Rave Radio: Offline (0/0)
Email: Password:
Archives
June 2018 (1)
January 2018 (1)
May 2017 (1)
April 2015 (1)
March 2015 (1)
October 2013 (1)
December 2012 (2)
September 2012 (1)
August 2012 (1)
July 2012 (1)
June 2012 (2)
May 2012 (2)
April 2012 (2)
February 2012 (2)
January 2012 (4)
December 2011 (3)
November 2011 (1)
October 2011 (2)
September 2011 (3)
August 2011 (3)
July 2011 (2)
June 2011 (3)
May 2011 (2)
April 2011 (1)
March 2011 (2)
February 2011 (4)
January 2011 (1)
December 2010 (3)
November 2010 (4)
October 2010 (1)
September 2010 (1)
August 2010 (1)
July 2010 (3)
June 2010 (7)
May 2010 (2)
April 2010 (4)
March 2010 (8)
February 2010 (4)
January 2010 (4)
December 2009 (6)
November 2009 (9)
October 2009 (6)
September 2009 (8)
August 2009 (4)
July 2009 (4)
June 2009 (11)
May 2009 (13)
April 2009 (11)
March 2009 (7)
February 2009 (9)
January 2009 (8)
December 2008 (17)
November 2008 (14)
October 2008 (16)
September 2008 (5)
August 2008 (6)
July 2008 (10)
June 2008 (6)
May 2008 (17)
April 2008 (17)
March 2008 (24)
February 2008 (17)
January 2008 (13)
December 2007 (12)
November 2007 (25)
October 2007 (13)
September 2007 (14)
August 2007 (33)
July 2007 (11)
June 2007 (11)
May 2007 (26)
April 2007 (15)
March 2007 (22)
February 2007 (19)
January 2007 (20)
December 2006 (28)
November 2006 (23)
October 2006 (21)
September 2006 (20)
August 2006 (29)
July 2006 (10)
June 2006 (15)
May 2006 (14)
April 2006 (10)
March 2006 (10)
February 2006 (11)
January 2006 (18)
December 2005 (10)
November 2005 (14)
October 2005 (16)
September 2005 (12)
August 2005 (20)
July 2005 (8)
June 2005 (18)
May 2005 (29)
April 2005 (39)
March 2005 (8)
February 2005 (10)
January 2005 (9)
December 2004 (4)
November 2004 (2)
October 2004 (2)
September 2004 (1)
July 2004 (2)
May 2004 (4)
April 2004 (1)
February 2004 (3)
January 2004 (5)
December 2003 (2)
November 2003 (3)
October 2003 (3)
September 2003 (2)
August 2003 (2)
Tag Cloud
 (400), Djinthebox (22), Trance (18), Dj In The Box (16), Rave (14), Dj In The Box! (11), Podcast (10), 2009 (8), Music (4), Inthebox (3), After (3), Techno (3), Black Magik (2), Saphir (2), Lantreh (2), "dj In The Box!" (2), Stylised Mannequin (2), Muzik4machines (2), Deejay (2), House (2), Love (2), Way Too Deep (1), Harajuku Québec (1), Sl20 (1), . (1)
» thehemeraproject on Sat Feb 12, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:People. Raves. Death. Badly structured, full of ideas.
Posted On:2005-02-12 00:00:00
Posted By:» thehemeraproject
People these days...they work, study all week, then they stop everything (actually, they stop by themselves), and then they go out to realease all this energy that was pushed back down, deep in their souls. Most societies had their celebrations, their "out of time" events. A moment where normal life stops, and where you get closer from the essence of life. Raves are one form of it. In the western civilization, people go clubbing, take a drink, play video games, fuck, trash, listen to music, draw... The natives used to play music too, around a fire, I think it could be considered like the ancestor of the rave scene. It is a universal thing. In order to do what is right and to avoid what is wrong, people need to take a step backward from whatever reality they are in, and feel life in a pure way, whatever what "pure" might turn out to be. Pure energy. Fucking is one way, dancing your ass off is one too. What form, what method you use is only based on who you are, what you went through, and what you think is right for yourself. So from this perspective, there is no "right" or "wrong" way to live, how you spend your energy only concerns yourself. There's no way to justify yourself, because the only way to truly understand someone else's concept of living is to live it yourself, which might be impossible. For example, females will never fully understand mens, and vice versa. It is just impossible. The mere fact that living with a dick and living with a vagina changes a lot of things, different perceptions.

Working, studying is not living, it is only a survival thing, the need of money, the need of knowledge. Needs have to be satisfied, but true living comes where you don't need to satisfy these needs, when your mind is no longer limited by whatever your body wants. The soul, or whatever you might want to call it, is a prisonner of the body, the body is not your soul. So when you die, your soul still lives, but in a very different form. It's not because something can't be touched or can't be seen that it is not alive, it is only for the humans who have a very limited perception of reality. The fact that we only have a limited perception of reality explains why we cannot agree on what is it.

» Skunkington on Sun Feb 6, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:teh superbowl!!
Posted On:2005-02-06 00:00:00
Posted By:» Skunkington
WOOT GO PHiLLY!

» elixireleven on Sun Feb 6, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:Cities of the Dead
Posted On:2005-02-06 00:00:00
Posted By:» elixireleven
Title: Cities of the Dead
Author: Lucia di Medici
Summary: The war between light and dark urges steadily onwards in Britain, the Dark Lord is collecting strange and sinister creatures from around the globe to come to his aid. In an effort to lend relief to the side of the white, Auror-in-Training Hermione Granger has been sent to Louisiana to recruit the most powerful of the solitary creatures that dwell in the heart of New Orleans. Unfortunately, not all goes according to plan when the notorious Brat Prince of the Vampires refuses her and demands ‘a little drink’.
Pairing: Blaise/Hermione
Rating: PG13
Author’s Notes: If you follow the Vampire Chronicles or the Lives of the Mayfair Witches, you should know that this takes place just after “Blood Canticle”, approximately two years after Hogwarts has let out – I’m presuming both stories are within the same time frame. In any case, I’m picking up where Rice leaves off and trolling on from there. Only one thing left to say then, in the words of the deceased Patsy Blackwood, “Gloria!”

---
Cities of the Dead
---


Hermione Granger flew down Dauphine Street, her muggle shoes slapping hard against the cobblestone causing an uneven staccato to echo off the dimly lit shops and cafes. She couldn’t hear him behind her, but nonetheless she knew he was there – watching silently and biding his time.

Whichever official in the Ministry had approved this reconnaissance mission was a bloodthirsty fool. If she survived, she’d hunt him down and slaughter him as soon as she returned to England. Now, however, she was in desperate need of an authorized apparition point.

Skidding wildly, her trainers sliding against the rough stone, she tore around the corner of St. Louis Avenue. A few hundred yards down the narrow road she could make out the glinting lights in the hubbub of Bourbon Street. If she could toss herself into the crowd, perhaps she’d go relatively unnoticed. Her Auror instinct screamed the contrary, however.

Vampires were particularly good at hunting, she knew, even with her lungs screaming for air and her veins thrumming snake venom – that much logic was not lost on the nineteen year old witch. Why on earth Mad-Eye had thought it a brilliant idea to send a Junior Auror out to foreign soil was beyond her. Harry had never had to endure this kind of injustice – he was never threatened with the possibility of becoming an immortal’s breakfast.

No, Harry was landed with the comfortable and advanced warding classes, while her superiors plunked Hermione with the assignment directly. Supposedly, Shaklebolt and Moody had decided between themselves that sending the studious Granger into the field to attempt an alliance with the notorious Dark Prince of New Orleans would be a diplomatic move against Voldemort.

If she succeeded, not only would she survive to tell the tale, but the unquestionable strength of the immortal in question could be used to gain favour amongst the other vampires in North America.

Apparently, there were quite a few – but only three resided in the city built on top of a swamp, and Lioncourt was their sovereign and sire.

The stitch in her side searing and twisting painfully, the former Gryffindor chanced a glance over her shoulder. Sixty yards away, the eerily preternatural skin and lustrous blond hair of a slim man in clothing that was well-dated, was apparent in the dim lighting. He was walking slowly, his hands folded behind his lean frame with the lace ruffs of his collar dancing languidly in the warm October air.

In the flicker of the gas lamps, Hermione could make out the barest hint of a red-mouthed smile. She gasped, and threw herself the last few yards and into the fray of the Quarter at Halloween-time.

Pushing westwards against the crowd, the smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke, incense wafting out of metaphysical stores and the acrid stench of rampant, drunken tourists and Tulane students was overwhelming. Beneath it all, however, Hermione detected the subdued musty scent of the swamp – it hung in the air, romancing the night with its dark allure.

Despite the swarm of costumed people surrounding her, and the unpleasant top layer twanging nastily at her nostrils, Hermione found the musky, raw smell of the city enticing, dangerous almost, and fuelled by adrenaline and the constant flow of spirits from the merchants and bars lining the narrow strip of cement and brightly coloured buildings.

Overhead, figures decorated lavishly in disguises of all styles and eras, draped themselves from the wrought iron balconies; some dancing, others bellowing at their friends and strangers alike on the street below. The blare of jazz music and poorly-sung karaoke choked the night sky, and all around her, the crowd surged.

Several teenagers clad mostly in black vinyl, one wearing a hooded cape and brandishing a bottle of vibrant cinnabar green liquid, were cajoling nearby. Odd behaviour for Goths, but Hermione didn’t think twice about ducking into the alcove just behind them. Jostled by the passing throng as she assessed the area, she noted that the alcove in fact, was an entry into a courtyard where, directly in the middle, a stone fountain stood bubbling blue-green water and was gradually becoming overrun with creeping myrtle.

Sensing the vampire closing the gap, Hermione didn’t waste time extracting her wand from the waistband of her frayed and dirtied jeans, quickly cast an unlocking charm against the thick padlock that held the gate together, and burst through into the courtyard garden.

Exhausted, winded, and filthy, Hermione doubled over with her hands on her knees. The flagstones swam before her eyes, their pale pink and gold flecks blurring together as she wheezed.

She was done for.

Bearing that though in mind, she slumped down onto her haunches, wheezing erratically, and fell back with a dull thump against the cool stone.

“Well, Granger, I would have thought to expect a little better from you. Really, running for your life like a scared muggle child – Some would think this behaviour most unseemly of a Gryffindor.”

Hermione froze, placing the owner of the voice instantly.

“Zabini,” she said as evenly as she could, tracing his low murmur to a shaded corner by the south wall of the garden.

