Dreamer's Dell

Original Fic

2007-03-27T15:32:00Z

Um...well I wrote some original fiction.
Title: A Love Affair With the Piano ( Come on people, drag your minds out of the gutter.)
Summary: A boy who has always heard a piano in his head is suddenly left without its sweet tones and grows up into a boring and pathetic man. What could possibly help him?
Rating: G

As always if there are people reading this, I would love to hear from them.

He had always had music in his head. It was a comforting, constant background to the hustle and bustle of every day life. The piano inside his head would play and he would listen. The clear sound could always brighten his spirits. Then one day it just disappeared, vanished, as if it had never been.

He searched for the music that had been such a steady anthem through his childhood. Sometimes he dreamed about it, but the moment he woke up, the feeble notes he had managed to string together faded away. When he was awake, he could never remember anything at all. He had only the vague recollection that it had been there and that he was missing it. The silence left him hollow. He was a walking corpse. His soul had shriveled into a dried out blood clot. And he became as bitter as a blood orange.

Days came and went, and the years dragged on. They paraded by in a gray blur of endless monotony, the very drabness of which had a soporific effect on his personality. It became so tiring to just muddle through that he became a ghost of a person, faded into his shabby, old-fashioned wallpaper. His burden of silence deadened all life around him, shutting out the sun. He would sit and stare at the wall, knowing he had lost something, but unable to recall quite what it was he had lost. He didn’t sleep much in recent years. He was restless, a caldron of nervous energy. Across the floorboards he would pace, back and forth, back and forth-Creak, creak, creak. Every step felt like another nail in his coffin, but he couldn’t help pacing. It was a habit so ingrained he had no hope of escaping it. It was part of his day like tying his tie and brushing his teeth, a meaningless, menial chore that he had developed to fill his day. It’s an exaggeration to say that he lived; suffice it to say that he existed.

One day, as he sat at home, eating the same breakfast of dry toast and grapefruit that he had been eating for years and reading the newspaper as he always did every morning, cover to cover, he stumbled over a very small ad in the classifieds. Squeezed in between an advertisement for toothpaste and a bit about a missing dog, was a plain two line notice: “Used piano: free. See 875 Maple St.” It was practically hidden by the other garish want ads, but it caught his eye. The little blurb stood out, although, at the time, he couldn’t have said why. Maybe it was his subconscious working on over drive, or maybe it was fate. Who knows? But it popped out at him.

After breakfast he pulled on his coat and placed the ad, along with the rest of the newspaper in the recycling bin, and walked out the door. He got into his car and drove to the office and forgot all about it. But later that afternoon, as he sat at his computer, he couldn’t stop thinking about the piano. He didn’t know why; he just knew it was important. Somehow, it was important. So, after work, he went over to the little brown house on Maple St. The gingerbread house was old and tired. As he walked up the path, he began to wonder what exactly he was doing here. But, he raised a shaking hand and pressed the doorbell. For a while it seemed as if no one was coming, then a squat, little old woman opened the door.

“You’re here about the piano, “ she said. Then in a creaking, slow voice, “Come on in; it’s in the parlour.” She held open the door. The house was dark inside; all the windows were covered with heavy draperies. The house smelled musty, like old perfume and smoke. She led the way into the parlour, wherein stood an old and slightly shabby brown piano with a doily lying limply across its lid. It looked a little pathetic in the dusty gloom. He gazed at it silently for a while.

“My husband passed away and I’m moving. But I don’t have room for a piano in the apartment. Might as well give it away. It’s no use to anyone in storage.” He ran a hand along the top of the yellowed ivory keys.

“I’ll take it, “ he said quietly. When he got the piano home, he placed it in the middle of his sparsely furnished living room. He sat down at the bench and sat with his hands in his lap, just looking at it.

It wasn’t a beautiful piano. The sides were scratched and it was in need of a new coat of varnish. The keys were yellowed, but thankfully, still in tact. He placed his hands on the keys and just let them rest there, feeling the smoothness of the ivory against his fingertips, breathing in the smell of old wood and the past. He closed his eyes, reveling in the exhilaration of just sensing the piano, feeling its story.

He opened the blinds, allowing light to fall in a room that had barely seen it. He pulled out a music book for beginning piano that he had purchased on the way home. The man who had sold it to him had given him a strange look, but he didn’t care. He was going to learn. He was a little older than the average music student, but he was going to learn. And he did.

From the first halting notes he plinked out on the ancient instrument, the music ensnared him, enchanting him with the sound, its voice. Everyday he would sit and carefully pick out the notes of the music, trying to make them as perfect as his untrained fingers could make them. And everyday he got a little better. He taught himself to play little by little, day by painstaking day.

And while his playing got better, so did he. He became more alive, a three-dimensional person, no longer just a part of the wallpaper. He began to feel things again. He no longer just went through life mechanically; he lived, he breathed. His emotions came alive with every song he played, haltingly at first then more rapidly as he grasped each new musical concept. And for the first time in a long time he was almost whole.

That’s not to say he didn’t struggle; he fought to reach each new plateau. It was a constant uphill battle, but it was one he was determined to win. It was a slow, aching process, but he persevered. And he overcame.

One day, as he was sitting by the window, playing from memory, his mind wandered off, and when it returned it discovered that the fingers had a mind of their own and had continued playing of their own accord. But…wait…that wasn’t the music they had been playing before. It was different, but oddly familiar, almost as if he had heard it somewhere before, a long time ago.

His hands played faster as the music flickered between emotions, sometimes sad, sometimes not, but always with a heartfelt honesty. The innocent sincerity of the piece spoke for itself. It was life; it was an illusion; it was a child’s dream. A soul was uncovered and revealed for the world to see, complete with all its bumps and bruises, a living heart held on display, a life expressed only in sound. And for that moment, sound was all that mattered.

He closed his eyes as he carried on, not caring what was going on around him. If the world had come to an end, he wouldn’t have noticed. He’d have kept right on playing! The piano didn’t care if the world went on without it, and he was the piano. He was a part of it, just like it was a part of him, a part he had lost a very long time ago. The music slowed down and finished with a last glorious chord. He froze, and then opened his eyes. He drew in a shaky breath. He remembered.

When he headed to bed that night, he passed the piano, which, from a distance, was only a fuzzy shape in the darkness. He stood beside it and ran his hand lovingly over the old top, which he had painstakingly re-varnished. Then, on a whim, he brushed the top of the keys lightly with just the tips of his fingers in a gesture of thanks. He yawned and looked out the window at the full moon that filled the sky. He dreamed wistfully that the silvery moonlight was watching protectively over the piano, like a giant nightlight of the gods. He shook his head, laughing at himself. His mind had lost all logic, and so he went to bed, but one thought flashed through his mind, as he drifted off to sleep: Life was good. And he fell asleep smiling.

The End

Search

2007-02-03T05:14:50Z

I was wondering if anybody could rec some spin the bottle or truth or dare stories. Any pairings are fine, but I would love them to include H/D. Also, anyone know how to make a fake cut?

NEW Fic!

2007-02-03T01:27:06Z

Title: The Paths Life Takes
Series: The World Spins on Its Side
Rating:PG( the rating will vary throughout the series)
Warnings: Slash(implied)-( warnings will vary throughout the series)
Summary: I had a nice summary, but I lost it. I'll try and replace it soon. Basically, Ginny has been away from Britian and returns to see the daughter she left behind. (This will be explained.) Anyway, life leads her down some strange paths.
Ships: I'd tell.. but that would give it away.

