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reenkawell, the fates are against me, when it comes to the stupid cross-dressing fic, anyway. it's too long to paste here (i can't even -believe- that, but it's true). it seems that if i really don't want to write something, i get really pissy and -force- it out of me. like, begone evil fic! begone and never trouble me again!
this seems to get writing done. on the other hand, if i -like- the fic, and enjoy thinking about it, i'm just sort of, tralalala, i can do this -aaaany- old time, this is fun and happy, and i'll just think about it some more...yes.
on the other other hand, if i -really- don't like it, i just -never- do it. unless i feel -really- guilty, and gift fics are one of those `really guilty' things. but i dunno if i'm supposed to post it, because of `armchair santa' rules, and then there's the whole, `my recipient hasn't replied in days, days, days' thing, and... it's really -long- so i feel like it needs some sort of... um. reaction. from someone. before i forgot i did it. gift fics especially throw this into stark relief-- it's like, i didn't even do this for myself, dammit, and so on.
anyway, as fate would have it, i -can't- post it here (it's too long!)...
so here. `something stupid' it is. someone take pity on me and tell me something objective about it, or something, and i'll consign it to my pile of `best forgotten' and go on to write my True Story of How and Why Harry And Draco Fell In Love, the Ultimate Version, ahahahaha. um.
kidding aside, it does bother me. i -should- be writing my `thesis', so to speak. i'm wasting time with stupid fics i don't believe in. i'm writing about something that -matters- to me, and yet i'm not writing about it in a way that -describes-, that actually enunciates what i want to happen, what i want to say. i've never written anything that has really -captured- the essence of my relationship with these characters, except perhaps `silver and secrets', strangely enough. which was also a gift fic. hmm.
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deche is right, of course. knowing what you want from a story is one thing, actually doing it yourself is quite another. but...
if getting what you want from a story isn't your goal in writing, it's really kind of sad, isn't it? i dunno if i ever wrote because i wanted to see something i didn't see in what i read.
i think my initial motivation, back when i was 9, writing my first story, was that i just had things inside me that wanted to come out. i was -so- in love with fairy tales, i wanted to create them myself, to have an even closer relationship to these stories. instead of watching them, i wanted to be part of them, to be -inside- them in a whole new way. my writing was born partially of love and partially of the usual need to express.
with hp fanfic, it's also just out of love for the idea, the characters, the possibilities. i retell things. that always came most easily-- i retell fairytales. i never really wanted to have some sort of perfect retelling of `beauty and the beast', say. it was enough to just say something new, to interact with the story, to put my own heart into it, to express my relationship with these dreams...
with harry and draco and their fairy tales, it's become something of a quest, in the back of my mind, to find or tell the Perfect Story. this has never before been a concept i used. there is no Perfect Story, of course, everyone knows that. there is no such thing as the Ultimate Version of a fairy tale. there is no "real truth" when it comes to a story you're retelling. there's truth in each retelling, born from the kernel, the center of it, which is that you just -believe- that this is how it is. magic exists, the princess is found, the prince is valiant, the witch must die.
i adore twisting those axioms-- i love tales that contradict them, that turn them on their heads. my favorite fairytale retelling is probably a. s. byatt's `the eldest princess', which is all about resisting the pull of Story, of finding your own path, outside of destiny and archetype. walking the path of the liminal, skirting the edges. nothing -has- to be. there is freedom above all else. but this only has true meaning to me because of the base of belief that i've had since childhood. this freedom wouldn't mean as much if i wasn't always lost in the old dreams, the old stories, which have their well-trodden paths, which always return to them, one way or another.
anyway. so it is somewhat strange my dream is to read/write the Ultimate Version of harry and draco. but in the end, i just want to write what i truly believe. i want to find out what that is. i want to speak in the voices of these characters, i want to really -find- their voices within me.
and maybe i can just write it as i see it. This Is How It Must've Been, like a reconstruction, a piecing back together of a theoretical history of their love. This is Why. like a game with moves and counter-moves, that dance of emotion and action that ends up with the flowering of realization. there are the constraints of character, of their situations, of the presence of secondary characters, parents, foes, teachers. by the presence of end result, of desired dynamic, of given outside circumstances, you should be able to add in your own imagination and vision, and achieve the story you believe should be written.... or not. *sigh*
disclaimer: not mine
warning: slash. H/D
-tangent-
His love is a tangent from a long-known history that he could never explain. It was merely the glint of silver that caught his eye, and he wasn't aware of its source, not really. He was still sleepy, the dreams lining the inside of his eyelids, his fingers moving sluggishly as his mind, tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it absently into his mouth. He couldn't have recalled what he'd been thinking even two minutes later. He forgot even this for a long time. He had caught a flash of silver, and before he knew it, before he had remembered and put a name to the color, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt a strange, electric shiver run up and down his arms. It was almost unpleasant, and his robes felt suddenly crackly with static electricity.