Leaning against the sloping trunk of an old cypress tree, the former Slytherin looked mildly amused as he surveyed her beneath a straw fedora. The seersucker suit he wore was immaculate, free of any wrinkles and complimented by a blood red tie cinched loosely around his neck. He stood out elegantly against the deep sombre hues of the night blooming jasmine, which crawled up the far wall and tangled around the old tree.

Involuntarily, Hermione swallowed hard, causing Blaise to cock his head, veiling half of his face, and smirked at her.

“In the milk and sugar, kitten,” he rumbled.

“I thought you were dispatched to Asia,” she blurted, feeling her face get hot.

Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be privy to that information, being a junior at the Ministry with very few contacts. The fact that she had followed the paper-trail left by many of the Slytherins after school had let out didn’t help the fact – but Zabini in particular…

“Funny you should mention that, Granger,” he said, pushing himself off the tree and strolling towards the fountain. “It appears that you’ve been trailing me much as I have been trailing you. Though doubtless for different reasons.” He grinned, and Hermione felt herself shrink against the flagstone path.

“I was dispatched from Kyoto less than a week ago when an urgent request came in,” he continued. “Apparently, Dumbledore was adamant that you not be left to your own devices in the field – said you were capable of creating more trouble than five Weasleys and Potter put together. I see that he was right.”

Hermione stared at the Italian dumbfounded. Casually, Zabini placed a foot against the broad rim of the fountain and leaned on his knee. The simple gesture caused the light fabric to pull taut against the back of his thighs, as he turned to face the spitting statue in the middle of the water.

Hermione found herself tracing the firm contour of his legs and arse, where the hem of the pale cotton jacket rode up.

Eyes wide, she found herself recalling the first weeks of Auror training where the new prospectives had teamed up for conflict instruction. She’s been paired with Zabini, having switched from the Muggle Liaisons department and into preliminary Auror training when the threat of Voldemort had become too great. Apparently, the former Slytherin had a vendetta or two to settle with the Dark Lord, after his best friend had been murdered shortly after school let out. From what she understood, he and Theodore Nott had known each other since their infancy – and Blaise had taken his death rather badly.

Nonetheless, for Hermione the trouble had started with hand-to-hand combatative techniques. She’d never been particularly invasive as a student, in fact, she quite liked respecting the personal space of other people. That had changed drastically, however, when one day they were practicing manual disarming techniques, and she found herself pinned beneath the Italian and unable to move an inch.

He was surprisingly strong for someone with such a lean frame.

Hermione shivered, it had been quite disarming, that was certain – Though perhaps not in the way her instructors had intended.

“I hate to break your reverie Granger, but I need to debrief you,” Zabini muttered dryly, still following the flowing water with his indigo eyes.

Hermione blinked, stunned at the perversity of her own mind when he rolled the word “de-brief” over his tongue. Mentally, she slapped herself and stood up.

“Right,” she stated, and flicked her wand creating a temporary ward around them in case anyone should overhear. Though with the drifting sounds of the French Quarter floating as heavily in the night air as the scent of jasmine, she doubted it would be possible. In any case, it was protocol. The last thing she needed was to have Zabini reporting to her superiors that not only had she successfully bungled the operation, but she didn’t use proper precaution when it was called for.

She paused to take a breath, and stilling her mind; she reached out with her consciousness. Her instincts, though not fully honed, told her the vampire was at least at a safe distance. In fact, she couldn’t detect him at all. The thought gave her a slight thrill.

“At nineteen hundred hours I made contact with the subject, Lestat de Lioncourt, one of three known immortals residing in the city of New Orleans,” she stated.

“What of the other two?” Blaise asked, not removing his eyes from the fountain.

“Tarquin Blackwood and Mona Mayfair are unaccounted for. It appears they have not been within the city for some time.”

“Go on.”

Hermione always found his mannerisms somewhat disconcerting; he just seemed so damned bored all the time. She sighed and ploughed onwards, “I proposed a temporary treatise with Lioncourt, as per the request of the English Ministry of Magic. I presented him with the documentation, and a verbal overview of our plea.” She faltered.

Blaise turned to peer at her with one eye below the brim of his hat, and Hermione felt herself shifting her weight between the balls of her feet against her will, her worn sneakers squelching uncomfortably.

“And?”

“The subject alleges he has no concerns with mortal fools; wizards, witches or otherwise,” she said in a rush.

“And then?” he prodded, after a pregnant pause.

Hermione fidgeted, losing a battle with her hands as they ensnared the hem of her tee-shirt and began twisting the fabric.

“He made a conciliatory offer.”

Blaise frowned, watching her intently.

Hermione sighed seeing his expression. “A snack,” she concluded dryly.

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up. “Direct, this bloke, isn’t he?”

“Well, not in so many words,” she added. “Lioncourt claims that his only dealings with the living are self-serving and essentially the only reason he’s still waking is for the reason that he can’t seem to escape his romantic infatuation with mortality.”

“Figures, we get a maudlin vampire to work with,” Zabini murmured. “How did you proceed, Granger?”

“I –” she sucked in a breath, automatically reaching for her throat.

Blaise’s blue eyes widened and he removed his foot from the fountain to advance on her.

“Let me see,” he said softly, reaching for her hand and drawing it away. Delicately, he tilted her head to the side, and with his fingers, brushed aside the wild mane of hair that had frizzed doubly in the humidity.

Hermione expelled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, as the pads of his tanned fingers brushed the sensitive skin over her carotid artery. Gently, he moved his hands around her neck, sliding a hand into her hair and drawing her chin to the right, exposing the other side of her throat.

Hermione found herself shivering despite the fact that is was a warm night.

“Did he bite you?” Blaise asked softly, not releasing her from his tender grasp.

“No, I don’t think so. He’s extremely fast, however. One moment he was yards away, and the next he was directly behind me. It was like apparition, only I’m certain he actually moved –”

The Italian’s brows furrowed pensively, a small frown creasing his features. His fingers rubbed gently at her neck, Hermione made a mental note that they felt quite comfortable right where they were.

“Are you ok, Granger?” he asked quietly.

Watching his impossibly full lips form the words, and sensing the soft expulsion of warm breath against her cheeks, Hermione forgot momentarily that she was supposedly running for her life. Without thinking, she sighed and nuzzled the cupped palm of his hand.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” she murmured, her eyes flickering shut.

The sweet, heavy smell of the night blooming jasmine and bougainvillea, mixed with the denser aroma of the city and mingled delicately with Blaise’s gentlemen’s cologne were near intoxicating. For a moment, Hermione thought herself a southern belle, wooed and swooning before the debonair libertine before her.

The thought, however, was broken with a low chuckle, and Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

“He must have taken a drink, then.” Blaise grinned. “Never thought you were the sentimental type, Granger. You wouldn’t be cooing if it weren’t for severe blood-loss.”

Hermione felt herself flush, and consequently, her temper bubbled. Gaping soundlessly, unable to form a coherent sentence that didn’t sound to her ears more than a stutter, Blaise merely chuckled harder and removed the hat from his head. With a curt bow, he intoned in a horribly garbled Cajun, “Et bien, chere, I had to pirout dat whole place looking for you. Allons dance before dat cooyon comes back wid an ahnvee for English sang, ain?”

Blaise tipped the hat back onto his curly raven hair, and folded his arms across his chest; the smallest of smirks gracing his features and his eyes charmed by the moonlight.

Hermione swallowed hard. In the pale glow of the waxing moon overhead, the contrast between Blaise’s dark skin and the pale cream of the seersucker made him look like a devil in angel’s clothing, like warm honey and café au lait. Shaking herself brusquely, she stepped backwards and folded her arms defiantly.

“How did you find me anyway?” she bit out. “The entire Quarter’s restricted access for apparition. The local mambos would raise a revolt if they knew of English Ministry interference –”

Blaise waved the question away languidly, still sporting that gorgeous half smile.

“Dumbledore contacted the reigning voodooienne, she was sceptical about it – but I managed to floo in through a backroom in Lafitte’s before she ushered me off – there’s a cleared apparition point not too far from here, but unfortunately, we have to reach the checkpoint without drawing too much attention to ourselves.”

“What about Lioncourt?” she said aghast. “We can’t just let him out of it!”

“Bugger him,” he muttered. “The mission has been compromised. We need to get you out of here.” He said brusquely.

“Now, as much as I enjoy our pithy banter, Granger, you really ought to work on your concealment and disguise tactics. Honestly,” he shook his head again, and raked his eyes over her petite form.

Hermione looked down at herself, a lump of bushy hair flopping listlessly into her field of vision. The trainers, jeans and white tee-shirt were badly worn down, a tear or two in the soft fabric bared two large patches of flesh, one on her upper thigh and another around her midsection. Apart from that, she was covered head to toe in smears of dirt from her hasty retreat.

Mortified, she looked away and mumbled feebly, “I had to evade capture as best I could.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, and reached out to tug at the hole in her shirt. “I don’t suppose that entailed jumping a few fences and crawling beneath a parked crawfish delivery truck, did it?” The smile in his voice was apparent.

Hermione’s head snapped around so fast she heard her neck pop audibly. “You were tailing me?” she hissed. “And you didn’t bother to help?”

Blaise shrugged and pulled his wand out from an inside pocket of the coat.

“At the time, it seemed best not to alert Lestat of a second Auror’s presence. Reinforcements, you know. Moreover, I quite like this style of Southern American fashion – it’s a right pain when it wrinkles, however.” He flashed a straight tooth smile and surveyed her thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, stand still would you?”

Hermione balked and took a step backwards; she was nearing the alcove through which she’d entered the courtyard. “Zabini, what are you doing?”

The feral grin he wore as he trained his wand on her was most unsettling. “Don’t move, Granger. I promise you’ll enjoy this. Lesson one in concealment and disguise training, always blend with your environment.” As an afterthought, he added, “And never dress like a tourist. You might as well sport a blinking sign that reads ‘Sucker’.”

Hermione recoiled, bumping against the south wall, she gasped. She was trapped with Zabini was about to curse, hex or jinx her, and there was a vampire after her blood. Feeling her panic beginning to rise, she flinched as Blaise threw his spell.

“Mutatio ornatus!”

Surprised by the warm tingling beginning in her feet, Hermione chanced a glance down. She certainly wasn’t in any pain, nor was the charm one she recognized. Rather, to her astonishment, a white shimmering glow was rising from her feet and over her legs, ascending rapidly and swirling around her light frame; covering her stomach, her chest, her shoulders, her neck and over her scalp. Amazed, she stared wide eyed down at herself.

In the place where her sweat-sodden and dirt-streaked clothes had been moments before, she found the garments shrinking, morphing and reforming themselves around her body.

“Nice bit of transfiguration, don’t you think?” Blaise beamed at his work.