Please comment. I'm addicted to feedback, but I never seem to get any.

The Paths Life Takes

Ginny leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. The British countryside was flying past the train window; the last time she’d seen it was seven years ago, and yet it seemed as if nothing had changed. But she had changed, she was tired and disillusioned with life; her many years as a spy had taken their toll on her. From time to time, she wondered why she bothered to come back at all. There was nothing left here for her; she felt no attachment either to the land or its people. And then she would remind herself that she was tying up one last loose end: the child she had left behind.

When her fifth year had ended, she vowed to do anything she could to help the Order. She formed contacts among spies for the cause, and then joined their ranks. She was willing to and did do whatever it took to gain information. Using Polyjuice potion, she drugged or seduced Death Eaters to further her movement. But in the course of these events, she found herself with child. To hide her actions from her family and to be able to continue serving, she contacted her superior and agreed to the plan he suggested. She gave the child up for adoption because it was the only way.

Years later, she still knows next to nothing about the events. She knows neither the child’s gender nor its name, and she knows nothing about the adopted family, all she has is an address. She was told nothing because the less she knew, the less danger there was that she would give something away to threaten the safety of the family. Now she feels she needs to shed this last link to Britain. Three weeks ago, she composed a letter to the family, and she replays it over and over in her mind, an ever-present mantra in her head, as the train continues its journey.

To Whom It May Concern:

Under the adoption contract that you signed with me seven years ago, there was a visitation clause that stated that I had the right to visit my child at a time when doing so would not be a threat to the security and safety of any of the parties involved. I am shortly going to be returning to Britain, and I have appraised the situation and found there to be no risk in such a visitation. As such, I plan to visit three weeks from today at two o’clock. If this time and date are disadvantageous, determine another. If not, I will see you then.
ID# 121579006

A day later, the owl had brought back the reply: They are acceptable. We look forward to meeting you.

The train came to a sudden stop and Ginny left; this was her stop.. She was slightly nervous as she walked the three miles to the house. When she reached it, she saw it was small and plain yet warm and welcoming. Off to her left and attached to the house, was a small garden full of bushes and flowers, and enclosed by a white picket fence. As she knocked on the door, she vaguely wondered if her loose white cotton blouse and jeans were appropriate and adjusted the barrette that held half of her hair back. Then the door swung slowly inward to real…

“Harry,” she said surprised and confused.

“Ginny! What’re you doing here? Where were you? I asked around, but nobody knew were you’d gone. It was like you’d just disappeared.”

“ I was rounding up Voldemort’s remaining followers in Ireland.” There was a long pause followed by,

“ God, Ginny, I’m sorry. I’m interrogating you on the front steps and I haven’t even had the decency to invite you in.”

“ That’s okay,” she smiled.

“ No, it’s not. Come in and I’ll introduce you to my family.” He stood aside and gestured with one arm for her to come in. She stepped inside and he closed the door behind her.

Immediately in front of her was a square, honey colored wooden table and four very simple wooden chairs, beyond that was the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets were the same color as the table as was the island. Off to her left, was a white-carpeted staircase leading to the upstairs. And to her right was a simple unlit wood burning fireplace.

“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Harry politely inquired.

“If it’s not too much trouble, please.”

“ It’s no trouble at all,” he said gesturing for her to sit down and going over to the stove to grab a green clay teapot and its matching handle-less teacups. She pulled out the nearest chair and sat at the table patiently. He walked back over to her. “Actually, we were expecting someone shortly,” he said pouring tea into a cup which she accepted gratefully and then sitting down across from her and filling his own cup.“ So, what’s been going on lately?”

“Like I said, I was in Ireland; I’ve been rounding up rogue Death Eaters for the past seven years. No matter how many we catch, there’re always two more to take the place of every one we capture. It’s old news anyway; the Ministry’s been after them since before the war. What’s been going on in Britain? I’ve sort of lost touch.”

“Actually, it’s been pretty quite lately-“ He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and her attention was diverted to the stairs. At their foot, she spied a tall, slender blonde woman dressed in jeans and a white long sleeved shirt whispering to a small child with wavy red hair. The women’s back was turned, so that all Ginny could see was her white-blonde hair that was pulled back into a ponytail by a soft leather tie and cascaded gracefully down her back. She handed the child a sweater who grabbed it impatiently and dashed out to the garden through a set of sliding glass doors to Ginny’s left, pulling her arms into the loose gray knit sweater’s sleeves as she went. The lady bent down to pick up something on the stairs and fold it.

As she did, Ginny, feeling the need to be polite, stood up and offered her hand to the woman, introducing herself, “Hi, I’m Ginny Weasley, and you must be Harry’s wife.” The woman started and stood up, saying laughingly,

“ That’s not exactly the term I would have used, but close enough.” When she turned to face Ginny, Ginny realized that this wasn’t a woman at all- it was a man, and not just any man but,

“Malfoy, what are you doing here?” she asked, obviously confused.

“I would think at this point it would be apparent. Harry, why didn’t you tell her?”

“ Well, that would have been a bit sudden to spring that on her as soon as she walked in the door. Hello, how are you? Oh, by the way, I’m co-habiting with Draco Malfoy. That would have gone over well. And I never expected her to mistake you for a woman; although, I have to say, it was amusing. Anyway sit down and join us.”

Draco tentatively pulled out the chair closest to the fireplace. “Now where were we?” Draco asked sarcastically, “ Oh, I remember, you were calling me Harry’s wife!”

“ I’m sorry, I was just well, surprised, is all,” she stammered.

“It’s aright. I’m not going to curse you. Here let me fill you in on what Harry neglected to tell you: We’re together. We have an adopted daughter, and we share a house. Any questions?” Draco delivered this to an astounded audience.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing outside the wizarding world in the middle of nowhere?” Ginny questioned.

“I’ll take this one,” Harry said,” Well, basically we want to avoid the press. Can you imagine? We’re controversial separately, but put us together and you’ve got a media sensation. Do you honestly think that either of us want that? Do you think any child should have to deal with that? As things stand right now, very few people even know we’re together. Your family knows, but let’s say with the exception of Fred and George, they didn’t take it well. Fred and George are the little girl’s godfathers. Anyway, addressing why we live in the country, it’s quite simple. The fewer neighbors we have, the less we have to worry about hiding our magic. So, Ginny, I never got an answer; why are you here?”

Ginny was absorbing all that Harry had told her and looking the sliding glass doors into the garden and didn’t hear the question. The little girl was spinning slowly around with one arm up reached and her face to the sky. Her hair flashed scarlet and copper in the afternoon sun. She was surrounded by bubbles: their clear crystal globes shining with tiny rainbows.

“Ginny? Ginny?” Harry called her from her silent contemplation.

“ Where did she get the bubbles?” Ginny wondered aloud.

Harry answered absently, “Fred and George gave them to her; they don’t pop and they won’t blow away, “ then he said gently, “ Ginny you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

“ I’m here to visit my child.” Her declaration was met with silence, until,

“ What?”

“ A-At first I thought I had the wrong address,” she stuttered. “But then the pieces kept falling in place: the secrecy of the adoption, the lack of information, even the girl’s hair color for Merlin’s sake.”

“ Um, actually, I don’t think-,” Harry began. Ginny interrupted him “ … how you were even waiting for somebody at the exact same time.”

“Ginny, if you’re the mother, then who’s the father?” Draco inquired quietly.

