~~i wrote a cinderella!ginny fic *laughs* in honor of the Bitch Day muse: a reena-sanctioned holiday

[reenka]

there is a weird phenomenon going on, with my relationship with fanon characters. for some reason, they annoy me if they're made to be nice, or likeable, or reasonable, or intelligent (unless that's strictly canonically so, like dumbledore, whom i like wise and quirky-- forget quirky, i like him genially insane-- don't we all?). i find it silly that so many people, while "fleshing out" minor characters, make them likeable, understandable, "human". where's the fun in that? why is everyone so... tame? this is particularly a problem (in hp fic), with slytherins. face it, if the slytherin is playing a major role, they're not going to be nasty, though they might be endearingly bad-tempered-- or maybe we see the bad temper through the main character's eyes, in which case the other character gets to be somewhat two-dimensional. i like bitter spiteful resentful (funny) characters. ha. that's a perfect recipe for being a stand-up comedian, isn't it??! but yah. i do hate relena (from gundam wing). i like hating relena. i like hating pansy (though i don't, not really, as she has no personality). but i probably wouldn't if they were bitches. *sighs* such is life.
    there is only one major character i can tolerate being nice-- not reasonable, like hermione, but just truly Good. that would be harry. i can take harry in any shade of darkness and light, i don't know why. what's important is that he's a paladin, no matter -what- his shtick is. it's important that he's a fighter for what he believes in, whatever it is he believes.

i just realized that i don't dislike a character, any character, anymore, if you make them-- well-- mean. bitchy. unsympathetic. annoying, but in a funny way. i don't dislike ginny if you make her evil and bitter and annoyed with her lot in life. pansy-- i haven't seen a pansy i approve of, but i can see how i'd like her if she wasn't some simpering idiot or a good little slytherin soldier, or a scheming witch out to seduce draco as her sole purpose in life. i adore antenora's blaise-- he's just scrumptious-- and why? he's kind of insane. he's not exactly unsympathetic, but then that's not necessary, he's just that weird.

anyway. w00t! today's my day for drawing/writing unsympathetic (to me) characters. i drew lasultrix's fleur, looking eeeeviiiiil, and pumpkin!pansy, whom i think i have affection for, ever since i realized (yesterday) that the girl's a biiatch. oh yeah. my pansy is the Bitch From Hell. pansy is shannon doherty Reborn. if draco's got veela blood, pansy's got nocker blood. or maybe drow blood. mmmm, eeeevil elf. in my pic she doesn't look so evil-- the coloring changed because i had to make her blond, so the reddish/purple tints didn't go as well. i mean, i -know- i could've left her purplish-hued, but i wanted to at least -pretend- it was a likeness, just because i -want- bitchy pansy, and whoever that chick was, that i drew, she was a bitch.
    but, the Bitch of All Bitches on Bitch Day award would have to go to sabworks and her nocker momma, who is just adorable with her filed teeth and her eyebrows. bring on the noise, baby.

    so. in honor of Bitch Day, i present to you bitchy!ginny :P



disclaimer: jk rowling owns the name "ginny" when used in conjunction with "tom marvolo riddle". that's about it.

warning: weird fairy tales may rot your brain.

a/n: this is what happens when you write poems and then decide no one reads your poems and thus you are doomed to write prose :P
the first line of each paragraph corresponds to a line of my poem.


-Fire, Spark and Cinder-



The fall comes suddenly to these parts. One moment, everything is green and hopeful, verdant as his eyes used to be, even though everyone knew the end was near, and the nights had gotten cold, and summer became grey like memory. And then the world turns to red and gold, the water evaporating, leaving everything to bleed itself dry. She hadn't remembered to watch, and the color dripped, swift as rain, not having waited for her to blink. It seems like yesterday when they were all laughing and playing hide-and-seek by the huge oak trees, and when tomorrow, tomorrow she was going to tell him, and tomorrow it would matter.