As the fabric settled, Hermione gaped at herself. In the place of her well-beaten travel wear, was a light, slinky bronze dress, replete with sequins and tassels. The loose sleeveless top was cinched low on her hips, fluttering lightly in the breeze. With a start, she realized just how much skin she was exposing – from her shoulders and collar bone, where the dress pinched shut precariously over her shoulders. The skirt rode mid-way up her thighs, where a multitude of long, stingy tassels grazed the tops of her calves. The stockings had a seam running along the back, and on her feet, she realized with sudden horror, she wore three-inch Mary Jane wingtip heels, with a pale tan bit of leather attaching them around her ankles.

Blaise chuckled, “Mais, you look lovely poupée!”

Hermione mouthed soundlessly. Her shock was barely beginning to abate when a warm breeze picked up, brushing across the bare skin of her neck and lifting the silken fabric of the top – causing it to flutter daintily. Automatically, she reached for her hair – with a screech, she realized it wasn’t merely pinned up, but cropped short into a wavy bob.

“Zabini what did you do to my hair?” she bellowed, and Blaise merely grinned.

“Come along and look at yourself,” he said, taking her elbow gently and leading her over to a calm patch of water at the foot of the fountain. “Lioncourt will never recognize you, that I promise.”

“Is this reversible?” She teetered in her heels, unaccustomed to wearing shoes that were so impractical. The sudden motion made her realize something very distinct – one precious part of her undergarments was missing. Hermione was suddenly very aware of why fashionable women of the 1920’s w

» elixireleven on Sun Feb 6, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:Blood Magic (A Prelude to Slytherin Solidarity)
Posted On:2005-02-06 00:00:00
Posted By:» elixireleven
Blood Magic
A Prelude to Slytherin Solidarity
Summary:
Nine year olds Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini are the best of friends, practically neighbours and share a bond that no one else can imagine. The year is 1989, the summer has laid its humid blanket over the grounds of the Nott estate, and two boys are just mucking about in a manner most appropriate for their age – until they find themselves bonded in an ancient magic so powerful it holds firm even through death.
Category: Supernatural/Spiritual/Drama/Humour
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters
Author’s Notes: Nothing serious folks, I just wanted to step out of the impending sombreness of what’s to come in Slytherin Solidarity. So I thought I’d write a one-shot on the impromptu blood ritual mentioned early on in the Series. I think this constitutes PWP, just to be sure.

---
Blood Magic
A Prelude to Slytherin Solidarity

---


“This is disgusting,” Ted moaned, sprawled over the granite ledge of the portico, his skinny, freckly arms and legs dangling languidly in the fierce July heat.

Even in the shade of the looming Nott Manor, it was sweltering.

Blaise extracted an arm from his already dirty tee-shirt, and used the hem to mop at his sweaty forehead.

“Nott, why don’t you have a moat?”

Ted snorted, not opening his eyes, he replied, “Because father believes that keeping a colony of kelpies on our property would call for too much upkeep.”

Blaise groaned and slumped forwards against the grey rock of the railing. At least the stone was cooler than the humid air. Gratefully, the nine year old pressed his cheek against the flat surface and hummed in content.

“Wish we could use magic already,” Blaise said languidly, his cherubim features distorted somewhat from where his olive-skinned face pressed against the rail. “We could transfigure a cooking pot into a fountain.”

“Or I could conjure you into a fan,” Ted said, sitting up, with a mischievous grin spreading across his narrow features.

“You couldn’t transfigure a hair pin, even if you tried,” Blaise muttered, sticking out his tongue comically.

“Oh yeah? Bet I could! Bet I could do it faster than you too!” the ashen hair boy exclaimed. Well, it wasn’t so much ashen any more as it was cruelly bleached by the sun.

The young Italian sat up and pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at his friend he replied in a tone that he would later carry through life. “You can’t do anything faster than me, Theodore. Not even run!” Blaise bolted from the stair, cackling at the incensed expression on Ted’s face. He hated being called by his first name.

“Zabini, you great prat! Don’t call me that!” Ted shouted, leaping off the granite ledge and chasing after the black-haired-to-be-someday-wizard.

Blaise bolted down the long set of stairs leading to the gardens of the Nott estate. Blaise was tall for his age, and though his mother, aunt and grandmother kept feeding him continuously, his puppy fat had long since worn away – given the fact that most of what he consumed, he exerted later in these chases around the manor with his best friend.

The stringy wizard at his heels, Blaise leapt over several low hedges, two rows of rose bushes and was planning on making a spectacular dive over the marigolds, aiming for the maze, when over the chirping crickets and squawking garden gnomes, the shrill cry of Mrs. Nott rang out.

“Theodore Preston Nott!”

Blaise halted in his tracks. Ted, who had turned to look over his shoulder but had yet to stop running, crashed into Blaise at full force, and the pair went sprawling before the hydrangea.

Cackling gleefully, Blaise shoved Ted off him playfully. “Preston!” he howled, and doubled over in laughter on the earthen path that wove its way through the gardens.

“Shut up Blaise!” Ted scowled, rolling over and covering himself more thoroughly in the packed soil.

“THEODORE!” his mother shrieked from the portico. “Get up here this instant!”

“Oh hell,” Ted swore, bringing himself to his feet. Blaise, however, remained on the ground snickering into his fist.

“You too, Mr. Zabini! Don’t make me use your full name!” Mrs. Nott bellowed again, at least this time it sounded as if she was smiling.

Blaise stopped abruptly and stared dumbly at the sinewy, wan-faced boy beside him. “How did she know?”

Ted smirked and offered the Italian a hand up. “My mum,” he said with a distinctly haughty air, “knows everything about anything happening at anytime of the day, anywhere.”

“Cripes,” Blaise murmured as they headed back through the low rows of the garden. “She’s just like my Grandmother.”

“I’m telling you Blaisey, women have a sixth sense. Nutters, the lot of them,” Ted made a face. “Girls however –”

“Don’t go there,” Blaise scolded seriously. “Remember that time we got that Parkinson chit to eat slugs?”

“My sentiments exactly,” Ted responded with a grin. “Vile creatures they are.” Ted made a face, his freckled nose crinkling in disgust.

“Girls or slugs?” Blaise asked with feigned innocence.

The boys paused, a few feet beyond where Ted’s mother stood with her hands on her hips. “Both!” they cried together, laughing.

“Boys, really,” Ted’s mum scolded, a slight quirk to the corner of her mouth. “In three years you will both be singing a different tune altogether.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that it would be so soon Madam Nott,” Blaise said, folded his hands neatly behind his back and throwing an imperious look at his friend, who continued to stare at his mother with a dumbstruck expression. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Blaise couldn’t help but feel slightly cleverer when he could wield a tantalizing morsel of information over his best friend’s head. Ted, obviously, had not had “The Talk” yet.

“Madam?” Elspeth Nott quirked an eyebrow. “Blaise Zabini for as long as I’ve known you, you have never once referred to me as ‘Madam’ anything. Kindly restrain yourself from making me appear a harlot.” She smiled at the boy dotingly. The two children spent so much time carousing around the Nott estate that she’d grown rather fond of her son’s choice of companion, even if his family didn’t share the same… world view… as the Notts.

“What’s a harlot?” Ted muttered through the corner of his thin lips.

“Now, Theodore,” she said sternly, appraising her son, who cringed at the use of his first name in its entirety. “Your father and several of his associates are coming round for tea this afternoon. I believe they would appreciate it if you were to steer clear of their business, is that understood?”

“Yes mother,” Ted nodded solemnly, though he cast a glance at Blaise which suggested he planned on doing precisely the opposite.

“Theodore Preston!”

Ted cringed again, more visibly this time. Blaise bit his lower lip, suppressing a giggle.

Mrs. Nott wasn’t a very tall woman, in fact, she was rather petite, with delicate wrists and wispy honey blond hair that she kept pinned up demurely in a chignon. However, her demeanour sometimes could be frightening. Blaise thought at that very moment, with the woman at least six months pregnant with her third child, she was as imposing as a spiteful boggart hiding under the darkness of his bed – a boggart that only came out in the dead of the night and scared him witless. Blaise shuddered.

“You listen here, now, both of you! Today is an especially important day and neither of you will eavesdrop if you know what’s good for you. Theodore, your father’s colleagues will be arriving shortly. You two will remain outdoors and out of sight until they leave. When they do, and only when they do, I will fetch you to get scrubbed up for dinner – lest I shall inform both of your fathers of your misbehaviour. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

Blaise and Ted nodded emphatically.

“Now, you may go outside and play,” Mrs. Nott stated firmly and folded her arms across her swollen bosom.

Without dallying, both boys turned heel and scuttled purposefully out of sight and back into the vast gardens of the estate.

“What do you reckon?” Blaise whispered once they were out of earshot. Ted stood on his toes and tried to gaze furtively back into the doors of the rear parlour.

“What’s today’s date Blaise?” Ted asked, still searching intently, with his pale hazel eyes narrowed.

“The thirty first I think, why?”

Ted’s eyes widened as he regarded his friend, “Really? Blimey!”

“Shh!” Blaise hissed, and dragged the ashen haired boy behind a nearby topiary. “Why? What’s so important about today?”

Ted poked his head around the large, sculpted hedge and smirked.

“Figures,” he said slyly, while ignoring Blaise’s question. “Look who my father ‘colleagues’ are.”

Blaise poked his head round. Over the distance, the two boys could see the distinctive long, white-blond hair of a man that no one in the wizarding world could fail to recognize, except for perhaps the Italian wizard himself, having only moved to England when he was four and just barely out of nappies. Blaise’s parents didn’t mingle too much with the wizarding aristocracy, though the Zabini’s were an old Italian family, dating back to the beginning of the Renaissance, England didn’t seem to have the same romance that their native land possessed, and periodically, Blaise’s father made that fact abundantly clear.

The only reason they had moved, as far as Blaise knew, was for their only son to attend the most prestigious school of magic in Europe when he turned eleven. Being traditional in every respect of the word, keeping the family close by was essential in his father’s opinion.

“Who’s that bloke?” Blaise murmured secretively, sizing up the imposing blond man.

Ted scoffed, “‘That bloke’ is one of the Dark Lord’s former greatest supporters. Lucius Malfoy,” Ted spat the name. “Right git, he is. Bullied my father for years, and Crabbe, and Goyle. They were all friends through Hogwarts, and after.” Ted nodded, a look of disgust affixing itself to his pale features. “Malfoy’s kid isn’t so bad actually, bit of a brat when he was younger but he’s gotten a bit better recently,” Ted added absently, before turning his attention back to the parlour and scrutinizing the guests. “And that,” Ted continued, pointing at a tall skinny man in a long black cloak despite the heat, “is Snape. Professor Snape, actually. He’ll be our Potions Master when we get to school.”