“Do you remember how Snape served as a spy during the war? Well, I did the same thing except my work was more…well…personal. I drugged and seduced Death Eaters, Harry. I offered up everything I had to the cause. I couldn’t keep the baby; my family would be horrified at what I had done. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask for their help, and I couldn’t carry it with me. Well, you know the rest of the story.” She spoke half to them and half to herself, all the while drawing circles on the table with her finger.

“Do you know which Death Eater was the father?” Draco asked gently. She said quietly,

“No, I don’t.” Harry deciding to lighten the mood asked, “ Do you want to meet your daughter?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“Draco could you call her in?” Draco walked over to the door, slid it open, and signaled for the girl to come inside. She skipped over to stand before Ginny as if for inspection.

“This is Fuega Helada Malfoy,” Harry introduced her. The little girl stood very still as Ginny looked at her; she wore a gray cotton t-shirt with a small pink corduroy heart sown it under the sweater, and she had on a knee-length skirt made out of pink, orange, and red squares of corduroy sown together. And for the first time Ginny could clearly see the girl’s face.
Her face was perfect and open, and she had black eyes. As Ginny examined her, she noticed that the girl’s face and hands had an odd gray tint to them. She took a napkin from the dispenser on the table, and wet it. She began wiping the child’s face and hands and muttering, “ I’m going to kill Fred and George. They should know better than test out their inventions on children.”

“Relax Ginny,” Harry said laughingly, “the bubbles haven’t done anything!” She kept cleaning.

“They have! They’ve-,” she said.

Draco cut her off. “She-,” he began, but was stopped as something began to happen. Ginny’s eyes were drawn to the girl. Something was changing. The child’s eyes grew black until no white showed and her skin grew steadily darker. A gray-green light surrounded her and her hair blew back and fanned out around her, the light glinted off her hair, highlighting each strand and making it seem to almost glow. Her clothes had become an ivory off the shoulder dress. Ginny laid a hand on the girl’s cheek. The girl jerked back. Ginny pulled her hand quickly back and cradled it to her chest, glancing back at the girl. Then, the girl’s hair began to pale and the glow disappeared. Her skin began to lighten as did her eyes. That’s when Ginny noticed the roots of the girl’s hair had begun to turn white-blonde and straighten. Her skin was now china white and her eyes were a metallic silver blue. She now wore a blue dress with braided straps and the skirt of which was made out of torn, overlapping scraps of purple and blue gauze. A few stands of hair hanging about her face began to turn cerulean; these strands along with several white-blonde ones pulled back behind her head and knit themselves into a perfect Celtic knot. Finally, tints of blue spiraled out beneath her skin. Fuega Helada turned away coldly and walked upstairs.

“ What in Merlin’s name happened?” Ginny asked nearly hysterical, she was shaking slightly and looking quite pale.

“ That’s nothing try holding a new baby and thinking it can’t breathe because it’s turning blue,” Draco told her. “ She’s a Metamorphmagus and her accidental magic’s through the roof,” Harry interjected helpfully, “Actually she’s only got one other form that you didn’t see. They vary and change with emotion.”

“ You didn’t even see the full transformation with that last form. At the end, the blue under skin manifests into indigo tattoos. You try taking a four year old covered in tattoos to the supermarket and then explaining their sudden disappearance, or the changes in eye and hair color,” Draco interjected. But their words fell on deaf ears. Ginny was now shaking like a leaf and looking at the stairs with stark terror on her face. She swore she could see green eyes glinting through the dimness upstairs.

She stood up abruptly causing her cup to shatter on the floor. She threw herself at the door and blindly attempted to open it. She practically fell out when the door finally opened. Harry and Draco looked helplessly out the front door. And as she walked away she reproached herself over and over, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault."

Birthday Fic From Prompt

2007-01-03T18:13:34Z

Title: This Is How It Ends (Part 1)
Rating: PG( As of now)
Pairings: None,yet.
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Abuse
Summary: Lucius punishes Draco the Muggle way. He doesn't achive the results he hopes.
Word Count: 3,664

This was written for silentauror for her birthday. I promised I would write her three fics using the prompts she gave me. The plot bunny jumped me though. So this is going to be a mulichaptered fic that includes all the prompts. The prompt included in this chapter is... belts. And of course feedback is always appreciated.

It's at happy_berday_sa

Or Chapter 1: Crack!

The cane swung through the air to meet his head. The metal handle struck him just behind his left temple. He crumpled to the floor to be hit again and again on his back and legs. He watched the blood begin to pool on the marble foyer floor. The pain was forcing the edges of his world black. So this was how it ended. He fell at his father’s feet. He died at his father’s hand.
________________________________________________________________________

Draco was playing in the gardens, hiding among the ferns, making little shapes out of mud. His mother was sitting nearby on a lawn chair, watching the little boy fondly as he played.

His little game, whatever it was, amused him greatly, and every few minutes he would jump out and squeak with childish glee. Every once in a while, the six year old would try to taste the dirt and his mother would have to intervene. At one such time, he began to stumblingly explain to her, “ But I’m makin’ mud pies. I’se supposed to eat them.”

Narcissa wheedled the mud away from him saying, “ Wouldn’t you rather have a nice cucumber sandwich, my love? The house elves made them just for you, and you know how they get depressed when you won’t eat their sandwiches. You don’t want them to cry do you? Your morning eggs get all salty when they cry, remember?” He reluctantly gave in to the simple logic and followed her inside to the parlor.

The innocence and fun of the afternoon was not to last. They had barely sat down to tea when the figure of his father darkened the doorframe. “ Draco, come. Now.” Narcissa stopped smiling and nudged Draco out of his chair. The little boy obediently hopped down from the elegant parlor chair and went to his father.

Lucius wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and squeezing tightly, propelled him out of the room. And up into his study. Draco began to drag his feet.

“ No, I don’t want to go in the study. No!!!” But there was nothing he could do.

Lucius stood in front of him, foreboding; he loomed large over his tiny son. “ Shut up,” he commanded him, “Shut up!” But the little boy refused to stop crying hysterically.

“ Where’s Mummy? I want Mummy. I want to go back. I want to go back. Daddy, please!” And with that Lucius struck Draco across the face. The child’s head snapped viciously to one side and his cries for help became muffled and strangled to turn into pitiful whimpering. But his tears would avail him not. Daddy wanted a little soldier, not a crybaby. He had heard the lecture many times before, but never before had his Daddy hit him.

Lucius straightened up to address his cowering son in cold, dangerous tone. “The house elves told me that my son, my pureblood son was playing in the mud like a filthy little Mudblood, like a Muggle. Do you deny it?”

Draco began to explain, “ I was only makin’ pies. The mud makes good pies.”

“Don’t lie to me! You were undermining everything this family stands for. And therefore, you dishonor me. And I will not be dishonored! If you want to play like a Muggle, then you’ll be treated like one!”

He pulled a parcel wrapped in brown paper out of his robes and began to unwrap in front of the terrified boy. Then, he held up a strip of leather with a buckle at one end, and swung it back and forth in front of the boy.

“ Do you know what this is, hmm?” Draco remained silent, transfixed by with pendulum before him. “ No guesses, well then. It’s called a “belt”. Do you know what it’s used for? Of course you don’t, but you will learn. Oh, yes, you will learn. When Muggle children are bad, they are beaten with this. And so shall you, if you act like a Muggle, you will be treated like one. I suggest that you start acting like the wizard you are, or you and the belt are going to become very well acquainted. Stand against the wall!”