One moment he was absently smiling at nothing in particular, thinking how beautiful that shade of grey was, how deep and mesmerizing it was, how much he was seeing silver sparkles even if he turned his eyes back to his plate. And then reality intervened, and the disgust and bile rose up in his throat, making him want to cough, unable to dislodge some strange lump now lodged there. He hated him, and he always had. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking vaguely that something must've been stuck in them. Several hours later, he would forget the morning, and the dreams that had been hovering thickly around his head. he never did remember the dreams.
+ + +
He had gone back towards the Quidditch pitch, thinking he'd forgotten something, though he could never remember what he'd forgotten, afterwards. There was a fine mist in the air, and the sun streaked dimly through the heavy, grey clouds. He felt shrouded in something warm and soft and lulling, and it was telling him to let go, to let himself be absorbed, contained and swaddled in the security of simple contentment. He didn't need to move. He didn't need to think.
Someone was moving through the clouds, writing complex hieroglyphs in the misty air, weaving thread after thread through the silver sky. Their features were unknowable, and he didn't really need to know. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew who it was. No one else flew like that, with that sort of effortless, yet completely controlled grace. His long practice at following his every move made it instinct to spot him. And yet he didn't want to, so he barely acknowledged that there was something eerie and familiar about the lone, dark figure swooping and gliding and making crazy loops in the air. He was smiling that strange, alien-feeling smile again, and he couldn't stop himself. He had a moment or two, maybe three, before his conscious mind rebelled and he stalked off, glaring at no one, cursing the unnaturally agile figure streaking above him.
For those three moments, his heart soared right along with him. he didn't really tell himself it was beautiful, didn't allow himself to want more clarity, more detail, more depth of vision. For a moment, who it was didn't detract but rather embellished the appeal of the image he was presented with. It was almost delicious somehow, so unexpected and yet not really. Was it, really? Everything he felt has always seemed to have a source, a connection to his former emotions, which allowed him to adjust easier, to believe that he was still the same person even though all sorts of insanely different things happen between one month and the next-- between one -week- and the next.
And yet he could find no source for this, though he didn't look for one. He locked it away, determined to walk away and not turn back, determined to look forward to beating him the next time he was so smugly swooping through the sky, as if he were lord and master of the air. He knew he wanted to beat him, and it was still just that simple.
+ + +
"Maybe you just don't know anything about me, -Potter-," he'd said, leaning casually against the Quidditch broom shed. "I know things about you even -you- don't know, and you-- you're just stumbling around, waiting for the Dark Lord to pluck you away in your sleep," he'd continued, sneering. Then. Now, he just looked back at him, eyes clear and seeming wider than usual in the early morning light, lending a strange soft glow to the sharp edges of his face.
He could find nothing to say, looking back. He had been used to feeling angry, indignant, irritated, frustrated, tired. Right now, there was a vague sense of confusion, of a strange, distant puzzlement. Also of peace, something he hasn't experienced for so long he wasn't even certain he felt it now. And yet, there it was, sweeping through his limbs like a slow-moving, silvery liquid, like some enchanted water.
A smile played upon Draco's lips, and still he said nothing. They stood, even after the initial startlement of inadvertently meeting each other so early in the morning had passed. The day hadn't quite arrived, the night hadn't quite departed. Nothing seemed quite like itself, instead appearing to be tainted with the residue of its shadow, its very opposite. He didn't feel like Harry Potter, facing Draco Malfoy, his sworn nemesis, a Slytherin, a petty, mean-spirited git who made his every day less worth living.
"The sky is the precise color of the potion to summon faery spirits. They say that means someone had true dreams this night," Draco said softly, for all the world sounding like he was talking to himself, no longer looking at him.