“Who’re the rest?” Blaise pressed, squinting through the glare of the parlour windows.

“Baddock, Bulstrode, and Montague by the looks of it,” Ted finished with a grimace. “Bulstrode’s daughter not too bad, either. If you’re on her good side.” He nodded at Blaise pointedly, and the ebony-haired child made a mental note of it.

“If you’re not?” Blaise asked with a slight frown.

“She’ll crush you if she sits on you.” Ted grinned wickedly.

Blaise rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and turned around to head into the hedge maze. It had been much too hot for robes that day, and in favour of the humid heat, both boys had discarded their proper robes long ago. Ted took once last glance at the chatting adults, and jogged to catch up.

“So what’s so important about today?” the Italian asked.

“Anniversary,” Ted replied dryly. “Apparently today’s the day that kid Harry Potter was born, defeated You-Know-Who without lifting a finger on All Soul’s Eve. Just like that!” Ted snapped his fingers for emphasis. “They get together every year to brood and be sullen. It’s a right party it is.”

Blaise faltered in his step and nearly stumbled into a nearby bush. “You mean all of those people were Death Eaters?”

“You bet.”

“But your father, I mean was he -?”

Ted’s smile dropped and he looked at the ground. Beyond the tall hedges, the sun’s light grew dimmer as clouds began to roll in from the west.

“Yeah. He was,” Ted replied softly. Idly, the freckled youth began kicking at the small bits of slate and shale that dotted the ground of the maze’s interior. “Look Blaise,” Ted’s hazel eyes seemed to plead with him. “It’s not like you think.”

Zabini faltered, he’d heard the hand-me-down legends of course. In fact, it had been one of his favourite bedtime tales when he was younger. The story had spread round the world as far as he knew; You-Know-Who had collected an army of sorts to put an end to all wizarding lines that weren’t pure, and this infant, barely two years old, had destroyed him without so much as gurgling a curse around his pacifier. No one in the wizarding world, in as far as Italy or America, knew how the kid had done it, but he had. Harry Potter was famous, he was a hero!

The Dark Lord’s followers, however, were another matter entirely. His father used to use the stories of what they did to scare the young Italian when he misbehaved. In fact, many of the tales gave him nightmares still.

Seeing Blaise’s apprehension, Ted threw himself into his explanation. Dragging his friend to sit by a nearby rock, Ted began.

“The Dark Lord did many terrible things, Blaise. So many I can’t even count anymore. He forced a lot of people into doing what he wanted of them. I was never given many details, really. Mum never wanted me to know, so most of what I learned was from sneaking around and spying on them when they would come for tea – My father, well,” Ted looked at the ground again. “I’ve always thought he was forced into it, you know; I didn’t think he ever had a choice.”

“Do you still believe that, Ted?” Blaise pressed. The look on his friend’s face told him all that he needed to know. It was a glimmer of disappointment so deep that it made the otherwise cheery ashen-haired boy look almost like a complete stranger.

“I don’t want to not believe it,” Ted frowned.

Blaise reached out and patted his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right, mate. It’s not like Voldypoo is going to come back to life or anything. It’s all in the past.” Blaise grinned reassuringly, to which Ted gave a small smile before blanching three shades whiter beneath his minute tan.

“Do you just realize you called the darkest wizard of our age ‘Voldypoo’?”

Blaise grinned even more broadly and folded his legs. “Should I call him something else?”

Ted blanched. “Don’t say it!” he hissed, and Blaise snickered.

“Please, it’s not like he’s going to hear me beyond the grave! He’s well shot of it I’d think.”

Ted gulped and shook his head, the sweaty mess of his loose hair flipping about listlessly.

“Alright,” Blaise sighed, a hint of a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “It’ll just be ickle Voldykins from now on.”

“Blaise!” Ted yelled, swatting at him roughly.

“Look,” Ted said, turning serious again. “It’s like this; they never found his body, right? He could still be out there.”

To make a point, Ted glanced around nervously. Remarkably, Blaise felt himself stiffen. There weren’t too many things that scared the young wizard-to-be, not if you counted his fear of finding a lethifold under his bed, or reaching out in a dark room while searching for a lamp, and having his hand touch the clammy skin and pulled-back lips of a thing with wet, dripping fangs. The idea of someone like You-Know-Who coming back to power was enough to scare him straight.

His grandmother called the times of his reign ‘The Second Dark Age’. Seeing as how the elder Zabini had practically lived through the first Dark Age herself, the comment wasn’t flippant coming from the matriarch. Blaise shuddered.

“Well if he does, we’ll be ready for him,” Blaise stated firmly with a nod.

Ted barked a laugh. “Speak for yourself you barmy Italian, I’m going to run if he comes back. Run and hide. Let Harry Potter take care of him.” Ted shuddered, and with a malicious grin he added, “I bet a galleon you’ll end up in Gryffindor if that’s how you keep thinking.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and tutted. “For one, Theodore, you don’t have a galleon to bet, and two,” Blaise paused, his brow furrowing. Could that be possible? Would Hogwarts separate him from his oldest friend? “Two…”

“Two – you’ll be with me in Slytherin you twit,” Ted finished grinning slyly.

Blaise, however, was not reassured. His lips pulled down in a small frown, he made certain to look anywhere but his friend’s face while he began tracing patters idly among the small sharp shards of stone that littered the interior of the Nott Maze.

“Zabini,” Ted urged. “Hellooooo, earth to Zabini! Come in Zabini, we seem to have lost contact. Your broom’s spun out of control and you’ve found yourself somewhere near Saturn, helloooo!”

“Shut it, Ted.” Blaise scowled. “What if you’re right?” The black-haired boy was worrying his lower lip and glancing at his best friend fearfully.

Blaise rolled over what he knew of Hogwarts’ four houses. He didn’t particularly care where he ended up as long as Ted wasn’t too far away, though if he had any say in the matter, it had always seemed to him that Slytherin was the best choice. They were ambitious, cunning, clever and witty, from what he understood. The green and silver graduates were shakers and movers; they had strong ties to the other members of their house and were for the most part, very well thought-out and well-spoken individuals.

Gryffindors were, well, blockheads, if Blaise understood correctly. They possessed the irrational desire to act before thinking frequently, they fought a lot and when they did, it usually occurred in front of the entire student body. Hufflepuffs were too soft for his liking, and though Blaise managed good marks with his tutor, he doubted he could relegate himself to studying all day everyday. Slytherin, he supposed, he could be quite content with.

Ted rolled his eyes and puffed dramatically in exasperation.

“Alright, Blaise, this is what we’re going to do.” Nott picked up a sharp piece of stone and waved it before Blaise’s nose.

“You’re going to thump me over the head with that? I rather like my face, Ted,” he murmured cautiously, watching the piece of shale apprehensively.

“No you twit,” Ted edged closer to where Blaise was seated. “We are going to do some magic.” The boy’s light brown eyes glittered in their mischievous manner.

Blaise took the opportunity to leer at his best friend. “We can’t! We don’t have wands yet!”

“Tosh, Zabini. I’m making this up as we go along,” he uttered impatiently. Blaise rolled his eyes, a gesture that was not entirely lost on Theodore, who smirked and gained a more superior tone. “It’s an ancient ritual, Blaise.” He gestured to himself imperiously, “I am making you my blood brother, so that, in the case that we are ever separated, we will always be bonded to one another as best friends.”

Blaise gulped. “Blood brother?”

As if on cue, a low rumble of thunder sounded in the north. Overhead, the clouds had changed pattern and were darkening steadily, signalling an oncoming storm. The humidity seemed to press down on the two boys as they sat face to face in the absolute center of the Nott maze.

“But Ted, that is magic! It’s ancient! My grandmother told me about the Eight Paths before, and blood magic is the strongest out of all of them.”

“It is not!” Ted grinned impishly. “Father told me the strongest out of all the old magics is,” he paused and looked around conspiratorially, and whispered, “sex magic.” Ted covered his mouth with his fist and giggled.

“We’re just playing Blaise, it’s not anything real could happen. I don’t know the actual ritual or anything, but really it’s all in jest. That is of course, unless you don’t want to –”

Seeing the saddened look on his friend’s face, Blaise sighed. “Ted, you know you’re already like a sibling to me – A very irritating, obnoxious, persuasive one at that,” he grumbled, and Ted beamed.

“All right Zabini, that’s what I’m talking about! Though you forgot to add that I’m a fantastic and compelling actor,” he waggled his thin eyebrows.

Blaise snorted. “Well blood magic’s probably better than sex magic anyway.” He sized his friend up disgustedly. “That’s just gross.”

“No, you’re just gross Zabini.”

“Are not!”

“Are so!”

“Are not!”

“Are so!”

Blaise stuck out his tongue and blew a loud raspberry, at which Ted grimaced and wiped his face comically. “Say it, don’t spray it.”

“The one who said the rhyme did the crime,” Blaise retorted, and added “Prat-heat.”

Both boys grinned at each other. Overhead the sky had been overtaken by gloomy grey and black thunderclouds, heavy and roiling in the summer heat.

“Alright, first, we need to make a protective space, so nothing bad can get in our out. I’ll draw a circle,” Ted stated assertively, standing up and beginning to stomp on the ground around Blaise loudly. “Well don’t just si

» elixireleven on Sun Feb 6, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:The Day I Tried to Live
Posted On:2005-02-06 00:00:00
Posted By:» elixireleven
The Day I Tried to Live
Author: Lucia di Medici
Summary: The last words of Draco Malfoy as he considers following in the footsteps of his father and submitting to the rule of the Dark Lord.
Pairings (None): Draco
Category: darkfic/angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine to own, but always a pleasure to watch. Non-profitas.
Author’s Notes: This is a subtle abstraction on the Malfoy dynasty. The idea of using lines from a suicide note sent to a destroyed Lucius seemed very fitful, I wrote through the cliff imagery interspersing things from my own journal that created the initial ambiance – it only came to me afterwards that letter writing is habitual in the wizarding world and therefore, the last letter of Draco Malfoy seemed entirely appropriate. I think it’s important to remember that there is beauty in darkness, passion behind the things that are unseen and unspoken, and there is most definitely honor in some deaths, this being one of them.

---
The Day I Tried to Live
---


Dear Father,

Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come, through the circle round, into darkness then back out into the light in a never-ending ellipse. As the moon forever chases the sun, we go thus and return again to where we first began.

