regulus remains.

Like always.

*****

Narcissa has spent the last three hours being whirled from one lavishly dressed man to the next, each looking even more voracious than the last. She has been through exactly forty one partners, stepped on by about thirty eight pairs of feet, and feigned interest in forty conversations and forty masked faces. But this one, finally this one, she wants to hear, needs to hear. And staring at him is enough to kill her. Just killher.

Four minutes until midnight. FOUR MINUTES.

She can keep him for four minutes. She can hold him for just a little longer without collapsing in ecstasy. Oh yes, she can do that. By the fucking fates, she can absolutely wait four minutes for a snog!

And yet she cannot read his face. She wants desperately to know what he is feeling at this moment, reach right past the emotions he wears along with his mask and find something in him that she can connect to, find something to touch and twist until he aches from her scent.

His fingers are wrapped in hers, and through the satin of her gloves she feels the heat of his palms, the heat that rises and falls with their steps and rises like fire up her arm, tingling and sparkling in her shoulders until she has no choice but to draw closer and glide along on his support. She is ever aware of the hand resting lightly on her hip, the sharp contrast in temperature when their eyes momentarily meet, the place where occasionally their pelvises collide and she tries very hard not to turn a bright shade of crimson.

They are somewhere else right now, or at least she is, and the only thing remotely better than all of this physical contact would be knowing he felt the same way too, or wanted to feel this way, or perhaps felt the slightest tingle of something, anything, in their touches.

But his eyes are telling a different story and she tries to hide a sigh, desperately attempting to quench the little voices in her ears that plead with her to stop before she leads herself off a great chasm into emotional apocalyptica again.

“You…um…you dance very well.” He tries to be eloquent, but she is aware that he has figured out her identity, which can only lead to sudden death or sudden orgasm. She is actually surprised that after the earlier spectacle he has not just taken out the knife and slit her throat on the dance floor, and then given a great shout of triumph as he runs off to impregnate Angelique multiple times.

“So do you.” She gives him a quick and tentative smile, and he returns the favor, though it is a cold expression half-hidden by regret. He glances toward the guests around them and then back to her, and she can already tell he is looking for a way out, his eyes lighting up when he spies his excuse.

They spin for a moment, and she immediately finds the source of his half-veiled delight. Angelique Bovarie. The charming and witty little countess from Manor Blanc.

Well, shit.

Angelique and Lucius have been the resident will-these-two-provide-common-entertainment-whilst-flouting-the-wishes-of-their-parents-and-denying-the-privilege-of-their-fiancees couple of the year. Angelique was not a particularly attractive girl, but her reputation as a rich boy bed warmer was more than well-known among the circle of recent legal male adults in the region. She’d accompanied Lucius to more than one function in which Narcissa was also in attendance, shocking the public by flaunting the breaking of one of society’s most common rules: if you have a fiancée, she’s always your date. Lucius is not much of a rebel, but he is a self-righteous bastard, which is probably the only reason he went through with it.

Narcissa grits her teeth and spins once more, glancing up at her partner and nearly groaning aloud when she sees he is smiling at Angelique.

But she isn’t giving this one up without a fight.

“May I have the pleasure of your company for the next number as well?” She intones slightly, leaning forward and giving Lucius one of her finest smiles.

He bites back his immediate response and stutters a bit, releasing her hand and reaching instead for the dance card in his pocket. “Er, I believe I already have a partner for that one…but, uh…”

She glances at the clock. Three minutes. Okay, fine. You win. And she loses. As usual.

“That’s fine.” She pulls away as well, and when their fingers have disconnected and his hand is removed from her waist, her feet finally hit the ground, and the dream that had begun to descend when his eyes wandered has landed with a great thud. “Thank you for the dance.” She bows slightly as a new waltz begins, retreating to the rest of the crowd where an eager looking boy already awaits, extending a hand and giving it a kiss.

Three minutes. She can do it.

Over his shoulder, she watches Lucius approaching Angelique, her laughter silent and her eyes bright and open when he reaches for her fingers and presses them to his shoulder. There immediately is the expression she had missed when that had been her hand, her waist. She pretends for a moment he is looking at her instead of Angelique, cherishing Narcissa instead of the great blonde and bouncing wonder. Oh yes, he’s a git. He’s a huge ass and he’s a git and she hates him and hates him and hates him but oh, no. She can’t possibly hate him. He did dance with her. That has to mean something.