Draco moved to stand where he was told. He was going to be okay. He was getting off with a warning. If he did everything his father asked, he would be fine.

Lucius Malfoy walked up behind his son and asked him how many mud pies he had made.

Draco, anxious to appease his father told him, “ Five, sir.”

With that, Lucius Malfoy raised the belt and brought it down on his son’s back. Crack!

The crack of the belt hitting the boy echoed throughout the house. In the parlor, Narcissa winced at the sound. Four more times the belt made contact. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

At the end, Narcissa fell sobbing into the arms of the house elves. The house was quiet as tomb. The only sound that of the sobbing and wailing of its mistress.

Round Robin Part IV

2006-12-24T16:10:55Z

Title of Chapter: Death by Cookies
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I made up the song.

Hey, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I enjoyed writing it. Please comment. I apoligize in advance for only limited dialogue. I don't use it often.

The morning dawned frigid and frosty, much to the displeasure of the Brotherhood. You would not believe the protests that emerged from such a hardened terrorist cell at having to get out of bed onto a cold floor in the wee hours of the morning. So it was with only with loud grumbling and bursts of sporadic cursing, that they bundled themselves onto their personal plane and off to the great Canadian wilderness in pursuit of the infamous and elusive creature known as the perfect Christmas tree.

The plane ride held the uncomfortable angry silence of last night with the oh so unwelcome addition of seething resentment. Needless to say, the entire ride was tantamount to torture. The cold gray morning light greeted them as they touched down in the middle of a pine forest. Surely, their odds of replacing the stupid tree and returning home for lunch were good, if only because of the sheer quantity and abundance of the prickly green trees.

Magneto stepped out and true to form explained the situation with his usual style and flair for the dramatic, consequently breaking the enforced silence. “ Our calling this winter morning is to replace the Christmas tree we took without permission and then proceeded to destroy, nay, vaporize. We are to find a tree of equal or greater magnificence, cut it down without hurting ourselves, decorate it, and deliver it personally along with a sincere verbal apology. We will not be getting a tree for ourselves; we are not tree people. You have already proved that you are too inept to handle a live tree. We will be buying a plastic one at Wal-Mart. Then, if you can mange that, you may have access to the kitchen and be allowed to carry on your senseless frivolity with the making of holiday cookies. If any of you misbehaves, I will be forced to revoke this privilege. Any questions?” The sound of silence could be heard as every holiday minded Brotherhood mutant struggled to convey their currently angelic intentions and complete obedience to Erik through only the medium of perfect posture. That lasted until Pyro poked Juggernaut unseen by Mystique or Magneto. Then they returned to their normal slacker postures and customary chatter, which was now a strange mix of holiday excitement and tactical theory.

They inspected every tree with care; it had to be perfect. Every so often, someone would point out a tree they liked, but Erik shot them down. He claimed that only a perfectly shaped, unnaturally green, and absolutely healthy tree was acceptable. Every tree they saw was lopsided, pale, and sickly in his opinion. Callisto began to mutter, “Why is he suddenly this great tree expert? They all look fine to me. Just pick one, and let’s go.” They others silently nodded in agreement. But Magneto would not be swayed. They would find the perfect tree or die trying.

In fact, it almost came to that. Hours came and went, the sun rose high in the sky, and yet, there they were: still there. The cold had begun to take its effect on the little band. Pyro seemed to be taking it the worst. He was shivering quite badly and complaining loudly. He was not a winter person. Erik had chivalrously draped his cloak over Mystique’s shoulders. She hadn’t said anything, but he knew she was just putting a brave face on for Callisto and himself. Then finally, there it was straight ahead. A tree that even Erik couldn’t object to.

There was no way that Erik was cutting down that tree. If it wasn’t made of metal, he just wasn’t interested….but who to trust with the saw? The lot fell to Archlight and she complained bitterly about spoiling her fishnet tights and skirt, but when Erik glared at her she got right to work and cut it down without too much trouble. Then came the long dragging trudge to get the tree back and into the plane. The whole way back Archlight moaned that the sap wouldn’t come off her hands.

The plane at last came into view and they all but ran to meet it and get into the warm, dry interior. Fitting the tree in made the cabin a little cramped, but they managed. Back at home; Magneto carefully re-crafted every ornament that had been on the tree. Deciding it was better to record the apology, rather than go in person, he pulled out the video camera. It was difficult to get everyone to sit close enough together to fit on the screen. Getting them to sing in unison was almost impossible. It had been Mystique’s call to make the apology in the tune of a Christmas carol. It went something like this:

Sorry We Stole Your Tree- to the tune of Jingle Bells

Sorry we stole your tree
We watched you having fun
You had a place to place your gifts.
And sadly we had none.

Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry
Sorry, sorry, sorry
We burned it to the ground
It was an accident, I swear
Please don’t be angry. HEY.

Here ‘s a brand new tree
With all apology
We humbly place it your feet
And beg you take it in.

Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry
Sorry, sorry, sorry
We burned it to the ground
It was an accident, I swear
Please don’t be angry. HEY.

Perhaps they should have rethought this. But when the Mansion received it they laughed for hours. So maybe that was a good thing. Magneto took it over personally because minions don’t always do the job right or even at all. Mystique, meanwhile took the group to Wal-Mart, where they bought a green plastic tree and splurged on gifts that ranged from the ordinary to the bizarre even by their standards, but that is a story for another day.

Christmas cookies, on the other hand, are a completely different matter. It was an unforeseen disaster waiting to happen, and happen it did.

Mystique took charge and arranged the ingredients and the recipe on the counter and called in the troops. They ran, tripping over each other to be involved. Mystique put Pyro in charge of measuring the ingredients. He would hand the measured substance to Archlight who would happily dump it in. Juggernaut mixed the dough and Callisto broke the eggs. In this way, the dough came out quite well.

That’s where it got a little unorthodox. First off, they refused to use cookie cutters. They absolutely insisted that it quashed their creativity and violated their artistic vision. Mystique threw her hands up at such an odd request thinking, “What harm can it do?” Well, she was about to find out.

She pulled out the sprinkles and the candies and the icing and set them on the counter. She portioned out dough to everyone, along with rolling pins and flour.

Juggernaut began making a three dimensional snowman. When Mystique cautioned that perhaps it wouldn’t cook. Juggernaut crossed his arms and patiently explained to her that he liked dough anyway and that she was not the one to be judging his creative genius because she was not making a cookie, which clearly meant that she was incapable of any sort of artistry, clearly ignoring the fact that every form she took was art mimicking life.

She had to admit though that the snowman was well done. He had made a top hat out of icing and buttons out of M&Ms, the nose was a kernel of candy corn, and the face was made out of chocolate chips. The scarf in particular was very nice. It had been made out of different colors of licorice twisted together and had been molded to look as if the wind were blowing.

She moved on to Pyro, who had made circles and put chocolate chips in them. Biting her tongue, she refrained from mentioning that this was not original nor was it holiday themed. What good would it do? Besides, he had already baked them with his power. She snagged a few to give to Erik later.

Callisto had rolled out the dough and molded it into a perfect replica of Erik’s face. Mystique “accidentally” dropped a heavy bowl on it. Thereby, irreparably ruining it, or so she was told. Callisto then switched to making cookies in various abstract shapes and covering them with powdered silver sprinkles to make them look like shards of metal. Giving up, Mystique moved on to Toad.