On the edges of the Malfoy estate, a lithe boy clad in onyx wizarding robes walked to the edge of the precipice that surrounded his childhood home and hunkered down on the granite ledge. The lip of the cliff jutted a mere three feet before him, below the darkness slid its fingers over the rock and spiralled downwards into nothingness – an abyss. His father had though the idea rather clever, more effective than a moat; it afforded a protection that few families like the Malfoy’s could live without. It was rumoured, though Draco had never actually dared to confirm it, the crack in the earth was enchanted that, when an errant house elf disobeyed the request of their masters and found themselves punished and tossed into the gaping maw in the ground – they would fall forever and without end.

He shivered, the wind swirling around his frame and lifting the hems of his robes.

I believe that in the deepest recesses of the human mind we possess an inherent ability to seek, destroy and conquer all odds, regardless the risk, the threat. I lapse into parallel thought, claw at strands of burden that anchor us to the here and the now, the constant ever-beating heart of the earthly plane, and in a second consciousness flares and magic begins as our field of vision expands to embrace what goes beyond the physical and imminent.

He’d woke that morning like any other day, bathed, combed his flaxen hair, dressed and ate breakfast in the dining room. At his mother’s suggestion they’d planned to visit the Ministry the next day to arrange a position for him in the Department of Mysteries. They’d stop in London after, visit Diagon Alley, have lunch. Draco would return home, sit at his desk and draw up a letter for his father who was still, after two years, incarcerated in Azkaban.

This time, like the day before, and the day before that, his father wouldn’t respond.

As of nine o’clock Tuesday morning, Lucius Malfoy would never again look again at his son, nor his wife with recognition. He would stare absently ahead, a line of drool slipping from his mouth over a firm jaw line and spilling onto the lapel of his rapidly deteriorating robes. He would never know his son kept writing to him, or that Draco, after seventeen years, and shrieking only once as he came our from his mother’s womb when the mediwitch had slapped his pink bottom – had not cried.

Draco wondered if a soul like his would taste bitter to the Dementors.

Threatened at the edge of expanse, the great, jutting crag of a cliff that spirals downwards into nothingness – but really, it’s only a step into the other. Fear grips at the fabric that twists around our legs and threatens to pull us over; it swirls like a harsh gust, smelling of sulfur and fire.

He dug his thin fingers into his hair and pulled hard, willing himself to keen, to howl, to do something other than grit his teeth and swallow the discomfort. Lucius had taught him early on that to crack and bawl like a woman, letting his emotions overtake his senses and lose total and utter control was not acceptable. As a child he’d practiced this particular lesson days on end, causing himself pain by wrapping his small and delicate child’s hands around burning embers from the hearth fire, watching his flesh smoulder and burst. After which his father would heal his hands and smile at him proudly, smooth his hair and lead him through the estate’s gardens. They’d walk in silence, sometimes sitting by the large fountain, surrounded by azaleas and creeping bougainvillea. Sometimes they’d visit the Malfoy crypt and Lucius would take Draco’s freshly healed hands, and together they’d trace the names of his Great-Grandfathers carved into the marble walls.

He was taught to withstand the greatest pains of the cruciatus curse – it hurt like hell, but Draco wouldn’t whimper or beg for it to stop. He’d thrash around on the cold stones in the dungeons of the manor, emerging later bruised and bloodied from the violence of his twisting, but he always grit his teeth never allowing a sound to escape. Sometimes, he’d bite through his lip or his tongue, diverting the pain elsewhere, but there were never any tears. The house elves would bathe him, apply salves and ointments to the worst of his lacerations, and his father would say “Draco, you make the line of your ancestors proud.” Then Lucius would lead him through the halls of Malfoy manor, pointing out the portraits of the greatest and strongest of the Malfoy men.

When he was six, Draco imagined leading his own son through the very same hallowed halls, where at the end his father’s painting hung austere. Next to Lucius, Draco’s own likeness would rest - immortalized.

As close as I am to the edge, I hesitate, unwilling to take this test you’ve presented me, but I feel it pressing in at the back of my eyes, a darkness that creeps behind the path of the sun.

The sky overhead was tumultuous – grey and black clouds churning sinister patters across a rapidly darkening sky. On his left forearm the caked blood twinged and pulled at his opened skin. He felt the Mark sear again painfully, the summons was agony – it was like live ashes were prickling and burrowing deeper into his flesh. He’d tried to dig it out of his skin the first time the pain snatched at him earlier that day. At first he’d clawed at the Mark, raking his manicured nails across it, then failing to stop the burrowing, throbbing heat he’d grabbed a letter opener and tried to scrape it off – taking off layers of aristocratically pale flesh, but still the Dark Lord’s sigul remained.

Now, the brand throbbed dully. The pain would lash again in a few moments time, but Draco refused to apparate to the Dark Lord’s side, ready and willing to take the place of his father.

Draco’s childhood lessons danced brightly in his mind, out of all of them, he’d learned that a Malfoy prizes power over himself above all else. Power that came before power over others, if a Malfoy could not wield his sense of self, his pride was lost and he no longer deserved his name. It was that control that Lucius gave up himself when he’d taken the Mark, pride lost the first time he knelt and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes, and Draco had been fool enough to follow in his example and disobey the one lesson he’d learned while tossing hot coals and whilst beneath the cruciatus curse.

Draco stood and moved forwards two paces as the rocks under his feet crumbled and pebbles fell to the darkness below. Hands limp at his sides; his blond hair lashing at his forehead, his robes slapping violently around him in the gale.

Draco remembered the face of his father and closed his eyes.

Let it envelop me, ragged breathing, the weight pressing on the chest a sure sign of unrelenting anxiety. It keeps me from sleeping at night. It’s been woven into my bones. Lineage. Loyalty. Pride. Power.

Draco stood, toes peeking over the crag, and spread his arms - the wind circling around his legs causing his robes to flap violently. He breathed, tilting his head back and savouring the crisp scent of burning firewood and cedar.

A single tear formed in the corner of his eye, before it could fall – he stepped forward.

Your Son,
Draco Malfoy


» elixireleven on Fri Feb 4, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:Slytherin Solidarity: Canto V - One for the Razorbacks (Part II)
Posted On:2005-02-04 00:00:00
Posted By:» elixireleven
Slytherin Solidarity
Summary: The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves – lost to the ages.
Pairings: Blaise/Hermione
Category: Darkfic/drama/romance
Rating: R
Disclaimer: A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. No money is being made by this endeavour and characters, places and curses remain the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Brothers and all those other profiteering bigwigs.

---
Slytherin Solidarity
Canto V: One for the Razorbacks
(Part II of II)
---


“Don’t touch that!”

“What? Why not?” Blaise pouted, forcing his lower lip to quiver and widening his eyes at the petite Gryffindor Head Girl in a gesture that was supposed to illicit some sort of concession.

It was not working.

Granger pursed her lip and regarded him shrewdly over the small mountain of books they shared between them.

“Your research habits are appalling Zabini, that’s why,” she said haughtily.

Blaise huffed indignantly. “You’re a control freak.”

“I am well organized.”

“You are a domineering wench.”

“And you, Zabini, are insufferable.”

What an absolute debacle. Blaise glared at the girl, folding his arms and slumping backwards into his chair. The pair had relegated themselves to a secluded corner of the library where no one would spy them. For good measure, Granger had set up a moderately strong ward around their table to deter any of their housemates from stumbling upon them during their “meeting” – if you could call it that.

Blaise was beginning to wonder if she was ever capable of normal human interaction. Thus far, Granger had threatened to hex him twice, deducted fifteen house points and nearly slapped him once. All in one evening!

Contemplating what possessed him to initiate spending an inordinate amount of time with Granger of all people; he glared unpleasantly at the Gryffindor across the table. Their first session with “the book” had consisted of nearly three hours bickering, sniping and trading “pleasantries” – at which Blaise used a number of adjectives in both English and Italian to describe the Gryffindor’s impossible tendency towards bossiness.

Ironically, he’d managed to wipe their first encounter entirely from his mind - an unpleasant event which he was being strongly reminded of at that very moment.

Granger had become so irate at one point that she’d gone so far as to research a translation charm, which promptly spelled out each and every syllable that fell from Blaise’s lips, relaying the more colourful terms in fantastic detail when the Gryffindor demanded it.

He had since restrained himself to swearing as colourfully as he could in plain old English, while leaving out adjectives embellishing several crude and inappropriate acts that could be accomplished with the participation of certain farm animals.

This, however, was their second meeting, the day before the Halloween Feast, and things were positively spiffing.

“Fine, Granger. Let’s assess the situation then, shall we?” he groused, balling his hands into fists below his elbows. “I can’t touch that.” Blaise pointed roughly at a book marked Ancient Sigils: Random Scribbles or Marks in Time? “Nor that.” He jabbed at a tattered copy of The Meaning of Mesopotamian Magic. “Nor that,” he growled, becoming increasingly agitated as he flicked the cover of Antique Books: From Word to Writ. “So what exactly can I use Granger?”

She glared at him for a moment. Snapping the book in front of her shut she leaned over the table and murmured in a low tone of voice. “Let’s make a deal Zabini.”

Blaise snorted and leaned back on his chair, lacing his hands together behind his head he chuckled openly. “Gryffindors don’t make bargains,” he shot back.

“Oh no?” she said, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Blaise found himself staring at the little indentation in her cheek made by the expression, it was intriguing. Never had he seen the Head Girl with such a calculating air about her – scrutinizing, maybe, but never an expression so outwardly predatory.

“Go on then, you’ve probably rehearsed this little speech several times already. So out with it would you, I’d like to get back to my common room before the first snow fall,” he replied dryly.

Her smirk didn’t falter, however, and to Blaise’s disquiet, it seemed to deepen – causing the witch’s eyes to sparkle malevolently.

“I will explain to you what exactly I’ve discovered on the Principia, if you agree to an exchange of information,” she said slowly.

Blaise blinked, feigning innocence. “What information?”

Granger merely quirked an eyebrow and folded her hands neatly before her.

“What terms?” Blaise tried again. Distantly, a warning bell was sounding at the back of his head. Given the situation however, he knew exactly what she wanted and he really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Granger stared complacently, the same bemused smirk dimpling her features.

“Fine!” he snapped. “Fine damnit. Avete fatto impazzire, donna alimentazione-affamato.”

“Fantastic!” she beamed. “You can start by explaining what you meant this afternoon with that comment about mollycoddling you when I found you out of your dorm, out of bounds, and sleepwalking – of all things – at the beginning of September.”

Unable to restrain himself, Blaise felt his carefully trained features wilt – his jaw dropping and his shoulders sagging.

It was as if Granger had jabbed a self-righteous finger in the air and shouted “Ah-ha!” Such was the effect when her face lit up, like she’d struck the vein of gold on her first shot.

“What of it?” he muttered sullenly, slouching back into his chair and sliding down to rest on his tailbone, his legs splayed wide beneath the oak table.