But no, she is lost to him. Lost like everything else when he has taken Angelique’s hand.

It does not matter that in the end Narcissa must win. It does not matter that someday it will be her walking to the altar where he stands, his ring on her finger. It won’t matter when it’s someone else’s company he cherishes, someone else’s dreams he fulfills until the day his chains are rattled and he drudges silently to his pulpit of doom. It is no victory if he comes unwillingly.

Three minutes. She can do this.

…

Severus chews thoughtlessly on the edge of his thumb, watches the light pass through her and lie across her and hover gently above her, playing with the expression on her face and illuminating the elegant lines of tapered hands and bared shoulders and the hints of breasts that rise with her breath.

For one moment, that in which he breathes and stares and quietly takes her in, she is radiance.

“We’re out of the wine.” She says, turning to him and producing two new bottles in her hands, grinning devilishly. “How about some vodka?”

“I think if you filch one more thing from an elf, they’ll turn on you with Lucius’ cane.”

“That thing? I’ve fought off worse.”

He is having a hard time not participating in this conversation. Nothing has quite come this easily. “Such as what?”

“Rodolphus’ dick for one.” She fixes him with a wily smile, and then begins to snort.

Severus smiles back, but he is not the type of person to burst out into snorts and/or giggles on command. Or even sporadically. Not even in complete drunken stupors. And he wonders about the seriousness between Rodolphus and Bellatrix even now, and thus he can only give her a small grin and nod his head.

“I’ll take that.” He reaches for the vodka and refills his glass. She extends a few fingers and he fulfills her invitation by filling her goblet as well.

Bellatrix falls back onto the couch and fixes him with a pointed stare, a finger raised at the edge of her glass as she takes a sip, never removing her eyes from his gaze.

“Are you drunk yet?” She asks innocently, though her eyes tell a different tale. Nothing is innocent in her eyes.

“That depends on your definition.”

“Drunk enough to go dance naked in the fountain?”

“If we kept our masks on, I think so.”

“Not drunk enough then.”

But he doesn’t have enough time to ask to hear something he doesn’t know, for at that very moment a woman has burst in the door and is sprawling to the floor in a heap of lavender petticoats and very frilly sleeves.

“I hafta…izzit time yet…you got dirt right there…ohmygodSeverus you look like my mother.”

Not a woman.

Instead, Rabastan Lestrange.

Which is close enough.

Bellatrix gets to her feet, raising a disgusted but still-amused eyebrow at the guest now lying inebriated on the floor, drooling slightly on the carpet.

“In a way, I’m not at all surprised.” She gives the body a light kick with her toe. “But whose dress is it?”

“Probably his own.” Severus rolls his eyes, but gives the scene an honest appraisal. “Well, I don’t know if we should leave him there or not…”

“If anyone comes in and sees him like this, they’re probably going to think we tried to rape him.” She glances at Severus, raising an eyebrow. “Well actually, they’d only think you were trying to rape him, since I really can’t--”

“Alright, no biological explanation needed.” He shakes his head and pulls on Rabastan’s arm, managing to drag him halfway to the couch by the time Bellatrix joins in and helps lug him up onto it. They drop him and their eyes meet and their hands brush and their insides collide and she laughs.

He gives her another small smile, but he is coming to realize that she likes these kinds of smiles best of all, that these are the ones she expects of him and the ones she enjoys more than the wide grins of eager boys and the sly smiles of knowing men. He can’t say his are honest smiles, since if he wasn’t trying so hard his smile would be bursting right off his face, but to her they are something like honesty, like truth, like something he imagines her looking for over the years.

He is glad somehow that they are pleasing to her.

And yet he is almost afraid. Afraid of what will happen should he spend more time with her tonight, afraid of the consequences his soul will suffer when she walks away and he realizes he does not want her to leave. Men spend most of their early lives lusting for the likes of Bellatrix Black. Severus knows should he join the legions he would be playing a more dangerous version of the game, one in which simple sexual attraction has turned to a lethal injection of love.

And then there is no return.

“Ungh…” Rabastan rolls over, staring groggily from Severus to Bellatrix and then swiping weakly at the air. His eyes fall on Bellatrix again and widen with recognition. “Bella, oh…Roddie’s been lookin’ for you…and, agh YES--” He spots the vodka and desperately gropes for it, Severus finally taking pity and handing it to him. Rabastan takes an unnaturally long swig and sets it down, suddenly looking very satisfied with himself. “Better.”