He had put mango in the blender to make a dye to brush on his cookies, which turned out to be like a gourmet version of Christmas cookies. Mystique stole a few when his back was turned. Just then, he turned the blender on again and left the top off. The entire kitchen got splattered.

Archlight had done nothing with her dough and began throwing it at her teammates. They flung it back and it denigrated into a dough war of massive proportions. The snowman was mercifully saved by a protecting armor of upturned Tupperware. This prevented the obvious result of Juggernaut crying all night, for which Mystique was very thankful. The kitchen was sticky and covered in cookie toppings of all kinds.

Mystique shooed off all the Brotherhood members, packed up the surviving cookies, and cleaned up the kitchen, which took hours.

When ten o’clock came around she had just finished. She was sticky, exhausted, and ready to strangle Erik for letting them make cookies and leaving her in charge of this apparently destructive activity.

She stalked into their shared bedroom, ready to yell at him for a half an hour straight. But she found him reading peacefully, and all her anger melted away. She crawled onto the bed and curled up next to him.

“Might I inquire as to why you are sticky and covered in cookie dough?” Mystique’s only response was to hand him the cookies she had put away for him earlier and responded in a deadpan voice, “Minions.”

“Oh, “ realizing the hell she had just been put through, he graciously accepted the offering of cookies.

She watched him eat for a while and then sat up, running her hands up and down her arms and bemoaning her sticky state. “ I’m all covered in cookie dough. How did they manage to get that dough on the ceiling? I had to clean upside down on the ceiling.”

Erik put his arm around her, comforting her as best he could.

“ Don’t, I’ll get cookie dough all over you too.” She turned toward him and he saw that she had cookie dough smudged on her cheek. And his heart went out to her she looked so forlorn and sad, almost like a little girl again. That face and the dough on her cheek just broke his heart. This one image reminded him of everything he loved about her. She had such a myriad of personalities, but he loved it when she was vulnerable, when she really dropped all her barriers of bravado and just let him in. When he could just take care of her, and make everything all right, when he could do what he couldn’t do for the world they lived in.

“I like cookie dough,” he said playfully. She shrugged him off at the joke. But he wasn’t joking. He pulled on her hand, and she turned around to face him. He cupped her cheek in his hand and leaned forward to lick the dough off her face.

She giggled, but it wasn’t a joke. He gently laid her back and straddled her hips. He then proceeded to lick all the dough off her body, inch by inch. He was very thorough and even managed to cover some areas that weren’t covered in cookie dough. Then he captured her face in a gentle, loving kiss. She arched up toward him. Then, she pulled his head down to her mouth and whispered in his ear, “I’m glad you like cookie dough.”

AN: Somebody jump in with the presents and gifts! I can’t wait to see what you do and where you take the story. Good Luck and Happy Holidays!

Fic Search

2006-11-26T22:51:14Z

Sorry to bother but does anyone know of some good Harry/Draco where Draco is blind? Please!!! I know it's an odd request, but Draco is so awesome when he's vulnerable. Alternatively blind Harry would be interesting. Where might I find such precious jewels? * looks under fic rocks of the fandom universe*

Poetry

2006-11-26T22:33:41Z

Figuered it was about time to introduce my poetry, such as it is.
Enjoy.
The Fall of Humanity

The fall of humanity is heralded by
The trumpets of doom
The waterfall’s frozen sight
The loss of something we didn’t even know existed
We struggle with this revelation
As the laws of physics suddenly break
The rules on which society is based
Crumble in the face of such impossibility
The darkness that was hiding on the fringes of the picture
Swoops in to blanket the city
Leaving hope a relic of another time
Another age long since passed
Amidst the screaming and the bloodshed
We don’t even notice
The signs of our impending doom
We have lost and we do not realize it
Not yet not until it is too late
For anything to be done
Our laments mean nothing to the empty cosmos
Our pleas fall on no ears but our own
We are alone
We never thought we were alone
In all our time we imagined
We desperately needed to believe
That we were not alone
And so we made it all up
And we believed it
We were wrong
The universe is empty
Our souls do not exist
The fire of life belonged solely to us
What have we done
What have we done

Park Angel

I’m falling farther every time.
I’m slipping more often.
Every hour that goes by.
I find myself more lost
Than I’ve ever been before.
I don’t know which way is up.
And I’ve nowhere left to turn.
I’m lost among the graves
Of people that let go.
They just might claim this
Wandering soul tonight.

The path is growing dark.
And I just don’t know the way.
Time is running out.
And I’ve nobody to say
“It’s all gonna’ be okay.”

The rain has drowned me
In a hundred years of time.
Taken all I had,
And washed it all away.
I’m in a prison cell with
No way to escape.
I just might take the alternate
Road tonight.

I’ve known so many
Cold nights, and
So many lonely days.
I spent my life on park benches,
Crying in the rain.

And I don’t know what
I’ve lived for, but,
Lord I know I’ve tried.
I don’t where I’m going;
I don’t know if I done right.
But may spirits guide
My footsteps tonight.

I find some dry old paper,
And I set a lonely light.
I have one more thing to do
Before I leave this place tonight.

An old woman wanders, ever closer
In the dark, following the spark.
I give her my old coat,
Thought it’s seen some better days.
And I press into her hands
All the money that I’ve saved.
What a picture we must make
The old forgotten woman and I

I climb up on the bridge
That overlooks the sea
I spread my arms
As wide as if to hold a city
Like they would have me flying tonight.
I stand upon railing,
An angel of the void,
Wishing peace to all who sleep tonight.

I cast off all my sadness.
And I throw off all my fear.
I push off with my feet
And leap into the air,
Claiming the final choice tonight.

shadowgirl573 @ 2006-11-25T22:13:00

2006-11-26T03:13:01Z

I feel so alone. I'm a feedback junkie, but there's *gasp* no comments. If anybody's read this please comment/friend me.

More fics coming soon. I promise.

H/D fic part 1

2006-11-23T12:56:36Z

Title: Just For Tonight
Warnings: H/D, slash
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, but the songs are mine.
Ships: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG- for this chapter
Summary: Set after book 6, with alternate ending. Harry does manage to push away Ron and Hermione and stays at school. All Harry wants are things he can't have.