“Tell me about Theodore,” she stated bluntly, her eyes alight.

Unwittingly, Blaise cringed. “Don’t call him that. He never liked it.”

“I apologize,” she said primly, and waited for him to continue. “Please do elaborate.”

Seeing there was no possible way out of it, and with a sideways glance at the ancient text placed deliberately near her right elbow – its low hymn saturating the air weakly, Blaise began.

“Ted and I were friends since a very young age – since I first moved to England actually. We didn’t live too far from each other so it was mostly out of convenience at first that we could play together as boys. When we got a bit older, however, we realized we both had a lot in common. The usual thing with wizarding children, you know – dungbombs dropped at our parents’ dinner receptions, tormenting the house staff, disappearing into the Nott hedge maze for hours at a time when we wanted to explore, or what have you.”

“You were brats,” she said flatly.

Blaise glared, “We were children.”

“And spoiled to high heaven no doubt,” she said acidly.

“Right,” Blaise pursed his lips. “In any case, we were best friends – through thick and thin. When we were nine Ted got this crazy idea.” Blaise snorted. “Thought it was all a joke really, make-believe, you know? His parents were having some sort of get-together in the middle of July and we were told specifically to ‘keep out of the way unless we knew what was good for us’. Turned out it was some sort of former Death Eater tea party.”

Across the table, Granger stiffened noticeably.

“My parents never gave a damn about the whole pureblood manifesto – still don’t, to this day. But Ted’s father, well,” Blaise lowered his voice, “he was right in there with the Dark Lord - expected Ted to follow in his footsteps. And when he didn’t –”

Involuntarily, a silence stretched as he began to mentally replay the events of early September. It took a moment for Blaise to realize his chest was contracting and breathing was becoming difficult.

“He was murdered?” Granger’s eyes were saucer-like, the deep brown worried by the mingling looks of shock, disbelief and disgust that raced over her features.

“Not at all,” he breathed, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen somewhat and puffing absently at a stray black curl dangling into his eye. “You’ve been listening to Weasley prattle on with his fallacious theories for far too long.” Blaise said quietly. “He took his own life to save us – to save his friends.”

“I don’t understand.”

Blaise sighed, realizing at that moment this was going to be much more difficult than he anticipated.

“He was threatened, coerced, blackmailed – the usual digs for the likes of us. He received his summons over the summer, a call to war if you will. It’s like muggle conscription, except for most of the purebloods that still stand in the Dark Lord’s favour; the names of their children have been on his waiting list since they were infants.

“Anyway, Ted wasn’t saying much since his birthday. You’ve got to understand, Granger – he was like a brother to me, everyday we at least spoke to each other. Every single fucking day he was there – and then suddenly he wasn’t.”

Blaise shrugged with a frown.

“He stopped talking, stop sending post. It was like he didn’t give a shite anymore about anything. I didn’t know it then, but he was trying to distance himself from me – and everyone,” he added after a pause.

“Voldemort used his friends as leverage?” Granger asked with a stricken frown.

Blaise merely nodded.

“How do you know this for certain?” she pressed softly.

“He told me,” Blaise said simply, matching her gaze and keeping his expression blank. There was no need to expound on how he knew about it. It would be an unnecessary detail to attempt a rational argument for a conversation with his recently deceased confidante.

Granger continued to appraise him silently.

“Your turn Granger, this is a barter of information. So start bargaining,” he replied wearily as he refolded his arms across his chest and assumed his best disdainful glare.

She shook her head slightly as if to clear it, though not after she pursed her lips and gave Blaise a withering look.

“Well, I did some research into the origins of the seal on the cover,” she replied, mustering the same technical and precise air Blaise had heard nearly every day for the past seven years. It was the same tenor the Gryffindor used in class when acting particularly overbearing while discussing some obscure piece of information. Ignoring how much the grate in the lilt of her superior tone irritated him, Blaise listened with rapt attention.

“The apple,” she said, drawing the Principia Discordia forwards, “inscribed with the Greek word ‘Kallisti’, is a common symbol associated with a particular Goddess in two different cultures.”

“Roman and Greek,” Blaise murmured.

“Precisely,” Granger cocked her head in surprise. “How did you know that?”

Blaise shrugged. “My Grandmother used to tell me about the old ways when I was a kid.”

The Head Girl eyed him warily before continuing. “The inscription means ‘To the fairest,’ which is taken directly from Greek myth. Before the battle of Troy supposedly took place, a banquet was held in the halls of Mount Olympus to celebrate a marriage between Peleus and Thetis – who were to be the mother and father of Achilles,”

“The warrior; half god, half man,” Blaise waved impatiently. “I’ve read plenty of Homer and Virgil for that matter, to know the story.”

Granger’s jaw dropped, flabbergasted. “He was a muggle!”

Blaise snorted outright and shook his head. “First of all, Granger – I thought I’d already made it perfectly clear that; a – I don’t give a damn about the wizarding bloodlines, and b – He was a heathen. A heathen, Granger! Ancient Europe was so heavily steeped in magic it’s not even remotely funny. I could give you reams of Philosophers, Theologians, Artists and Poets from the old world who were wizards.”

Thankfully, she at least had the decency to splutter.

“Go on Granger, let’s not make this any more painful than it already is,” he said shortly.

“In any case,” she frowned at his brusqueness, “the myth follows in such a way that all the gods were invited to the wedding banquet – all except one.”

She rifled through her book bag for a moment, before extracting a slim, red book with heavily worn corners and a cloth cover. Bending the spine back, she flicked through the yellowed pages before flipping the book around and pointing out a picture.

“Eris, Goddess of Strife,” she said firmly.

Gingerly, Blaise reached out and plucked the volume from her gripping fingers – dutifully ignoring the hitch in her breath as he touched the book.

On the page she’d pointed out was a crude, hand-drawn image of a highly stylized woman in the classical style. She stood with her back straight, her hair hanging in a wild tangle about her shoulders in robes of deep crimson and cinched around the waist with a gold cord. Around her bare feet, a series of disproportionate and highly contorted figures were howling in pain; their mouths agape and writhing around her, though the Goddess herself paid them no heed.

Rather, the most disquieting thing about the illustration itself was the stillness of the character, where all around her the figures were twisting and clawing at each other – she stood stalk still and gazing back at Blaise vindictively. Her eyes were ink black and wide, and she wore a particularly cruel grin. Gazing at the face of the Goddess amidst the mountain of bodies strewn across a battlefield, she began to move – reaching into her scarlet robes slowly, and extracting with her slim arm, a small golden apple – which she held out in an open palm. Without question, she was frightening – but already Blaise could sense a dangerous appeal to her.

He let out a whistle, attempting to break the hypnotic thrall of the portrait.

“She was a looker wasn’t she?”

“She caused mayhem wherever she went,” Granger continued, ignoring his lecherous leer. “Naturally, the Gods didn’t want her spoiling their celebration. When Eris got wind of it, however –”

She reached over the table and turned to the next page, barely grazing Blaise’s thumb where he held the spine. He threw her a glance, but the Head Girl was looking at the tome eagerly, anticipating his reaction.

Blaise lowered his eyes, laying the book flat on the table and leaning over it – Granger was half out of her seat already.

Before them, two pages of a picture were spread. The small, rough drawing of the Goddess of Strife sauntered into what appeared to be a great feast and stood before a long table where a variety of richly clad divine beings were carousing and laughing. Some of them, upon noticing the Goddess’ presence, recoiled in horror – jabbing at their closet companions fretfully.

With a large smile, the drawn figure of Eris knelt, and rolled the tiny golden apple into the midst of the gathering.

“What’s she doing?” Blaise murmured.

Granger practically leapt round his side of the table and flumped into the chair beside him. Scooting closer, she began babbling at top speed.

“It’s classical, really. Eris was notorious for causing discord and disharmony, the inscription on the apple made certain that she’d cause an uproar – look what’s happening!” she dragged the book closer between them.

On the page, Eris was slinking out of view, while three other Goddesses had leapt up and were quarrelling over the apple. It appeared that each of the women was attempting to claim the fruit for herself.

“Hera, Queen of the Gods and wife to Zeus,” Hermione pointed to a rather burly Goddess with brown hair. “Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.”

“And sex,” Blaise interjected with a half-grin. Granger pursed her lips and added the last name dryly.

“And Athena, Goddess of Wisdom.”

The last deity was round faced and owl-eyed, much shorter and more rounded than the others. She stood poised between the pouting caricature of Aphrodite who was stomping her feet and waving her arms, and a glowering Hera who appeared to be threatening the Goddess of Love. It was when Athena spied the apple for herself and began to reach for it that an imposing man stood up near the head of the banquet table and strode over to pluck the gilded fruit from the Goddess’ grasp.

“…So the task was put to Zeus to decide which of the three were the fairest.” Granger had been rambling for quite sometime apparently, but Blaise had heard none of it. A glance at the girl confirmed that she was thoroughly enthralled sharing her reams of information, regardless of whether he was paying attention or not.

“But Zeus decided it wouldn’t be prudent, so he shunted the task on to someone else –”

“Granger I hate to interrupt your captivating monologue but what’s your point?”

She blinked at him owlishly for a moment, as if realizing he was there for the first time. Her lips narrowed into a thin line, reminiscent of Professor McGonagall when she realized Neville Longbottom had been admitted to her Advanced Transfiguration class in sixth year.

The Professor was heard muttering for a week about “never being able to restore her favourite tea cup”.

“The point, Zabini, is that the choice was passed to a mortal named Paris who chose Aphrodite only after she bribed him with the fairest woman in all of the Aegean. Incidentally, it was Helen of Sparta that Paris chose, and stole her away from her husband – thus starting the Trojan War.”

Blaise merely stared blankly. Granger huffed and slammed the book closed.

“Eris, Zabini! She’s the Goddess of Strife! Don’t you see?”

“She causes war,” he replied flatly.

“No!” Granger pounded the table with her small fist, causing an ink well to teeter precariously nearby. “She creates chaos! Mayhem! Destruction!” She waved her arms exuberantly for emphasis.

“Pandemonium, bedlam and discord,” Blaise continued in a monotone. “There’s no use getting so worked up over it, Granger. It’s only a myth after all – there are no legitimized foundations for the existence of Gods among men.”

“You don’t know that for certain! What if this is her work? If there are parts in the Principia transcribed by Priestesses of Eris – can you think of the possibilities?”

At that moment, with Granger’s hair in an electric tangle about her face, her quill stuffed behind her ear and her face flushed with excitement – Blaise realized she did have something of an appeal to her. He cocked his head to the side and regarded her silently; there was something oddly sensual about her frazzled demeanour. In her state of excitement one could possibly parallel her tousled locks and flushed cheeks to something of a sexually deviant nature.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Zabini?” she said guardedly.