Bellatrix raises an eyebrow. Severus watches her out of the corner of his eye, watches the way she rests a hand on her collarbone, thin arm curving down to her elbow and pressing gently on the swell of her breast, rising slowly with her steady breath. Oh bugger…

“What does Rodolphus want me for?” She asks, although she seems to already anticipate a drunken and useless answer.

“Mmf, snog.” Rabastan says, running a finger across his bodice. “Nice lace on this, nng right…”

She lets out a small gasp, eyes falling on the grandfather clock across the ballroom. “Shit! It’s almost midnight! Everyone’s going to try and find us and most of them want a--wait.” She looks down at Rabastan, her irises suddenly sparkling. “We’ll just give him my mask and shove him back out there.”

“Who? Rabastan?” He raises an eyebrow, staring down at the inebriated man beneath them. “But...he sounds like a man.”

Bellatrix shrugs and points her wand at Rabastan’s throat and whispers, a periwinkle jet of light suddenly illuminating her victim’s face. “Problem solved.” She looks back up at Severus, grinning proudly.

“I like…more drink…mmmmfgghhh.” Rabastan mutters, although his voice has now been replaced by that of a young woman.

Severus’ smile widens for a moment. She’s rather brilliant.

“Oh, but shit. His dress.” He points from the lavender one on Rabastan to the cream one Bellatrix still sports.

She laughs, shrugging. “No one will notice. Everyone’s so drunk or distracted that he could walk in naked and no one would notice, except maybe someone would try to mount him, seeing as everyone’s horny as hell.” She pulls on Rabastan’s hair, considers the possibilities, and then jinxes it black. “It’s a good thing his hair is long. I hate Elongating Charms.” At this, a very wicked grin has spread across her face, and it remains as they pull Rabastan to his feet, now babbling in feminine tones about the man in the ceiling and the whatshisname janitor who has a rabbit.

“Ready Rab?” He shoves him toward the door. “Think vagina.”

Bellatrix smiles over her shoulder, giving him one last glance of her dark eyes and scarlet lips before she and Rabastan disappear into the masses of silk and satin outside the door.

Severus falls back into the chair, and having nothing better to do, allows himself one moment’s imaginings of Bella in a gold thong, prancing at the end of the bed and--

Whoa boy, enough of that!

…

She hovers tentatively at the edge of the dance floor, her last dance partner having abandoned her in the hopes of getting her a champagne, and she is trying very hard to find a less obvious spot to be so as to avoid him on his return. Her target of action still remains spinning on the floor with Angelique, Obstacle #1, and she bites the inside of her cheek in vain, awaiting the change in step that will finally separate the two and leave him available for claims.

And then her partner is back, two flutes of champagne in hand. Oh bugger.

“Midnight is only a few minutes away.” He says brusquely, as though to shove it all in her face at once. She imagines that he is expecting something of a reward as soon as the chimes go off, but she dismisses him with a cold glare and downs her champagne, handing it back to him.

“I hope you can find someone on time.” She shoots back, waiting for him to take the glass from her extended hand before turning on her heel and heading farther into the crowd.

The dance has become a faster waltz, and oh godly of godliest gods Angelique is gone!

She practically sprints across the floor in order to reach his side, lifting up the hem of her skirts and doubtless revealing her petticoat to nearly everyone in the surrounding vicinity. He sees her approach and balks, backing into the crowd and getting as far from the dance floor as he possibly can before running into the back of Rodolphus Lestrange, who turns and reveals an angst-ridden expression.

“Lucius, have you seen Bella anywhere?”

“Er, no.” He sidesteps and retreats behind Rodolphus’ hulking form, disappearing somewhere near the refreshments.

She follows the chase, in pursuit of her prey like a mad-eyed huntress. Angelique be damned, Druella Black be damned, everyone who has told her to abandon this insane affection of hers be damned. She hopes they are all watching when he receives the kiss, when he is helpless to refuse it. When he realizes he does want this after all.

Narcissa is just about to reach for his arm, seeing his face turning quickly before he reaches the other side of the room, when she is knocked into the nearest pillar by none other than her disguise-less sister.

“Oh shit, sorry.” Comes the quick apology just as she is running in the other direction, but Narcissa frowns.

“Bella? Where’s your mask?”