Wanting What You Can’t Have
It hurts to want what you can’t have, what can never be. Watching the object of your obsession is worse. Every day I am forced to stand and watch as he goes about life oblivious to the agony he causes me with his every look and jeer; his very presence is like a slow poison destroying me from the inside out. What can I do but watch; he is so beautiful, an inhuman angel, ethereal; unattainable. Gods, but I want him. I am like a moth drawn to the candle flame, burning myself again and again on his radiance. I am the stargazer who looks to the heavens, wishing to soar into the celestial world from which I am ever barred. I’m pathetic in my neediness and I hate him for it. I hate him, even though he does not know. And for this I hate myself. Every now and then, the sound of whispering and the feeling of being watched interrupt my musings, and more than anything I want to disappear. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. I don’t think I ever will be. I didn’t ask for this it just came to me like everything else, like my eye color and unruly hair, like my talent for attracting danger and death like carrion. It clings to me like my skin; I could no sooner rid myself of it however much I want to. I wish I could just wish everything away, but I can’t. They say misery loves company; they’re delusional. Misery loves breaking things, wearing away at the soul. Misery loves seclusion where it can spread unfettered by the outside world. It closes you off from everything around you leaving you with precious little world. Then it constricts even more and fills the room with a tangible thickness, coating you until you drown in tears. Alone, you fall all the faster and you never rise back up. My thoughts have been dark for some time now, ever since I realized the liability I have become and walked away because I couldn’t be responsible for another death. Nobody should die for me. I’m can’t be the impossible idol they have imagined for themselves. I’m not perfect. Don’t treat me as if I am. I can’t play God. I cannot and will not deal out death and judgment. So, I did the only thing I could I walked away. Away from the dreams they dreamed for me. But, trouble is I can never run far enough away to escape completely from the world; a world that thinks it owns me. I sit here on the grounds and watch the world around me. I feel so isolated. I watch a play for which the world is the stage, a never-ending tapestry of comedy and tragedy. A pity, they never realize the fantasy. The puppets never notice that others pull the strings. I pity them, but in a way I envy them their naivety. They are so innocent, so carefree. Would that I could shield them forever, but ignorance is just as dangerous as truth if not more so. Ignorance is the seed of which hate and misfortune are the fruits. Such is life: a pile of impossible questions with contradicting answers. How much more do I have to lose before the fates cry, “Enough”? My life? Everyone I love? Must I lose everything and be made to watch, to linger on alone, a relic frozen in time by unthinkable horrors? How much longer can I go on? I am so tired, so very tired. I’m tired of war and death and pain. I’m tired of uncertainty. And, even more, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying, but more afraid of living. I’m afraid because, if I live, how will I go back? Living in memories would be bad enough. Reliving pain and the death of all those I loved would be a living death. Autumn leaves swirl around me, obscuring all but a black form, eyes burning. I am silent and cold; it’s the only way I can carry on. I shut off all emotion; I’m little more then an animated corpse, simply waiting for my grave. I inspire fear now. If I were to actually walk among them, I would smother conversation like the plague. If Voldemort’s followers are Death Eaters, then I am just as surely a Death-Bringer. I attract the Death Eaters and feed them. Death follows in my footsteps, the Death Eaters follow Death, and I follow the Death-Eaters, a never-ending circle of torment and death. It never stops; the torture subsides for now, but the pain lingers on. What I want most is to be free of my destiny of war and death. To once and for all, be rid of the fame of being The-Boy-Who- (Did this or that). I just want to be me, to follow my dreams, to live my life according to my rules. And for the second time in as many days, I hold my head in my hands and cry. I wake up as I do every morning. I stare at the ceiling and wonder why I’m not dead yet. Sometimes I think it would be better to die than to play this waiting game. Death cannot possibly be worse than the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that at any second I could cease to exist. I don’t believe in hell; hell is living like this. And always when I think this existence has gotten as bad as it can possibly get, something else happens to me. I’m almost at the point where I’m going to walk out into a field and yell at Voldemort to take me. If it weren’t for those who would suffer, I would. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday at lunch.
I pull on a shirt and jeans and make my way into the Great Hall. I sit off to one side and busy myself with orange juice and oatmeal. I keep me eyes downcast and try to remain as invisible as possible. I tell myself: If I don’t look up, no one will speak to me. If I don’t make a sound, they won’t notice me. If no one notices me, they’ll forget about me. I tell myself this, but even I don’t believe it. No amount of silence can quiet the gossip. No amount of stillness will make me invisible. I think about how people treat death as some juicy piece of gossip and I find my oatmeal no longer appetizing. I push it away in disgust. I guess that’s another meal I’ll be skipping. I eat so little now, that you can see my ribs through my shirt. At first, everyone was concerned about me, saying, “ Harry, you’ve got to eat.” And “ Harry, how are you ever going to be strong enough to face Voldemort if you don’t eat.” I ignored the false concern. It grated on my nerves. How can someone say awful things about you one minute and the next be all concerned for your well-being? People are so false, so self-serving. They will say whatever, do whatever it takes to further their ends. They just honey coat the poison, nothing more. Hearing footsteps, I look up preparing to tell the next falsely sympathetic nursemaid off and find myself meeting a pair of haunting silver eyes filled not with false worry, but with antagonism.

I glare back summoning all the turmoil I feel and converting it into one emotion: hate. “ What’s the matter Potter? Got no friends?” Draco taunts. “What’s the matter Malfoy? Got no nerve?” I goad back. ”What?” he shrieks in surprise. “I was there; I saw you. You didn’t even have the guts to follow orders when your life depended on it.” “I’ll…I’ll…” he stammers. “You’ll do what? Sneer me to death? Not so brave without your bodyguards, are you? Go to hell Malfoy.” I stand up and walk away.

As soon as I’m out of sight I slump down against a wall and hold my head in my hands. Why do I have to react? Why do I always have to react? It’s not even real anymore. I look at him and all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss him, just once. I want to wrap my arms around him and feel his heartbeat alongside mine. Instead, I respond with insults. Brilliant move, Potter, now he’ll really love you; he’ll be more likely to curse you into the next century now, than kiss you. Get a hold of yourself. It’s not like that would have ever happened anyway. You’re the idiot who rejected him immediately. You’re the one that started this whole mess. Don’t think about it now. Pull yourself together.

I stand, replacing my agony with a mask of cold disinterest. I’ve become so used to hiding that it doesn’t require much effort anymore. When I first started masking my true self, I found that eyes were always the hardest. They telegraph every emotion with frightening clarity. I guess that’s why they’re considered windows to the soul; you can look into someone’s eyes and see it the depths.

I don’t know myself anymore.
I thought I knew a long time ago,
But I’ve come to realize that dreams often lie.
I’ve the lost the understanding in my life.
I thought I knew what I was looking for.
I thought I knew where I was heading for.
And now I’m not so sure.
I hid from the world, but most of all
I hid from myself.
I slowly came to realize that I was being used,
that others controlled my destiny
on a path where I had so much to lose.
I ran away from the world that didn’t want me.
I ran away from a fate I didn’t choose.
But now I’m lost on a path with no direction.
I lost my soul when I tried to find myself.
And I can’t go back to a cause I don’t believe.
And I won’t go back to a way of life that I cannot conceive.
Where am I going?
Is my soul just make-believe?

I go through the day, hardly noticing what’s going on. I manage to make it through my classes, though how I do I cannot imagine. At the end of the day I drag myself to bed and stare out the window, watching the sky become an inky purple in the twilight. As the stars begin to appear, I wonder how different my life might have been. The night sky always holds a melancholy beauty. The stars have seen everything since the beginning of time. The world is filled with so much pain and death, it is a wonder that the stars do not weep. Stars are so constant, yet I feel I am caught in a whirlwind of misfortune. In a way, I blame the stars. If fate is written in the stars, then their fixed positions are responsible for my troubles. And looking up at those stars I realize just how alone I am. There are so many stars. The stars can never be alone. And I find myself wondering who else is looking about at the same stars feeling alone in the vast void of space. I don’t sleep at all tonight but remain staring out the window, losing myself among the stars.

Author’s Note: (change to Draco’s point of view)

I stand on the Astronomy Tower’s roof and lean against the railing, letting the wind blow in my face. Sometimes it almost seems that the wind is a spirit, offering guidance and strength. I had to get out of the dungeons, for a while. After a while, the walls seem to be closing in on you. That’s when I come up here. Up here the wind speaks of freedom; the sky is filled with whirling chaos, liberating in its openness. I feel as if I could fly away from my problems; go to the ends of the earth and find a measure of peace. Nights like this persuade me to believe that there is still peace in this world. I only wish there was someone I could share this feeling with, the feeling of absolute freedom.