He’d been staring.

Turning away, the Italian mentally slapped himself. The Gryffindor witch was beginning to rub off on him with her constant analysis. With an odd twinge, Blaise realized that over the last couple of weeks she’d been doing it less - particularly since the incident in the library when he spied her through the library stacks.

“Nothing Granger, a little tired is all.” He yawned dramatically. “Long day, you know. What with Mil attacking Higgs and all – puts a bloke in a right state of exhaustion trying to sort it all out.” He cast a glance in her direction, not wanting to make direct eye contact lest a similar strain of unholy and demoralizing thoughts began to crop up again. “How was Millicent doing when you last left her?” questioned Blaise, attempting to divert the Head Girl’s curiosity.

“Well she isn’t expelled if that’s what you mean. The Headmaster’s put her on probationary licence, and as long as she doesn’t act up again she’ll graduate after next term – that is, assuming her marks are adequate,” she added as an afterthought.

Blaise realized he was fidgeting; his fingers had developed a conscience of their own and were presently tugging at the loose strings on the Ancient Sigils book in front of him. Her quip about Millicent’s grades didn’t faze him in the slightest, surprisingly. Rather, attempting to regain some semblance of self-control, he forced his hands to slacken, pressing his palms onto the table top firmly.

“Why did she do that, Zabini?” Granger questioned softly. Automatically, Blaise reached for the worn endings of the book and began pulling again.

Granger snatched the book away from him with a huff. Studiously, he began studying his cuticles.

“Not a clue,” he attempted in a flippant manner.

“Does it have something to do with what happened at breakfast?” she pressed.

With a sigh, Blaise turned to face her. The Gryffindor’s eyebrows were furrowed, her lips forming a small heart as they pressed together delicately. Blaise levelled his gaze and steeled himself.

“No,” he lied firmly.

» elixireleven on Fri Feb 4, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:Slytherin Solidarity: Canto V - One for the Razorbacks (Part I)
Posted On:2005-02-04 00:00:00
Posted By:» elixireleven
Slytherin Solidarity
Summary: The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves – lost to the ages.
Pairings: Blaise/Hermione
Category: Darkfic/drama/romance
Rating: R
Disclaimer: A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. No money is being made by this endeavour and characters, places and curses remain the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Brothers and all those other profiteering bigwigs.


---
Slytherin Solidarity
Canto V: One for the Razorbacks
(Part II of II)
---


“Don’t touch that!”

“What? Why not?” Blaise pouted, forcing his lower lip to quiver and widening his eyes at the petite Gryffindor Head Girl in a gesture that was supposed to illicit some sort of concession.

It was not working.

Granger pursed her lip and regarded him shrewdly over the small mountain of books they shared between them.

“Your research habits are appalling Zabini, that’s why,” she said haughtily.

Blaise huffed indignantly. “You’re a control freak.”

“I am well organized.”

“You are a domineering wench.”

“And you, Zabini, are insufferable.”

What an absolute debacle. Blaise glared at the girl, folding his arms and slumping backwards into his chair. The pair had relegated themselves to a secluded corner of the library where no one would spy them. For good measure, Granger had set up a moderately strong ward around their table to deter any of their housemates from stumbling upon them during their “meeting” – if you could call it that.

Blaise was beginning to wonder if she was ever capable of normal human interaction. Thus far, Granger had threatened to hex him twice, deducted fifteen house points and nearly slapped him once. All in one evening!

Contemplating what possessed him to initiate spending an inordinate amount of time with Granger of all people; he glared unpleasantly at the Gryffindor across the table. Their first session with “the book” had consisted of nearly three hours bickering, sniping and trading “pleasantries” – at which Blaise used a number of adjectives in both English and Italian to describe the Gryffindor’s impossible tendency towards bossiness.

Ironically, he’d managed to wipe their first encounter entirely from his mind - an unpleasant event which he was being strongly reminded of at that very moment.

Granger had become so irate at one point that she’d gone so far as to research a translation charm, which promptly spelled out each and every syllable that fell from Blaise’s lips, relaying the more colourful terms in fantastic detail when the Gryffindor demanded it.

He had since restrained himself to swearing as colourfully as he could in plain old English, while leaving out adjectives embellishing several crude and inappropriate acts that could be accomplished with the participation of certain farm animals.

This, however, was their second meeting, the day before the Halloween Feast, and things were positively spiffing.

“Fine, Granger. Let’s assess the situation then, shall we?” he groused, balling his hands into fists below his elbows. “I can’t touch that.” Blaise pointed roughly at a book marked Ancient Sigils: Random Scribbles or Marks in Time? “Nor that.” He jabbed at a tattered copy of The Meaning of Mesopotamian Magic. “Nor that,” he growled, becoming increasingly agitated as he flicked the cover of Antique Books: From Word to Writ. “So what exactly can I use Granger?”

She glared at him for a moment. Snapping the book in front of her shut she leaned over the table and murmured in a low tone of voice. “Let’s make a deal Zabini.”

Blaise snorted and leaned back on his chair, lacing his hands together behind his head he chuckled openly. “Gryffindors don’t make bargains,” he shot back.

“Oh no?” she said, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Blaise found himself staring at the little indentation in her cheek made by the expression, it was intriguing. Never had he seen the Head Girl with such a calculating air about her – scrutinizing, maybe, but never an expression so outwardly predatory.

“Go on then, you’ve probably rehearsed this little speech several times already. So out with it would you, I’d like to get back to my common room before the first snow fall,” he replied dryly.

Her smirk didn’t falter, however, and to Blaise’s disquiet, it seemed to deepen – causing the witch’s eyes to sparkle malevolently.

“I will explain to you what exactly I’ve discovered on the Principia, if you agree to an exchange of information,” she said slowly.

Blaise blinked, feigning innocence. “What information?”

Granger merely quirked an eyebrow and folded her hands neatly before her.

“What terms?” Blaise tried again. Distantly, a warning bell was sounding at the back of his head. Given the situation however, he knew exactly what she wanted and he really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Granger stared complacently, the same bemused smirk dimpling her features.

“Fine!” he snapped. “Fine damnit. Avete fatto impazzire, donna alimentazione-affamato.”

“Fantastic!” she beamed. “You can start by explaining what you meant this afternoon with that comment about mollycoddling you when I found you out of your dorm, out of bounds, and sleepwalking – of all things – at the beginning of September.”

Unable to restrain himself, Blaise felt his carefully trained features wilt – his jaw dropping and his shoulders sagging.

It was as if Granger had jabbed a self-righteous finger in the air and shouted “Ah-ha!” Such was the effect when her face lit up, like she’d struck the vein of gold on her first shot.

“What of it?” he muttered sullenly, slouching back into his chair and sliding down to rest on his tailbone, his legs splayed wide beneath the oak table.

“Tell me about Theodore,” she stated bluntly, her eyes alight.

Unwittingly, Blaise cringed. “Don’t call him that. He never liked it.”

“I apologize,” she said primly, and waited for him to continue. “Please do elaborate.”

Seeing there was no possible way out of it, and with a sideways glance at the ancient text placed deliberately near her right elbow – its low hymn saturating the air weakly, Blaise began.

“Ted and I were friends since a very young age – since I first moved to England actually. We didn’t live too far from each other so it was mostly out of convenience at first that we could play together as boys. When we got a bit older, however, we realized we both had a lot in common. The usual thing with wizarding children, you know – dungbombs dropped at our parents’ dinner receptions, tormenting the house staff, disappearing into the Nott hedge maze for hours at a time when we wanted to explore, or what have you.”

“You were brats,” she said flatly.

Blaise glared, “We were children.”

“And spoiled to high heaven no doubt,” she said acidly.

“Right,” Blaise pursed his lips. “In any case, we were best friends – through thick and thin. When we were nine Ted got this crazy idea.” Blaise snorted. “Thought it was all a joke really, make-believe, you know? His parents were having some sort of get-together in the middle of July and we were told specifically to ‘keep out of the way unless we knew what was good for us’. Turned out it was some sort of former Death Eater tea party.”

Across the table, Granger stiffened noticeably.

“My parents never gave a damn about the whole pureblood manifesto – still don’t, to this day. But Ted’s father, well,” Blaise lowered his voice, “he was right in there with the Dark Lord - expected Ted to follow in his footsteps. And when he didn’t –”

Involuntarily, a silence stretched as he began to mentally replay the events of early September. It took a moment for Blaise to realize his chest was contracting and breathing was becoming difficult.

“He was murdered?” Granger’s eyes were saucer-like, the deep brown worried by the mingling looks of shock, disbelief and disgust that raced over her features.

“Not at all,” he breathed, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen somewhat and puffing absently at a stray black curl dangling into his eye. “You’ve been listening to Weasley prattle on with his fallacious theories for far too long.” Blaise said quietly. “He took his own life to save us – to save his friends.”

“I don’t understand.”

Blaise sighed, realizing at that moment this was going to be much more difficult than he anticipated.

“He was threatened, coerced, blackmailed – the usual digs for the likes of us. He received his summons over the summer, a call to war if you will. It’s like muggle conscription, except for most of the purebloods that still stand in the Dark Lord’s favour; the names of their children have been on his waiting list since they were infants.

“Anyway, Ted wasn’t saying much since his birthday. You’ve got to understand, Granger – he was like a brother to me, everyday we at least spoke to each other. Every single fucking day he was there – and then suddenly he wasn’t.”

Blaise shrugged with a frown.

“He stopped talking, stop sending post. It was like he didn’t give a shite anymore about anything. I didn’t know it then, but he was trying to distance himself from me – and everyone,” he added after a pause.

“Voldemort used his friends as leverage?” Granger asked with a stricken frown.

Blaise merely nodded.

“How do you know this for certain?” she pressed softly.

“He told me,” Blaise said simply, matching her gaze and keeping his expression blank. There was no need to expound on how he knew about it. It would be an unnecessary detail to attempt a rational argument for a conversation with his recently deceased confidante.

Granger continued to appraise him silently.

“Your turn Granger, this is a barter of information. So start bargaining,” he replied wearily as he refolded his arms across his chest and assumed his best disdainful glare.

She shook her head slightly as if to clear it, though not after she pursed her lips and gave Blaise a withering look.

“Well, I did some research into the origins of the seal on the cover,” she replied, mustering the same technical and precise air Blaise had heard nearly every day for the past seven years. It was the same tenor the Gryffindor used in class when acting particularly overbearing while discussing some obscure piece of information. Ignoring how much the grate in the lilt of her superior tone irritated him, Blaise listened with rapt attention.