“Hmm, I must have lost it.” Bellatrix turns and gives her an oddly small smile, nothing like her usual wide grin of guileless expression. This can only mean one of two things: she has just gotten some very well-deserved sex, or she is involved in a plot to receive some very well-deserved sex. Or perhaps she is simply happy, which would be rare for Bellatrix. Bellatrix is never really happy, after all. Narcissa knows her sister too well to read joy in the dark eyes that always sparkle but never shine.

But tonight they are shining, oddly.

“Well, you ought to find it. It’s not allowed.” She attempts to push past her, suddenly losing sight of the golden hair and nearly crying out in anguish.

Bellatrix has noticed her squirming and her smiles widens back to its usual length and attitude. “Who are you looking for?”

“Me?” Narcissa laughs nervously, freezing against her sister’s elbow. “No one. Just checking the clock.”

“You’re Lady Spring and there’s about a dozen men following you around for a dance in a minute or so. Why the epic chase around the refreshments?”

Narcissa bites her lip and attempts to calm herself, giving her sister an icy glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes wander back onto the crowd. Oh bugger, where is he?

“Right. You’re just scoping out the champagne. My mistake.” Bellatrix shrugs casually, but she gives her little sister a wink just the same. “I’m off to find a snogging partner. Don’t mind me.”

“Put your mask on.” Narcissa snaps, and almost wants to cry when she can no longer see the black velvet and the white-gold hair laying against it, not even retreating into the crowd.

“Yes, fine, mother.” Bella is rolling her eyes and moving toward the edge of the mass of people. “He’s over there, by the way.” She adds quickly, nodding towards the far end of the room where Narcissa now turns, suddenly making out his form amongst a group of girls.

“I…” She turns back to her sister, unable to come up with an appropriate response. Not a thanks, or a scolding, but possibly a smile? No, never mind. Just a quick nod.

“Just watch out.” Bellatrix warns, “He has his harem with him. If you end up with your heart broken, stay the hell away from me about it.”

Narcissa ignores the comment, and strides across the floor. The clock is nearing its familiar stoppage on the twelve. Couples are stopping in their dance and counting down the seconds aloud, grinning excitedly at one another whilst others around them rush for each other, grabbing for the partner they have been vying for all night. Names are yelled across the floor and there are squeals of delight at the success of the guesser, embraces beginning before the actual kissing is allowed.

Twenty seconds.

And there he is.

Eighteen seconds.

She takes a breath.

Seventeen seconds.

“Lucius?”

…

Rabastan make his drunken way to Rodolphus’ back side, teetering slightly on the turn. Where the fuck is he? And why is everyone blue?

Ah, there’s the boy. The boy he is supposed to dance with. He’s a pretty girl, mmmfff…monkey monkey monkey duck.

He reaches up and gives his brother a light tap on the shoulder, and Rodolphus swings around, eyes wide.

“Mmf, dance?” Rabastan asks loudly, and to anyone in the general vicinity it is the voice of a twenty-something woman, looking for love. To him it is oh there’s a--MUST PUKE.

Rodolphus’ face lights up as he unknowingly takes his brother’s waist. “I knew you’d come back around in time, Bella.”

“Yes, nng, vagina.” Where is the bathroom? Where is the fuzzy rabbit? Where is the sherry he downed an hour ago?

Where the fuck is his left hand? And why does everything smell like strawberries and squirrels?

Headache.

…

He turns and his eyes widen for a moment. She perceives the shock in them, the fear in them, almost…perhaps…the hatred in them. Honesty beholds her for a moment, rocks her gently and then slams her down.

“Lucius!” A hand extends for his arm, and Narcissa turns to find her competition. Angelique pulls closer to Lucius, leaning in and smiling suggestively. “You were going to dance with me, remember?”

He nods breathlessly and Narcissa is glad she can retreat backwards now, unseen even to Angelique, who in this moment has eyes only for her blonde prince. She can pretend she is not here while she realizes her mistake, realizes what an idiot she has been to have taken it this far, come this close to it without seeing how obvious her foolishness has always been.

And yet when Angelique pulls him away, her hand shoots out and takes his arm, causing him to turn suddenly and give her a confused glance.

“Lucius, I…”

The chimes begin and the screams of glee start up as well. Angelique is reaching up, hand cupping his cheek as the smile spreads across her face. He is still looking at Narcissa, his eyes are still locked with hers, his mouth slightly open as though the words rest on the tip of his tongue, trickling out before he can retrieve them. Angelique tilts his head toward her, and yet he still stares at Narcissa. Her hand is still clenched tightly on his arm, her eyes are still pleading.