New fic

2006-11-06T22:33:28Z

Responce to Mourning prompt ffrom cruellyhandsome.
Rating: PG
Warnings: slash relationship
Summary: Erik mourns
Type: Movieverse
Pairings: Magneto/Mystique Charles Xavier/Magneto
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Words; about 1,100

I needed to be alone. I needed to leave behind the crushing concrete and cold metal of the city. I felt trapped, entombed in memory, encased in air so thick that it was suffocating. So I came out here, where things do not change, where complications don't exist. Here it is so still, so peaceful, and yet, only miles away a storm is brewing; a war is coming. We have only to wait for the hatred and prejudice to overflow, and then it will be upon us. The peace here is an illusion, but one which I desperately need. I know it is weakness, but it is one I shall only indulge in once.

The trees are bare and desolate. An occasional orange leaf clings to the stripped branches, fluttering madly in the wind that scours the forest, bowing the trees and racing down the many paths that seem it exist, but may not after all. The place is sad and empty, but so too are my memories. The cold, gray sky echoes the solemnity of this brief lapse in control, for I have come to mourn. The memories are as clear as if their contents had just come to pass. In reality, it has been months or even years since their events came to pass.

[10 years earlier]

We stood before the school that we had built together, Charles and I. The grounds suggest a peacefulness. The air suggests a silence. For us, neither exists. We are screaming, yelling in our minds. Before, Charles's telepathy provided a rae intimacy; these past weeks, it has meant there is no sanctuary. It is a constant invasion of privacy, ripping from me my innermost thoughts.

"How can you know what those butchers did to me and tell me it isn't happening again? It's the same. There are the same signs, the same hate, the desperate need to destroy a race."

"But there is hope, there are people who will not let it come to pass a second time. Humanity has learned, and the genocide you claim is coming will not exist. There is good in humanity."

"What do plan to do if humanity fails, as it has throughout history? If history repeats itself? What then? When your hope has crumble into dust, will you believe even still? We have seen what happens when you ignore the signs. You have seen it. You have seen the holocaust in my nightmares and you dare to tell me that I am wrong to doubt your beloved homo sapiens? I trusted you with my soul, my fears, and you choose to believe in the essential good. You feel compassion for the very people who inflicted suffering upon a nation and who will do it again."

" Part of being homo superior is that we have to be better. Our insight comes at a price, Erik. Never forget that. Not everyone has our gifts, our vision. Can't you understand why they're afraid? They are afraid that they're going to die. They see mutation as Armegeddon, the collapse of society. They believe that the world is crumbling away. They are being left behind. Don't you see why they cling so tightly? They feel they are losing everything. They are their children are losing the one thing that could never be taken from them before, their humanity. They are sentient beings, and they are terrified of going outside. This is the start of a new age that not everyone can so easily accept. humanity deserves the chance, Erik. Let them have the opportunity to prove their worth."

"They had their chance; they failed me. And so have you. You have betrayed me, you who I trusted above all others. I don't understand you anymore. I can't live like this. I can't censor my mind. And I can't follow your dream. Goodbye, Charles."

[Present]

I walked away that day. I couldn't bear it anymore. That day I lost everything.

[ 3 months earlier]

I walk away, and I know I am a coward. I have betrayed she whom I hold most dear. I left a broken little girl on the cold, steel floor of the government truck. But what use have we for a broken girl? She is no longer an asset, only a liability. One weak link, one exception will be our undoing. The woman I knew died before my eyes back there, fading into oblivion. She is dead, and there's nothing I can do. She's not coming back. She died a martyr. She died to save me. I knew the mutant; there is only a human. She has no place here. I cannot make the exception now; I am too old to change. All I have known for 10 years is that humans are useless and dangerous. We cannot afford to make sentimental mistakes. We cannot afford weaknesses; they serve only to be exploited. She is dead to me.

[Present]

I walked away that day too. I couldn't see how blind I had become, how very lost I was.

[ 2 1/2 months earlier]

I stand there. I am responsible. His blood is on my hands. I'm the one who blamed him for her suffering. I should have known. I watched him disintegrate, and I did nothing to help him. What kind of monster have I become?

[Present]

I have held so much inside for much too long. I have lost too much in too short a time. I have been so wrong; I've made so many mistakes. Why am I the one left alive? I lift my hand over a large, white stone, and it sinks into the earth, until its face is even with the ground. I put out my hand again and liquid metal wells up from the stone and forms in pools. They harden, forming an inscription:

Charles Xavier & Mystique
Died 2006
Beloved and lost too soon.
Realized too late.
Farewell.

I reach into my cloak and pull out the metal balls from my study. Under my careful control, they shift into a rose. Careful not to cut myself on the metal thorns or sharp petals, I place it on the stone. "I was so wrong, but it is done. I cannot change the past. Farewell, old friends." I turn away and walk back the way I have come. I reach the edge of the woods and fade into the city, another nameless, forgotten face among hundreds.

shadowgirl573 @ 2006-09-24T10:56:00

2006-09-24T15:59:28Z

Mystique/Magneto fic

Here it is:

Current mood: predatory
Title: The View From the Mirror
Words:418
Type: Movieverse
Summary: Mystique's look into the mirror, leads to some self-reflection.
Rating: K+

I look down into the pool of water. Its silvery, wavy surface acts as a mirror, refracting my image into fragments. A broken image lies in the water’s face. I stare down at this facsimile of myself, following the familiar contours. As I gaze, I realize that all my life has been a facsimile. All my life has been a lie. I became what everyone wanted to see. And when I failed, as was inevitable, they turned on me, one by one.

I’ve been pretending all my life. When I was small, I hid my mutation to fit in, I became the normal, perfect girl everyone expected to see, instead of the mutant freak they would have shunned. I was afraid all the time, to the point of paranoia that some one would find out, and eventually they did. My childhood was steeped in fear so strong that you could drink it, a bitter-salty tea that permeated everything. In the end, it separated me form my family, and finally, from the human race.

Then. I stumbled in to Erik, the man whom the world knows as Magneto. He opened my eyes and showed what I was doing to myself by compromising my very identity. I grew to trust him. I came to believe his teachings with a fervent strength that rivaled my previous fear. I used my particular skill set to great advantage for his cause. I became the people he requested. I was a copy of another. My efforts did not go unrewarded.

He trusted me more than anyone else. He imparted in me the doctrine to which he had given his soul. And my ears drank in his words like parched earth drinks in rain. Erik was so reserved. He had such an air of easy elegance about. I couldn’t help, but be drawn to him as he was drawn to me.

That day on the truck showed me why. He looked at the body of the woman who had followed him, loved him, and sacrificed herself for him but saw only the weak human. He was drawn to me because I conformed to what he wanted. When the illusion shattered, so did his love. I had once again changed myself to suit the desires of others.

I splash the water with my hand. Its image is meaningless, empty. Don’t trust it. The view from the mirror is bleak. But, mirrors lie. My skin slicks blue once more. I’m Mystique. Mirrors are not to be trusted.

shadowgirl573 @ 2006-09-23T10:28:00

2006-09-23T15:28:48Z

This is a Magneto/Mystique story

Title: Reflection
Words: 925
Type:Movieverse
Summary: Mystique reflects on her life.
Rating: T or M

Falling down is easier than rising.

Losing favor is easier than gaining it.

Tearing apart is easier than mending.

