@ana!

#10 points for reasoning behind your decision

Anonymous asked: ✪

On the twenty-first day, Severus made a friend.

It was raining again, but it was the light sort of rain that seemed to attract people to the outdoors instead of trapping them inside.  Severus’ father had told him to get some air, and had locked him out of the house a few hours earlier, and now he was picking his way along the river bank, watching with some fascination as the water drifted by, an unnatural shade of blue.

The mills would dump their waste into the river with no thoughts of the consequences – Severus was pretty sure that all muggles were foolish like that.  He couldn’t think of any other reason why they would so consciously destroy their environment, the very planet upon which they stood.    They were all fools. 

He kicked a rock moodily into the water and pulled his sweater closer to his body.  The rain was one thing, but the settling damp was something else entirely.    He could not quite bring himself to stand it, and he hated being cold.  His wrists stuck out of the sleeves of the sweater, bony and far too pale – he hated growing, hated getting taller and taller with no end in sight.  He supposed that it would stop someday.  It always did.

Some not-DH compliant Snape and Lupin come to a tentative truce fic that I’m slowly making DH compliant. Very slowly.

Anonymous asked: ✪

Mrs. Frederic’s smile was nearly wicked as she turned and headed towards the first series of gates that they would have to go through to gain access to the White House.  “Agent Wells, I fear that you may be correct, but the reports that I’ve received place this at a level that is well beyond even that.  I suggest you start within the deputy offices.  You have a two o’clock appointment with Josh Lyman.”

Myka glanced at her watch, it was one-thirty.  That meeting wasn’t happening until three if they were lucky. 

more of that west wing crossover

Anonymous asked: ✪

After a few more trips down to Quinn’s mother’s car, you both are sitting on one of the two empty bed frames in the room watching as Santana Lopez (she formally introduced herself after the second trip) wrestles with the furniture.  She’s apparently quite strong for being a tiny hot chick from Ohio – where Quinn’s from too – and she doesn’t go to Yale.

(“Full ride at the ‘Ville,” she had explained, bending down to plug in Quinn’s mini-fridge [you’re suddenly glad you didn’t bring one].  “I’m taking a year off though,” she adds, “So you’ll be seeing a bit of me.”)

Your mom went to the parent orientation with Quinn’s mother (they’d hit it off) and you’re trying to get to know Quinn. 

“So why not Lucy?”  You ask her, leaning back and kicking your bare feet out in front of you.  It’s a reasonable question, you figure, since none of the paperwork for your room says ‘Quinn’ on it.

Across the room, hands full of the support beam for Quinn’s bed, Santana Lopez freezes. 

You see how Quinn’s shoulders are suddenly arrow straight and you frown, wondering what you’ve done wrong now. 

After a moment the tension is gone and Quinn shakes her head, hair fluttering around her forehead.  “I don’t know you nearly well enough to tell you that, Abby.”  Quinn laughs, leaning against the wall.  Her dress is riding up a little bit and there are more scars on her thigh.  The sort that come from severe trauma (your dad is a surgeon; you’ve seen pictures in his texts).  You wonder what happened to her and if that’s the reason why Quinn can’t carry anything.

Some unfinished glee thing. 

Anonymous asked: ✪

“Once, when I was eight,” Hermione says, settling herself more comfortably into the crook of Fleur’s neck.  She can’t have this conversation now; she doesn’t even know where to start on the subject.  She needs more time to put her thoughts in order.  Maybe when she’s back at her parents’ house she’ll be able to actually put her thoughts together into something resembling a coherent series of sentences. She shifts, closing her eyes and hating herself for avoiding the topic on hand.  “I wanted to be a princess.”

“‘ou would make a lovely princess,” Fleur murmurs, her fingers tangling in Hermione’s hair, pulling at the curls, watching as the bounce back into place each time they’re uncurled. It’s easier to not think about things that upset her when Fleur is close by, her arms protectively wrapped around Hermione’s body. “Mais… I do not zink zat we could be togezer, you know?  Ze French, we do not ‘ave ze best track record wiz our nobility.”

Hermione huffs, a little annoyed at the insinuation that she would be the sort of French noble Fleur’s thinking of. “I wouldn’t be like your nobility – all ‘let them eat cake’ and what have you,” she explains, before shaking her head.  “No, I’d be the sort that helps people; I’d spend all my time doing good work for people who can’t help themselves.”

Teenagers 3! - “the fog”