Don’t let me go yet.

Three chimes have gone by, and Angelique is leaning towards him and reaching up. And their lips meet.

Behind Narcissa, the girls who had previously been squealing over Lucius have all been snatched up by a new partner, each one giggling out a name and then being smothered in joy while their rightly-guessed mate plants a kiss on their mouth. All around the orgy has begun. Some of those not already engaged in a sexual liaison in the coatroom have begun their own campaign for rude public spectacles, groping for a window and pulling out of the crowd while eating face like they’re at a buffet.

And still she holds his arm. Angelique possesses him entirely except for that one part of him Narcissa still touches. She is not thinking about reactions or reprisals or what comes next. She knows only that he saw her even when Angelique’s power was full blooming over him. He saw her unlike ever before…he honestly and utterly saw her.

His eyes close suddenly, and she releases him, stepping backwards into the teeming mass of joyous face eating orgies. She is the swan among the pigeons, the rose left out in the snow. She waits for a moment, watching that kiss, that final kiss from which she wonders if he can return, and then she turns. She walks through the cheering and the squealing and the graphic noises of snogs and gropes, and she is blind and deaf to it all. She sees only the cold future ahead.

As she walks away, she does not see him pull away and look back for her, saying her name and wiping his lips. He says it again, but she is gone.

…

She hears the chimes and she gives the ballroom a quick glance, imagining throngs of drooling men with outstretched hands groping for her limbs. But everyone seems thoroughly distracted by the prospect of above-the-corset action with their partners, couples intertwining and intermingling and just eating face like there’s no tomorrow, and also no problem with incest. She can point out at least four pairings who she knows for a fact are first cousins. And of course Rabastan is probably snogging the unknowing Rodolphus, which would just beyond satisfying…

She’s surprised at herself tonight. She, Bellatrix Lestrange, reputed bad girl of the all the bad girls, is without a snog at midnight. Last year she attempted to kiss three men at the same time, which ended up with one being knocked in the face by an elbow and the other two questioning their sexual preferences by the end of the evening. How is she not completely wasted by now, attempting to see how many men she can snog whilst two others climb under her dress and tickle her thighs?

At least that was the plan as of a few hours ago.

But since then she has spent her evening in a drawing room, and she is looking for that same drawing room, and she is entering that same room. And to her disappointment, it’s empty.

“Severus?” His name is strangely familiar; it’s as though she’s been saying it all her life, but she knows she barely spoke it at school and has only now been given the opportunity to address him as such to his face.

He is suddenly behind her, lifting up his mask and giving her a curious stare, as though this is the last place he expected her to be right now. “It’s midnight.” He says quickly, and she nods. He’s handsome when the light hits him this way, when it finally falls on features he hides in shadow, his hair pulled back in the ponytail behind his head. He stares at her in a peculiar way and she wonders suddenly what he thinks of her, if he sees her like everyone else does, the prostitute with a billion galleon dowry. His eyes are dark and past her judgment, but something in them tells her he himself is incapable of judging her.

He starts to speak, giving her a cautious look, as though imagining her to run out of his sight at any moment. He stares at her as one would stare at the butterfly recently landed on their knee, soon to fly off into oblivion. “Rodolphus has been looking for you, he’s--”

She kisses him.

She just reaches up and lets the chimes drown out anything else, tasting him for the first time and feeling his hands, still shocked, fall naturally on her waist, one going to her back and pulling her in. He does not resist and she keeps giving and something clicks.

…

Immediately something feels utterly wrong, and Rodolphus pulls away and has to second-guess himself for a moment, wondering if he really wants to incur the wrath of a sexually aroused Bellatrix. And yet the chimes are still going and people are still screaming with glee, and his whole body is tense just from the thought of having kissed someone besides Bella. Bella has been looking for him all night. Bella is the girl he ogles, the girl he kisses, the girl he receives his sexual favors (well, most of them) from.

So more out of affection for her, he supposes, he takes off her mask.

And screams like a girl.

Rabastan, his female-voiced, female-dressed, and thoroughly intoxicated brother stares drunkenly back at him, grinning widely.