Harry's mouth dropped open slightly with startlement. Draco went on, obliviously. "They say true faeries don't exist, not really, because no dream is ever really true," Draco said.
"Do you believe in them?" Harry said, without even realizing he spoke until he had.
"Dreams are never true. Waking or sleeping. That potion is only a curiousity, one of the many that have never been proven to work or not, one way or the other. It was in an appendix in the most complete book of summoning magic published this century," Draco said, staring intently into the sky, which was now streaking with wide pink and gold ribbons, which quite ruined the former ethereal effect. The smile still ghosted on his lips. Harry still felt spellbound, not quite awake or asleep, on the edge of something.
"You're wrong," Harry said, without rancor. "I have true dreams all the time. People die, and get tortured, and driven mad. I wish I didn't see it, and it seems impossible sometimes, like seeing the darkness should be wrong, I shouldn't...."
Draco stared straight at him again. His eyes had turned dark, murky and silver, with spreading shadows. Harry thought they looked like knives could fall inside them, and melt and bend and disappear. They looked like they contained true dreams within them. What was he saying? "What am I saying?" he said, before he could stop himself.
The silvery whisps of hair drifted across Draco's ear, moved out of their perfect arrangement by the cool March wind. Harry wasn't thinking of brushing it away. He wasn't thinking, though his fingers twitched against his side. "I don't know, Potter. I don't know." He paused, and Harry thought he wasn't going to say anything else, but he was wrong. "Do you ever have any other true dreams? Do you ever see an end to the bloodshed?" He sounded curious, almost child-like. His eyes seemed clear and almost translucent once again.
"Sometimes... sometimes I think there is a place I can escape to. I'm not myself in those dreams, but they seem true. Maybe that's how you can summon them. Maybe if you forgot who you are, and what you're afraid of. But I don't know." He couldn't believe he was saying that. He didn't really think that. He had never thought that.
He didn't really remember, even though he could feel it, could feel the whispers of those dreams scratching at the edges of recollection, leaving marks, like dents on smooth, gleaming silver. He knew, without knowing. It's a luminous darkness, full of the bright sharp edges of things deeply and secretly felt, the things inside them that would haunt until death. Their bared, pale bellies, their glittering, flashing teeth. Their delicate eyelids, closed over flickering eyes, moving restlessly, seeking comfort that is never coming. Their hatred, filling them and sinking low, hot and burning like liquid, scalding inside their stomach, nothing they could contain. There was never any comfort or resolution. Only tossing and turning, looking for that heat filling the hollow in the sheets that was never there. Only following a trail, breathing the scent of unknown completion, the shape of which always eluded them.
"I never...." Harry trailed off.
"Never what," Draco said, almost inaudible, his breath misting slightly as he exhaled.
"I...." I never touch you, Harry thought, and felt the burning at the top of his cheeks. Why did he think that, out of nowhere? "Never remember."
"Oh." Draco said, just as softly. "Yeah. I never remember the truth. That's a good thing, of course," Draco said, and something about the way he said it seemed like he was throwing his usual self on casually, like a cloak. Harry shivered, suddenly feeling the wind.
"You think?" Harry said, quite serious, his eyes opening a bit wider. It was light now.
"No," Draco said, and walked away briskly. Harry stood there for a long time, wondering about everything and nothing all at once. He couldn't have explained it, but he thought he should try to remember those things that seemed to keep passing right by, faint and lingering like dreams. He could see the dark grey shape that was the boy he'd just talked to, ever receding into the distance, and he didn't really know why his eyes followed him. But follow they did, long after there was nothing left to see.
+ + +
this seems to get writing done. on the other hand, if i -like- the fic, and enjoy thinking about it, i'm just sort of, tralalala, i can do this -aaaany- old time, this is fun and happy, and i'll just think about it some more...yes.
on the other other hand, if i -really- don't like it, i just -never- do it. unless i feel -really- guilty, and gift fics are one of those `really guilty' things. but i dunno if i'm supposed to post it, because of `armchair santa' rules, and then there's the whole, `my recipient hasn't replied in days, days, days' thing, and... it's really -long- so i feel like it needs some sort of... um. reaction. from someone. before i forgot i did it. gift fics especially throw this into stark relief-- it's like, i didn't even do this for myself, dammit, and so on.
anyway, as fate would have it, i -can't- post it here (it's too long!)...