Stripping layers, shifting orders, summer floats down to the ground like a feather-light princess tumbling into her downy bed for a nice long sleep. And she's dancing past midnight among the pumpkins and never sees the Ball. She is poor but she has her own kingdom, after all. When she was very little, her mother told her she was the Pumpkin Princess, and one day her prince would come and work his magic, and the pumpkins would reveal themselves to be carriages worked in gold and bronze. Her brothers would take the carriage and saddle up some horses, because they might be poor but some traditions should still be kept, and off they'd go, driving her to the Ball, where he would be waiting for her, waiting as long as it took. And she would know, immediately, that it was Him, as soon as she saw him, and of course he would know her also. She would know him by the summer in his eyes, lightning and storm and thunder. No one told her she'd change her mind, and that he would, too. No one told her summer storm-clouds seek their own lightning.

Even as her own colors weave and crumple, losing dye, she loiters by the roadside. She can't go forward, and she most certainly can't go back, though she wants to. Back to cinders, back to waiting, back to hoping, back to not knowing. She is happy, dancing like this, in her secondhand old clothes, patched up and altered from her brothers, streaked and dotted with her own embroidered efforts. Daffodils and cherries and lemons and violets at her hems and between her breasts. These pumpkins aren't about to take her anywhere, they are what they are, though she could point a wand at them and make them sparkle and poof! There could be carriages.

Fire, spark and cinder, flaming like fall upon her head. She'd never thought of her hair as a treasure, because it, like everything else about her life, had to be shared. She had thought her Prince would be all her own, but of course she was wrong. Nothing was her own except this twilight magic, that no one was here to see. She's never needed help, really, she could do this herself. She could point and whisper, swish and flick, and her crinkly dusty dress would sparkle and shimmer and shine. Her hair would flow like silk down her back, held up by multicolor stars, and her smile would dazzle everyone who saw it. They would notice her, if she tried. They wouldn't be able to bear taking their eyes off her.

Something whispers in her ear, rustling, hissing, that he's near, and soon, soon, he'll be nearer still. He sounds like just another leaf upon the wind, tumbling into oblivion. She knows this voice. She no longer questions if it is only her imagination, or if he's her evil faery godfather. Everyone has a role, especially Ginny. She listens to the voice that tells her she could be a Princess yet, she just has to use her imagination. He could show her how. But she's worried, and it's getting late, much too late. The sun has set, and October nights are cold when you are barefoot, even if you try to keep on dancing, though she can't, since her toes are almost frozen by now.

The graveyard season has made her fear. There is a tombstone nearby, and she could just make out the letters by moonlight. Her feet tread softly on the dry grass, and she tries not to hold her breath. She doesn't know what she wants to see, or what she'll do if she sees the wrong thing. She imagines it, jumping out at her, burning silver letters carved into blackest stone. `Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle, DOB - unknown, died Halloween night of the year 1998'. Goosepimples running up her arms and she steps closer, and there they are, strangely near each other, the princes of Light and Dark.

Prince or no, the Boy who Lived can't be dead, not yet, not before she made it to the Ball. Not in her fairytale. She doesn't notice her own shivers as she drops down on her knees on the other grave, the one with scattered dry flowers and the inescapable magic scent of blooming roses that makes her faint, makes her want to just lie down and sleep. He's not there, not really there at all. She knows he is where he's supposed to be, at the Prince's Manor, sitting alone beneath all the bright lights, waiting for her. She has to go on, because he's waiting for her, and no one else would do. Somewhere, it's still the strike of midnight, and somewhere, she's still dancing barefoot, and somewhere, Ginny whispers the words to unlock time.
~~

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random facts: google only comes up with me, me, me if i type in "reenka". *evil laugh*
~~
i just found a post by haremmistressdd defending shipper!fic beautifully, and though unrelated to this and this post in nothingbutfic, (as well as being about a totally different fandom), i think it answers some wibbles us shippy writers may have. it also proposes that the reason one writes shippy, relationship-focused, character-driven fic isn't because adventure!fic and gen hasn't occurred to them, but rather because there is a pull, a muse we're following, that compels us to write a certain kind of fic. seems obvious, but still enlightening, i think. the above might be considered gen-like, but. well. i don't know. you can tell -me-. *grins*