“JesusbuggerfuckyoufuckingidiotWHERE-IS-SHE--”

Besides the immediate shame of having just thoroughly kissed his brother in an obviously sexual manner, not to mention the throngs of people now turning as the last chime sounds and staring in confusion and sudden amusement at the situation, Rodolphus is filled with the need to kill something in a violent and unnaturally bloody way. Where the buggerfuck is Bella and why the fuck am I kissing my brother?

He stares past the laughing faces, the shocked faces, faces who now have cemented in their minds that not only is Rodolphus Lestrange a homosexual, but also an incest-craving pervert. He searches desperately for her, imagining her rushing to his side later, apologizing for not finding him, wanting the kiss she has saved for his lips. Among the masses on the ballroom floor there are only those who are masked and those who are laughing at him, and none of them are her.

And then…

His eyes have suddenly found the darker corner of the ballroom, the light of one of the drawing room’s illuminating the silhouette…

It is unmistakably her, her mask being gone and her hair falling back over the gowns of Lady Winter. He nearly dies at the sheer magnitude that kiss has on him even here, the way her hands fold gently behind the back of her partner, the force between them suddenly. Their masks are both off and he recognizes the other culprit, or perhaps the only true criminal in this act. He hates him immediately. He loathes him, actually. Should he die the next day, especially at the hands of Rodolphus himself, cruel and triumphant laughter would follow.

But now there is no time to laugh, or even to attempt murder and smile wickedly about it. There is only the cold sense of defeat and the knowledge that her lips found someone else’s tonight, and the strange sight of a kiss like that one, one that redefines something deep and promising about the human spirit. She wanted that and she needed that and something about it makes it seem as though she started it.

Rodolphus slams his brother to the ground and gives him a good kick in the side. He needs some fresh air before he breaks Rab’s neck as well.

As he leaves, the two remain in supposed privacy and enveloped in the sense of the other, the chimes ending and the mirth reborn and the voices rising once more to a raucous cheer. And on they go, floating to the ceiling and onward into the night.

…

“That’s the end of that, I suppose,” Remus says offhandedly and looks to Sirius. “-right?”

There is no response, no eye contact, only the keen look of a wolf on the hunt. Remus recognizes it and knows every aspect of it and hates it and embraces it all the same because it’s his own. And now it is Sirius’, a wild animal ready to pounce at any provocation. Ears perked, pupils the size of pinpricks, nostrils flared, the rest of the world forgotten for a brief moment. The sheer and unmistakable smell of hatred, rage, fear exudes from his pores, his mouth, his fists…

A glint of white and gold on the other end of the ballroom catches Remus’ eye and he is reminded of snow and calm. This is where Sirius is looking, and it’s his mother. Remus has never seen her before but he knows. He knows of the hell Sirius was surrounded by, forever warped by this one individual. He remembers the fist fights and hurtful words and the utterly desperate looks. Stories of every bruise and emotional scar, every prejudice, insult, undeserved punishment. The things that make Remus’ stomach turn just thinking about it.

This is only person to ever succeed in breaking his spirit. She is his creator…and she’s beautiful.

Everything about her makes Remus want to believe she is good. She reminds him of his own mother, convivial and warm, smelling of cooking and bath salts. Remus imagines her voice is relaxing and melodic, the kind that sends your head buzzing and coaxes you to sleep on a restless night. Gentle hands that stroke and soothe and comfort. Her persona welcoming, her eyes gentle…but she can’t be.

And she isn’t, Remus resolves.

“Sirius.” He doesn’t move, eyes still welded to the spot where his mother stands, even if she isn’t looking at them. “Sirius,” Remus repeats, grabbing his wrist firmly. “Let’s go.”

It takes another moment, the black haired boy struggling under the influence of pure revulsion and animal instinct. He looks at Remus as though he has just woken up from a nightmare.

“Well, that was weird.” And then he is Sirius again. Compassionate, loyal Sirius. The Sirius who covers up weakness with humor. Remus tugs at his arm slightly and tells him,

“It’s over.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sirius smiles in a melancholy manner, listening to the sounds of the room emptying and his own thoughts. This will always be a part of him. It’s a futile attempt at madness, at individuality. The higher society will remain, regardless of the amount of struggling he does, how much he hates it. So he scowls and hates himself for a moment.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” He tells Remus, pulling out his wand again and trying to forget. As he feels the familiar, unpleasant yet relieving feeling of apparition, he knows that he never will.

Lex, you have my permission to edit to your heart's content. And bitch to me later. Because I love you, again.