“The apple,” she said, drawing the Principia Discordia forwards, “inscribed with the Greek word ‘Kallisti’, is a common symbol associated with a particular Goddess in two different cultures.”

“Roman and Greek,” Blaise murmured.

“Precisely,” Granger cocked her head in surprise. “How did you know that?”

Blaise shrugged. “My Grandmother used to tell me about the old ways when I was a kid.”

The Head Girl eyed him warily before continuing. “The inscription means ‘To the fairest,’ which is taken directly from Greek myth. Before the battle of Troy supposedly took place, a banquet was held in the halls of Mount Olympus to celebrate a marriage between Peleus and Thetis – who were to be the mother and father of Achilles,”

“The warrior; half god, half man,” Blaise waved impatiently. “I’ve read plenty of Homer and Virgil for that matter, to know the story.”

Granger’s jaw dropped, flabbergasted. “He was a muggle!”

Blaise snorted outright and shook his head. “First of all, Granger – I thought I’d already made it perfectly clear that; a – I don’t give a damn about the wizarding bloodlines, and b – He was a heathen. A heathen, Granger! Ancient Europe was so heavily steeped in magic it’s not even remotely funny. I could give you reams of Philosophers, Theologians, Artists and Poets from the old world who were wizards.”

Thankfully, she at least had the decency to splutter.

“Go on Granger, let’s not make this any more painful than it already is,” he said shortly.

“In any case,” she frowned at his brusqueness, “the myth follows in such a way that all the gods were invited to the wedding banquet – all except one.”

She rifled through her book bag for a moment, before extracting a slim, red book with heavily worn corners and a cloth cover. Bending the spine back, she flicked through the yellowed pages before flipping the book around and pointing out a picture.

“Eris, Goddess of Strife,” she said firmly.

Gingerly, Blaise reached out and plucked the volume from her gripping fingers – dutifully ignoring the hitch in her breath as he touched the book.

On the page she’d pointed out was a crude, hand-drawn image of a highly stylized woman in the classical style. She stood with her back straight, her hair hanging in a wild tangle about her shoulders in robes of deep crimson and cinched around the waist with a gold cord. Around her bare feet, a series of disproportionate and highly contorted figures were howling in pain; their mouths agape and writhing around her, though the Goddess herself paid them no heed.

Rather, the most disquieting thing about the illustration itself was the stillness of the character, where all around her the figures were twisting and clawing at each other – she stood stalk still and gazing back at Blaise vindictively. Her eyes were ink black and wide, and she wore a particularly cruel grin. Gazing at the face of the Goddess amidst the mountain of bodies strewn across a battlefield, she began to move – reaching into her scarlet robes slowly, and extracting with her slim arm, a small golden apple – which she held out in an open palm. Without question, she was frightening – but already Blaise could sense a dangerous appeal to her.

He let out a whistle, attempting to break the hypnotic thrall of the portrait.

“She was a looker wasn’t she?”

“She caused mayhem wherever she went,” Granger continued, ignoring his lecherous leer. “Naturally, the Gods didn’t want her spoiling their celebration. When Eris got wind of it, however –”

She reached over the table and turned to the next page, barely grazing Blaise’s thumb where he held the spine. He threw her a glance, but the Head Girl was looking at the tome eagerly, anticipating his reaction.

Blaise lowered his eyes, laying the book flat on the table and leaning over it – Granger was half out of her seat already.

Before them, two pages of a picture were spread. The small, rough drawing of the Goddess of Strife sauntered into what appeared to be a great feast and stood before a long table where a variety of richly clad divine beings were carousing and laughing. Some of them, upon noticing the Goddess’ presence, recoiled in horror – jabbing at their closet companions fretfully.

With a large smile, the drawn figure of Eris knelt, and rolled the tiny golden apple into the midst of the gathering.

“What’s she doing?” Blaise murmured.

Granger practically leapt round his side of the table and flumped into the chair beside him. Scooting closer, she began babbling at top speed.

“It’s classical, really. Eris was notorious for causing discord and disharmony, the inscription on the apple made certain that she’d cause an uproar – look what’s happening!” she dragged the book closer between them.

On the page, Eris was slinking out of view, while three other Goddesses had leapt up and were quarrelling over the apple. It appeared that each of the women was attempting to claim the fruit for herself.

“Hera, Queen of the Gods and wife to Zeus,” Hermione pointed to a rather burly Goddess with brown hair. “Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.”

“And sex,” Blaise interjected with a half-grin. Granger pursed her lips and added the last name dryly.

“And Athena, Goddess of Wisdom.”

The last deity was round faced and owl-eyed, much shorter and more rounded than the others. She stood poised between the pouting caricature of Aphrodite who was stomping her feet and waving her arms, and a glowering Hera who appeared to be threatening the Goddess of Love. It was when Athena spied the apple for herself and began to reach for it that an imposing man stood up near the head of the banquet table and strode over to pluck the gilded fruit from the Goddess’ grasp.

“…So the task was put to Zeus to decide which of the three were the fairest.” Granger had been rambling for quite sometime apparently, but Blaise had heard none of it. A glance at the girl confirmed that she was thoroughly enthralled sharing her reams of information, regardless of whether he was paying attention or not.

“But Zeus decided it wouldn’t be prudent, so he shunted the task on to someone else –”

“Granger I hate to interrupt your captivating monologue but what’s your point?”

She blinked at him owlishly for a moment, as if realizing he was there for the first time. Her lips narrowed into a thin line, reminiscent of Professor McGonagall when she realized Neville Longbottom had been admitted to her Advanced Transfiguration class in sixth year.

The Professor was heard muttering for a week about “never being able to restore her favourite tea cup”.

“The point, Zabini, is that the choice was passed to a mortal named Paris who chose Aphrodite only after she bribed him with the fairest woman in all of the Aegean. Incidentally, it was Helen of Sparta that Paris chose, and stole her away from her husband – thus starting the Trojan War.”

Blaise merely stared blankly. Granger huffed and slammed the book closed.

“Eris, Zabini! She’s the Goddess of Strife! Don’t you see?”

“She causes war,” he replied flatly.

“No!” Granger pounded the table with her small fist, causing an ink well to teeter precariously nearby. “She creates chaos! Mayhem! Destruction!” She waved her arms exuberantly for emphasis.

“Pandemonium, bedlam and discord,” Blaise continued in a monotone. “There’s no use getting so worked up over it, Granger. It’s only a myth after all – there are no legitimized foundations for the existence of Gods among men.”

“You don’t know that for certain! What if this is her work? If there are parts in the Principia transcribed by Priestesses of Eris – can you think of the possibilities?”

At that moment, with Granger’s hair in an electric tangle about her face, her quill stuffed behind her ear and her face flushed with excitement – Blaise realized she did have something of an appeal to her. He cocked his head to the side and regarded her silently; there was something oddly sensual about her frazzled demeanour. In her state of excitement one could possibly parallel her tousled locks and flushed cheeks to something of a sexually deviant nature.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Zabini?” she said guardedly.

He’d been staring.

Turning away, the Italian mentally slapped himself. The Gryffindor witch was beginning to rub off on him with her constant analysis. With an odd twinge, Blaise realized that over the last couple of weeks she’d been doing it less - particularly since the incident in the library when he spied her through the library stacks.

“Nothing Granger, a little tired is all.” He yawned dramatically. “Long day, you know. What with Mil attacking Higgs and all – puts a bloke in a right state of exhaustion trying to sort it all out.” He cast a glance in her direction, not wanting to make direct eye contact lest a similar strain of unholy and demoralizing thoughts began to crop up again. “How was Millicent doing when you last left her?” questioned Blaise, attempting to divert the Head Girl’s curiosity.

“Well she isn’t expelled if that’s what you mean. The Headmaster’s put her on probationary licence, and as long as she doesn’t act up again she’ll graduate after next term – that is, assuming her marks are adequate,” she added as an afterthought.

Blaise realized he was fidgeting; his fingers had developed a conscience of their own and were presently tugging at the loose strings on the Ancient Sigils book in front of him. Her quip about Millicent’s grades didn’t faze him in the slightest, surprisingly. Rather, attempting to regain some semblance of self-control, he forced his hands to slacken, pressing his palms onto the table top firmly.

“Why did she do that, Zabini?” Granger questioned softly. Automatically, Blaise reached for the worn endings of the book and began pulling again.

Granger snatched the book away from him with a huff. Studiously, he began studying his cuticles.

“Not a clue,” he attempted in a flippant manner.

“Does it have something to do with what happened at breakfast?” she pressed.

With a sigh, Blaise turned to face her. The Gryffindor’s eyebrows were furrowed, her lips forming a small heart as they pressed together delicately. Blaise levelled his gaze and steeled himself.

“No,” he lied firmly

» cinderella_soul on Thu Feb 3, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:poem part 2
Posted On:2005-02-03 00:00:00
Posted By:» cinderella_soul
Now I'm in a new situation but you're as familliar as a bed.

Do you really care about me.
Expectations of a loved one
past-usury-abides in my temples throbbing.
No more-
I don't want to be foolish-
Drugs took my life and all I can think to do is use drugs.
Feeling sorry for myself-
Abuse me...
What else is new!

No more explanations which lead me to scrutinize--
Well you could've done--this or that it soesn't matter
-but what is the bottom line-
you did not come to see me.
Is this going to be repeated to let me know it's over?
I won't sweat over tomorrow while I'm ruuning my life today-
Let's keep it real baybe
There's not enough time to fuck around-
-Coming through the door-
family and friends-
that helped me live in my "crazy" states.

I don't know what happened-
It makes me feel safe when I masturbate.

» cinderella_soul on Thu Feb 3, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:poem part 1
Posted On:2005-02-03 00:00:00
Posted By:» cinderella_soul
I held onto the memory of you for too long
Feeling I missed the oppurtunity of a lifetime
Cat got my tongue and swallowed it.
Aches and pains as I could not face you with how I felt
I heard screams of laughter and saw you and your friends making light of my emotions.
I couldn't do it.
For 6 months maybe more the model of your car caught my eye
trapped it
hurting I could barely see the sun(SON?) through my third eye.
I thought we were meant to be,
invested time -- later regret.
wasted time, neglected pets, home family,
lost track-
as the time went by-
and left only a memory-
A day dream
Unrealized
and alone.



» Lola on Wed Feb 2, 2005 @ 12:00am
Title:D.I.A.
Posted On:2005-02-02 00:00:00
Posted By:» Lola
Pffff, I'm at school at this moment. I just gave in a big stupid work. Yay, I am happy happy...
Anyways, I have a big semester before me... Lol, I don't even know if I'll have time to party...
Nways, I guess that I should start to listen to the teacher...