These are hard truths, but ones I have needed to learn. My life has never been a fairy tale, nor do I think it ever shall be. But one man, for a brief space of time, made it blessed. I stand here drenched in the pouring rain. My coat is heavy with water, and my raven hair drips into my silver eyes. The pavement shines in the downpour, cleansed by the rivulets flowing into the gutters. I have come here, to the very edge of the city, to make my final peace with the world.

It seems so very long ago, and yet it’s been only a few short months. I look back, and I feel that I am looking across a great chasm. My past and my present seem two separate lifetimes. I am more wretched now than I have ever been and all because I dared to fall in love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first time I saw him, I knew that here was a man who understood me, accepted me, who could give me the guidance I so desperately needed. I would have done anything he asked. He was my mentor, my teacher. I wanted only his approval. I pledged that I would prove myself worthy of his faith.

And I did. In time, I became his most trusted follower, his closest friend. I knew him better than almost anyone one on the earth with, perhaps, the exception of Charles. But I understood him; Charles did not. And that was his failing, for to care for someone and to not be able to understand them, is the most destructive friendship possible.

I do not know why they became friends, for Erik does not speak lightly about his past. And unraveling the complex threads of the story from occasional allusions and muttered curses is not very fruitful. I sometimes wondered at the events that shaped him. If he had not been exposed to hate and death and such an early age, would he be the man he is today? I think he is still more like Charles than he cares to admit.

Our existence continued on in this way, amicably. And then passion reared its head. I tried to stifle it, but the feelings could not be ignored. I lost the battle almost as soon as it began. One night as we sat by the simple fire he had built, something changed. I was shivering, watching the flames leap and wishing I could get warm. He leaned over and caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. I leaned in, barely breathing and attempted to memorize the feeling, to imprint the feeling of his touch upon my skin. He chuckled slightly, then moved his had to cup my chin bringing my eyes up to meet his. It seemed an eternity I was caught in his gaze. Then, ever so slowly, he drew my face in. He met my lips unhurriedly, the passion surprising in such a gentle kiss. He brought his hands up to my shoulders and trailed his fingers down my arms, causing me to shiver with pleasure.

His hands clamped around my waist. He lifted me up as if I were little more than a doll and laid me on the ground. I laid my head back and looked up at him, eyes shining with trust. He knelt down beside me and leaned over me. I began unbuttoning his shirt moving languidly from one button to the next. Unrushed, I slowly slipped the shirt off his shoulders, running my hands over his shoulders and into his sleeves. I drew the shirt off, letting it fall into my hands. I placed it lightly to one side. He laid himself on top of me slowly, giving me time to adjust to the weight. The feeling of our skins flushed together was exquisite. I wrapped my legs up around his waist, bending my back in pleasure. That night, we were one.

A few weeks later, all that was forgotten. As I lay on freezing metal of the truck, I looked up into a face that held no pity. I had sacrificed everything to save him, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t one of them anymore. I cried for the first time that night. I was so alone. But, I understood. Living so long with such a simple mandate, doesn’t allow for change. All complications must be eliminated. I was another complication, something he couldn’t face. So he left me behind, preferring to think of me as dead than rework his beliefs. I understand, but I can’t forgive.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I look off over the water. The city is bright tonight and the heavens are clear. And, calling on what grace resides within me still, I fling myself into the abyss.

shadowgirl573 @ 2006-09-10T07:48:00

2006-09-10T12:54:52Z

I originally posted it at mugglenet, but they are really messed up at the moment, hence the need for a place to post my stories. I really want feedback, so please comment.
Story: Wisful Fantasy
Genre: Romance/angst, song fic
Pairing: unrequited H/D
Length: 1,000ish words
Warnings: minor slash, angst
Summary: Draco sees what he wants through a window, and is unable to reach it. Draco's POV
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the song.

I pull my robes tighter around my thin frame, shivering in the frigid winter air. The sky is as black as ink, not even interrupted by a single star. I’m not the arrogant boy I used to be, the Dark Lord has seen to that. I was a fool to serve my father’s master. Didn’t I see the effects of his service on my father, the toll he paid with his soul? He became nothing more than a hollow shell, a façade of a once proud man. He was consumed by a dream, and for that dream he died. In the end, he was just another nameless corpse on the path to power. I pity him, he was so convinced of his own self-righteousness that he deluded himself into believing he was anything more than a pawn in the Dark Lord’s hands.

Now, I pay for my own naivety. And I pay dearly. I am his messenger, the last to be trusted, and the first to suffer for any failure. I am so used to seeing my own blood. I know its color as surely as I know my own name. My dreams are filled with my blood, and when I wake the blood is real.

I have learned many harsh truths and have come to realize that I am lost. Neither side accepts me. I can’t go back and change the past. I wish I could. I thought I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I lost everything, but nothing was gained. I had so much to lose. I am a shadow of a person and yet for the first time I sense not my father, but myself.

My white-blond hair hangs about my face, accenting my haunted silver eyes. I walk down the nearly empty street and pass a lit window. As I pause to warm myself in the pool of light emanating from the building out on to the stone street, I glance inside. The room exudes cheer and warmth, the very things in which my life is so lacking. The room is filled with people I envy, though I know them not. They do not know anything of reality, but sleep while still awake. Life has not imposed its harshness upon them. For it is one thing to hear of horror, and another to see them with your own eyes. And in the window, I spy something unexpected, something I’m completely unprepared for. I see the one person I never thought I’d ever see again: Harry Potter.

I’m caught off guard by the difference in his appearance. I still pictured him as I had seen him last. I knew he must have changed, but I never really pictured him that way. He’s older now, no longer the little boy I knew at school. His face has changed, only the emerald eyes and scar remain of the face I once knew. Friends and admirers surround him. He looks so happy, an emotion I don’t believe I have ever truly felt. He turns slightly in my direction and I see an angel’s face. And I realize deep inside myself stirrings of longing for the warmth ad cheer of the gathering, for companionship, and for him.

You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful, it’s true.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
‘Cause I’ll never be with you.

You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful, it’s true.

There’s no denying that he is exquisite in every sense of the word. His skin is a pale ivory and his cheekbones are well shaped. His smile outshines the lights themselves, but there’s something about his eyes, an untouchable sadness in their depths. It only serves to make him more of a fallen angel.

I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
‘Cause I’ll never be with you.

I feel an irresistible pull to the window, but would I do? What would I say? There’s too much painful past to be forgiven. I can’t ask for that. I’m not deserving of him. I can never be good enough to deserve someone like him. The irony is not lost on me. I finally fall in love with the one person I can never be with.

You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful, it’s true.
There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should be with you.

I find myself wondering what could have been. What would it be like to hold you? I wistfully fantasize and I realize what we might have been. I know as I stand here, that all those years we defied destiny until it was too late. Our fate still exists, but we can no longer follow. Together we would have been beautiful. Even apart we hold a melancholy beauty of unattainable ideals. Both of us are so broken. It’s too late, even so I know you are the only one I could have loved.

But it’s time to face the truth,
I will never be with you.

The sadness I feel is so heavy, as to be nearly suffocating. I raise my hand and place it on the glass, a single tear sliding down my face. I wrench myself away from the inviting room, leaving my heart behind in the snow.

The First of Many to Come

2006-09-09T17:14:32Z

Hey, this is my first post. And so I thought I'd introduce myself and state the purpose of this livejournal. I'm Alia Sangra. This is going to be devoted to my writing and the artistic accomplishments of others. Basically, I'm going to post fics and fan fics and post links to other peoples. If you want to be friended, give me a scream.