so here. `something stupid' it is. someone take pity on me and tell me something objective about it, or something, and i'll consign it to my pile of `best forgotten' and go on to write my True Story of How and Why Harry And Draco Fell In Love, the Ultimate Version, ahahahaha. um.
kidding aside, it does bother me. i -should- be writing my `thesis', so to speak. i'm wasting time with stupid fics i don't believe in. i'm writing about something that -matters- to me, and yet i'm not writing about it in a way that -describes-, that actually enunciates what i want to happen, what i want to say. i've never written anything that has really -captured- the essence of my relationship with these characters, except perhaps `silver and secrets', strangely enough. which was also a gift fic. hmm.
deche is right, of course. knowing what you want from a story is one thing, actually doing it yourself is quite another. but...if getting what you want from a story isn't your goal in writing, it's really kind of sad, isn't it? i dunno if i ever wrote because i wanted to see something i didn't see in what i read.
i think my initial motivation, back when i was 9, writing my first story, was that i just had things inside me that wanted to come out. i was -so- in love with fairy tales, i wanted to create them myself, to have an even closer relationship to these stories. instead of watching them, i wanted to be part of them, to be -inside- them in a whole new way. my writing was born partially of love and partially of the usual need to express.
with hp fanfic, it's also just out of love for the idea, the characters, the possibilities. i retell things. that always came most easily-- i retell fairytales. i never really wanted to have some sort of perfect retelling of `beauty and the beast', say. it was enough to just say something new, to interact with the story, to put my own heart into it, to express my relationship with these dreams...
with harry and draco and their fairy tales, it's become something of a quest, in the back of my mind, to find or tell the Perfect Story. this has never before been a concept i used. there is no Perfect Story, of course, everyone knows that. there is no such thing as the Ultimate Version of a fairy tale. there is no "real truth" when it comes to a story you're retelling. there's truth in each retelling, born from the kernel, the center of it, which is that you just -believe- that this is how it is. magic exists, the princess is found, the prince is valiant, the witch must die.
i adore twisting those axioms-- i love tales that contradict them, that turn them on their heads. my favorite fairytale retelling is probably a. s. byatt's `the eldest princess', which is all about resisting the pull of Story, of finding your own path, outside of destiny and archetype. walking the path of the liminal, skirting the edges. nothing -has- to be. there is freedom above all else. but this only has true meaning to me because of the base of belief that i've had since childhood. this freedom wouldn't mean as much if i wasn't always lost in the old dreams, the old stories, which have their well-trodden paths, which always return to them, one way or another.
anyway. so it is somewhat strange my dream is to read/write the Ultimate Version of harry and draco. but in the end, i just want to write what i truly believe. i want to find out what that is. i want to speak in the voices of these characters, i want to really -find- their voices within me.
and maybe i can just write it as i see it. This Is How It Must've Been, like a reconstruction, a piecing back together of a theoretical history of their love. This is Why. like a game with moves and counter-moves, that dance of emotion and action that ends up with the flowering of realization. there are the constraints of character, of their situations, of the presence of secondary characters, parents, foes, teachers. by the presence of end result, of desired dynamic, of given outside circumstances, you should be able to add in your own imagination and vision, and achieve the story you believe should be written.... or not. *sigh*
disclaimer: not mine
warning: slash. H/D
-tangent-
His love is a tangent from a long-known history that he could never explain. It was merely the glint of silver that caught his eye, and he wasn't aware of its source, not really. He was still sleepy, the dreams lining the inside of his eyelids, his fingers moving sluggishly as his mind, tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it absently into his mouth. He couldn't have recalled what he'd been thinking even two minutes later. He forgot even this for a long time. He had caught a flash of silver, and before he knew it, before he had remembered and put a name to the color, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt a strange, electric shiver run up and down his arms. It was almost unpleasant, and his robes felt suddenly crackly with static electricity.
One moment he was absently smiling at nothing in particular, thinking how beautiful that shade of grey was, how deep and mesmerizing it was, how much he was seeing silver sparkles even if he turned his eyes back to his plate. And then reality intervened, and the disgust and bile rose up in his throat, making him want to cough, unable to dislodge some strange lump now lodged there. He hated him, and he always had. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking vaguely that something must've been stuck in them. Several hours later, he would forget the morning, and the dreams that had been hovering thickly around his head. he never did remember the dreams.
