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geovikiYour feedback for part 4 surprised me - many more of you enjoyed Daniel's letter and his reaction than I expected. I think I have it in my head that fans don't really like original characters but that they indulge the author's weakness for them. So thanks for letting me know I was mistaken.
The fic is coded up and I'll be posting it after work. It'll be a novelty to know someone other than me and my family is looking forward to me getting home from work.
So here's part 5. Part of it may seem familiar: I posted a cookie from this scene about a month ago.
.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Harry hadn't bothered dressing before he came down to the breakfast table. Draco had already gone off to his studio a good hour earlier – not that Harry's sleep had been disturbed. Draco was surprisingly considerate that way.
"Good morning, Harry Potter," Sully said warmly.
"Morning."
He took an idle minute to watch her at the window, disarming the morning's crop of Howlers. She was actually quite skillful at the trigger-and-disintegrate method that Malfoy house-elves had apparently perfected over the years. He picked up two pieces of piping-hot toast, juggled his plate and his teacup, and plopped down at the table.
The rest of the morning mail was sitting beside the spot he normally took. His own letters always showed up here, although Sully never remarked on it. Not for the first time, he wondered about the complex social communication among owls that must accompany that kind of service. Did Hedwig get the word out to her fellow owls – don't bother flying off to Potter's flat, he's at Malfoy's nearly all the time – and did they shake their feathered heads at the news and twitter that things had certainly changed, and not for the better, since they were chicks?
He thumbed through a flashy advert from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, an overlarge envelope bedecked with childish writing and a flock of pink hearts, and a complimentary copy of Witch Weekly – gratefully noting that for once his face wasn't staring back from the cover.
The bottom of his pile was anchored by a thick packet, which he lifted cautiously, even though he knew that Sully always rigorously checked for spells before he touched a single item. Inside was a fat sheaf of loose papers, but no covering letter offered an explanation. Tea in one hand, he took up the top sheet with the other and glanced over it.
The first thing he noticed was the Ministry of Magic emblem, and below that three symbols – Harry recognized the stylized phoenix feathers and sat up in surprise. He hadn't seen anything with that level of secrecy since the end of the war. He scanned the page more closely, but there was nothing to show who the sender might be.
Setting down his cup, he began to read.
His tea had long grown cold when Harry took his next sip, more to settle his stomach than from any genuine thirst. He examined the cup with sudden intensity as if seeing it through the eyes of a studied collector – admiring its hard-edged frailty, its bowl as thin as an eggshell. His hand shook only a little as he set it down in its saucer, jostling aside a beautifully polished silver spoon. It, too, was finely made, and Harry could almost see the countless Malfoy hands that had curled around this very spoon, before reaching across the breakfast table to caress a waiting lover...
But Harry wouldn't let himself think of them; he wanted to study all the things in this room, because they were fascinating, weren't they? Nothing at all like the Dursleys' commonplace clutter. The matched crystal candlesticks – what a nice contrast they made, with their ivory candles stark against the dark wood of the sideboard. And the still life above it – vivid, colorful, and certainly worthy of his attention. He supposed it had been a part of this room for decades, long before the first stirrings of war, before the events that followed had brought down the prestigious Malfoy name. Before Draco had been forced to do the things Snape had recounted in unadorned words that Harry desperately wanted to forget.
Draco had avoided any mention of his war years, and Harry – no more eager to bring up his own experiences – had let it slide. The brief thought crossed his mind that Draco himself might have sent this report to Harry, but that seemed too far-fetched. Draco never would have dropped this bombshell without being here to pick up the pieces. But who had sent it, if not Draco? Certainly not Snape; Harry could guarantee that the bastard would rather die than expose Draco like this. Still, the report made clear how much Snape had failed him during the war, and his disturbing testimony had oscillated between loathing himself and the Ministry for it. It also went a long way in explaining the angry rows that flared up between Draco and Harry. And the distance Harry felt growing between them.
No, someone else was responsible for sending the package; someone who could easily get at the deepest secrets of the war. Someone who knew that Harry wouldn't be able to brush aside what he'd just learned. With a sick feeling, Harry wondered if that hadn't been the whole point.
We were meant to be young back then, he thought. Young and silly and worried about NEWTs or Quidditch or house points. Draco Malfoy was sixteen years old when he came to me, the report began. At eighteen, he joined his father and the Death Eaters. At nineteen, the war machine spit him back out to make his way as best he could. By twenty-one, he'd lost nearly everything he'd had, but by then he was no longer young.
Harry wanted to rage at – whom? What? Where did all his wordless complaints go? Who listened to humanity's useless railing at the injustice that poured down on all of them like bitter rain? Harry had never heard any answers to his own prayers, his begging demands, his attempts to make deals with his Maker.
Draco's hands, he knew, were empty, too.
.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
The fic is coded up and I'll be posting it after work. It'll be a novelty to know someone other than me and my family is looking forward to me getting home from work.
So here's part 5. Part of it may seem familiar: I posted a cookie from this scene about a month ago.
Harry hadn't bothered dressing before he came down to the breakfast table. Draco had already gone off to his studio a good hour earlier – not that Harry's sleep had been disturbed. Draco was surprisingly considerate that way.
"Good morning, Harry Potter," Sully said warmly.
"Morning."