+ + +
He had gone back towards the Quidditch pitch, thinking he'd forgotten something, though he could never remember what he'd forgotten, afterwards. There was a fine mist in the air, and the sun streaked dimly through the heavy, grey clouds. He felt shrouded in something warm and soft and lulling, and it was telling him to let go, to let himself be absorbed, contained and swaddled in the security of simple contentment. He didn't need to move. He didn't need to think.
Someone was moving through the clouds, writing complex hieroglyphs in the misty air, weaving thread after thread through the silver sky. Their features were unknowable, and he didn't really need to know. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew who it was. No one else flew like that, with that sort of effortless, yet completely controlled grace. His long practice at following his every move made it instinct to spot him. And yet he didn't want to, so he barely acknowledged that there was something eerie and familiar about the lone, dark figure swooping and gliding and making crazy loops in the air. He was smiling that strange, alien-feeling smile again, and he couldn't stop himself. He had a moment or two, maybe three, before his conscious mind rebelled and he stalked off, glaring at no one, cursing the unnaturally agile figure streaking above him.
For those three moments, his heart soared right along with him. he didn't really tell himself it was beautiful, didn't allow himself to want more clarity, more detail, more depth of vision. For a moment, who it was didn't detract but rather embellished the appeal of the image he was presented with. It was almost delicious somehow, so unexpected and yet not really. Was it, really? Everything he felt has always seemed to have a source, a connection to his former emotions, which allowed him to adjust easier, to believe that he was still the same person even though all sorts of insanely different things happen between one month and the next-- between one -week- and the next.
And yet he could find no source for this, though he didn't look for one. He locked it away, determined to walk away and not turn back, determined to look forward to beating him the next time he was so smugly swooping through the sky, as if he were lord and master of the air. He knew he wanted to beat him, and it was still just that simple.
+ + +
"Maybe you just don't know anything about me, -Potter-," he'd said, leaning casually against the Quidditch broom shed. "I know things about you even -you- don't know, and you-- you're just stumbling around, waiting for the Dark Lord to pluck you away in your sleep," he'd continued, sneering. Then. Now, he just looked back at him, eyes clear and seeming wider than usual in the early morning light, lending a strange soft glow to the sharp edges of his face.
He could find nothing to say, looking back. He had been used to feeling angry, indignant, irritated, frustrated, tired. Right now, there was a vague sense of confusion, of a strange, distant puzzlement. Also of peace, something he hasn't experienced for so long he wasn't even certain he felt it now. And yet, there it was, sweeping through his limbs like a slow-moving, silvery liquid, like some enchanted water.
A smile played upon Draco's lips, and still he said nothing. They stood, even after the initial startlement of inadvertently meeting each other so early in the morning had passed. The day hadn't quite arrived, the night hadn't quite departed. Nothing seemed quite like itself, instead appearing to be tainted with the residue of its shadow, its very opposite. He didn't feel like Harry Potter, facing Draco Malfoy, his sworn nemesis, a Slytherin, a petty, mean-spirited git who made his every day less worth living.
"The sky is the precise color of the potion to summon faery spirits. They say that means someone had true dreams this night," Draco said softly, for all the world sounding like he was talking to himself, no longer looking at him.
Harry's mouth dropped open slightly with startlement. Draco went on, obliviously. "They say true faeries don't exist, not really, because no dream is ever really true," Draco said.
"Do you believe in them?" Harry said, without even realizing he spoke until he had.
"Dreams are never true. Waking or sleeping. That potion is only a curiousity, one of the many that have never been proven to work or not, one way or the other. It was in an appendix in the most complete book of summoning magic published this century," Draco said, staring intently into the sky, which was now streaking with wide pink and gold ribbons, which quite ruined the former ethereal effect. The smile still ghosted on his lips. Harry still felt spellbound, not quite awake or asleep, on the edge of something.
"You're wrong," Harry said, without rancor. "I have true dreams all the time. People die, and get tortured, and driven mad. I wish I didn't see it, and it seems impossible sometimes, like seeing the darkness should be wrong, I shouldn't...."
Draco stared straight at him again. His eyes had turned dark, murky and silver, with spreading shadows. Harry thought they looked like knives could fall inside them, and melt and bend and disappear. They looked like they contained true dreams within them. What was he saying? "What am I saying?" he said, before he could stop himself.
The silvery whisps of hair drifted across Draco's ear, moved out of their perfect arrangement by the cool March wind. Harry wasn't thinking of brushing it away. He wasn't thinking, though his fingers twitched against his side. "I don't know, Potter. I don't know." He paused, and Harry thought he wasn't going to say anything else, but he was wrong. "Do you ever have any other true dreams? Do you ever see an end to the bloodshed?" He sounded curious, almost child-like. His eyes seemed clear and almost translucent once again.
"Sometimes... sometimes I think there is a place I can escape to. I'm not myself in those dreams, but they seem true. Maybe that's how you can summon them. Maybe if you forgot who you are, and what you're afraid of. But I don't know." He couldn't believe he was saying that. He didn't really think that. He had never thought that.
He didn't really remember, even though he could feel it, could feel the whispers of those dreams scratching at the edges of recollection, leaving marks, like dents on smooth, gleaming silver. He knew, without knowing. It's a luminous darkness, full of the bright sharp edges of things deeply and secretly felt, the things inside them that would haunt until death. Their bared, pale bellies, their glittering, flashing teeth. Their delicate eyelids, closed over flickering eyes, moving restlessly, seeking comfort that is never coming. Their hatred, filling them and sinking low, hot and burning like liquid, scalding inside their stomach, nothing they could contain. There was never any comfort or resolution. Only tossing and turning, looking for that heat filling the hollow in the sheets that was never there. Only following a trail, breathing the scent of unknown completion, the shape of which always eluded them.
"I never...." Harry trailed off.
"Never what," Draco said, almost inaudible, his breath misting slightly as he exhaled.
"I...." I never touch you, Harry thought, and felt the burning at the top of his cheeks. Why did he think that, out of nowhere? "Never remember."
"Oh." Draco said, just as softly. "Yeah. I never remember the truth. That's a good thing, of course," Draco said, and something about the way he said it seemed like he was throwing his usual self on casually, like a cloak. Harry shivered, suddenly feeling the wind.
"You think?" Harry said, quite serious, his eyes opening a bit wider. It was light now.
"No," Draco said, and walked away briskly. Harry stood there for a long time, wondering about everything and nothing all at once. He couldn't have explained it, but he thought he should try to remember those things that seemed to keep passing right by, faint and lingering like dreams. He could see the dark grey shape that was the boy he'd just talked to, ever receding into the distance, and he didn't really know why his eyes followed him. But follow they did, long after there was nothing left to see.
+ + +
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no subject
Date: 2002-12-31 02:51 pm (UTC)I just happened to be looking over the HP Slash comm journal, and saw your post as the most recent one. Did anyone ever write a carnival!h/d fic? If so, I'd be interested in reading it as well! If not...well perhaps I should write one! Seriously looking for ideas.
no subject
Date: 2002-12-31 03:05 pm (UTC)and then there's the swordfighting fic i wish someone would write.
as in, not sex-crazed swordfighting, more-- the usual, action movie, derring-do swordfighting. with maybe some kissing. but not necessary. mmm, swordfighting!h/d.
also, a fic set in the first four years, using harry/draco. hahaha. just because `red' by miss breed was so delightful. or harry/hermione, or harry/ron or whatever, really.
or a fic where draco becomes immortal and harry is going to die in exactly one week...
or a fic where they're like, really cute-- acting like 5 year olds, and kicking and snarking and being silly-- and yet they have to fight voldemort. together. heh.
or you could just have some rain, and showers, and tears, and drowning, and as many types of water as you can think of. and also fire. and earth.
um. yah...
thanks, btw~:)
~reena
no subject
Date: 2002-12-31 03:42 pm (UTC)I'll be sure to read that right after I post this comment.
or a fic where draco becomes immortal and harry is going to die in exactly one week...
or you could just have some rain, and showers, and tears, and drowning, and as many types of water as you can think of. and also fire. and earth.
Whoa, I'm actually starting a story that involves the four elements heavily, or atleast I hope. Never know how things'll turn out. Hehe, but now I want to twist the Veela-Draco thing into having some sort of immortal... thing. *smirks* AND SWORDFIGHTING! I want to figure out a way to shove that in there too.
--Inspired--
o.o
*frolics off to write!*
And teehee.
You're welcome.