He took an idle minute to watch her at the window, disarming the morning's crop of Howlers. She was actually quite skillful at the trigger-and-disintegrate method that Malfoy house-elves had apparently perfected over the years. He picked up two pieces of piping-hot toast, juggled his plate and his teacup, and plopped down at the table.
The rest of the morning mail was sitting beside the spot he normally took. His own letters always showed up here, although Sully never remarked on it. Not for the first time, he wondered about the complex social communication among owls that must accompany that kind of service. Did Hedwig get the word out to her fellow owls – don't bother flying off to Potter's flat, he's at Malfoy's nearly all the time – and did they shake their feathered heads at the news and twitter that things had certainly changed, and not for the better, since they were chicks?
He thumbed through a flashy advert from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, an overlarge envelope bedecked with childish writing and a flock of pink hearts, and a complimentary copy of Witch Weekly – gratefully noting that for once his face wasn't staring back from the cover.
The bottom of his pile was anchored by a thick packet, which he lifted cautiously, even though he knew that Sully always rigorously checked for spells before he touched a single item. Inside was a fat sheaf of loose papers, but no covering letter offered an explanation. Tea in one hand, he took up the top sheet with the other and glanced over it.
The first thing he noticed was the Ministry of Magic emblem, and below that three symbols – Harry recognized the stylized phoenix feathers and sat up in surprise. He hadn't seen anything with that level of secrecy since the end of the war. He scanned the page more closely, but there was nothing to show who the sender might be.
Setting down his cup, he began to read.
This report details the activities of Draco Malfoy (son of Lucius Malfoy), covering the period of time he spent amongst Death Eaters, and was compiled from the preliminary testimony and subsequent interviews of Severus Snape.
His tea had long grown cold when Harry took his next sip, more to settle his stomach than from any genuine thirst. He examined the cup with sudden intensity as if seeing it through the eyes of a studied collector – admiring its hard-edged frailty, its bowl as thin as an eggshell. His hand shook only a little as he set it down in its saucer, jostling aside a beautifully polished silver spoon. It, too, was finely made, and Harry could almost see the countless Malfoy hands that had curled around this very spoon, before reaching across the breakfast table to caress a waiting lover...
But Harry wouldn't let himself think of them; he wanted to study all the things in this room, because they were fascinating, weren't they? Nothing at all like the Dursleys' commonplace clutter. The matched crystal candlesticks – what a nice contrast they made, with their ivory candles stark against the dark wood of the sideboard. And the still life above it – vivid, colorful, and certainly worthy of his attention. He supposed it had been a part of this room for decades, long before the first stirrings of war, before the events that followed had brought down the prestigious Malfoy name. Before Draco had been forced to do the things Snape had recounted in unadorned words that Harry desperately wanted to forget.
Draco had avoided any mention of his war years, and Harry – no more eager to bring up his own experiences – had let it slide. The brief thought crossed his mind that Draco himself might have sent this report to Harry, but that seemed too far-fetched. Draco never would have dropped this bombshell without being here to pick up the pieces. But who had sent it, if not Draco? Certainly not Snape; Harry could guarantee that the bastard would rather die than expose Draco like this. Still, the report made clear how much Snape had failed him during the war, and his disturbing testimony had oscillated between loathing himself and the Ministry for it. It also went a long way in explaining the angry rows that flared up between Draco and Harry. And the distance Harry felt growing between them.
No, someone else was responsible for sending the package; someone who could easily get at the deepest secrets of the war. Someone who knew that Harry wouldn't be able to brush aside what he'd just learned. With a sick feeling, Harry wondered if that hadn't been the whole point.
We were meant to be young back then, he thought. Young and silly and worried about NEWTs or Quidditch or house points. Draco Malfoy was sixteen years old when he came to me, the report began. At eighteen, he joined his father and the Death Eaters. At nineteen, the war machine spit him back out to make his way as best he could. By twenty-one, he'd lost nearly everything he'd had, but by then he was no longer young.
Harry wanted to rage at – whom? What? Where did all his wordless complaints go? Who listened to humanity's useless railing at the injustice that poured down on all of them like bitter rain? Harry had never heard any answers to his own prayers, his begging demands, his attempts to make deals with his Maker.
Draco's hands, he knew, were empty, too.
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no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 03:43 pm (UTC)oh no!!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 06:50 pm (UTC)There is so much happening here. In just a few short paragraphs you capture Harry's effort to ignore/deny the news he's just read by turning his attention to the articles around the house (I especially liked the bit regarding the spoon: "It, too, was finely made, and Harry could almost see the countless Malfoy hands that had curled around this very spoon, before reaching across the breakfast table to caress a waiting lover..." -- almost as if he's likening himself to a possession. Or is that stretching it?); his rationalisation (Draco was "forced" to do what he'd done); anger and regret at their stolen youths; and perhaps some vague sort of acceptance, too.
And what are those rows about and the "growing distance" between them? Who's out to drive a wedge between them? I'm thinking there's going to be a lot of heavy emotional stuff going on here. I'm prepared to be floored.
Brilliant job! Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 07:25 pm (UTC)Oh boy, I certainly hope so.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 11:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-12 03:18 pm (UTC)I like unique characters actually, it gives the story something new, a new twist, a new villain or ally, something you are not expecting.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-13 09:32 pm (UTC)