Belgian election, about which no one cares + hp ficlet
Sadface. The ecological party only barely made it (in Belgium a party needs to have 5% of the votes to get into parliament). Better than last year, but still. Lots of good people have been elected though; prime minister will probably be a christian-democrat - I don't agree with a lot they say, but this man is very capable and will be a good prime minister. Socialists lost a lot of votes, even though I personally don't feel like they deserved it. So ouch, painful. I'm curious how this will turn out for parliament. Christian-democrats are the big winners this time, which I guess is not that bad. I would never vote for them (if only because they voted against gay adoption, which is something I really don't appreciate even though the law still passed), but other than their stupid ethical conservatism (well, sort of - it's conservative by Belgian standards, so maybe it's not that conservative, compared to other countries) they're really sort of okay. I just hope the ecological party makes it into parliament this time. We really need them, with Belgium not living up to Kyoto and all that. (Our CO² numbers have actually increased since Kyoto. We should be so fucking ashamed.) I feel left out because I'm not old enough to vote yet :(
Anyway! Whipped up a little HP fic.
Title: Magic
Rating: G
Summary: "Sometimes he thinks it should all be a little weirder." Dudley-centric.
Sometimes he thinks it should all be a little bit weirder.
Weirder than this anyway, weirder than hats and dresses and silly sticks, weirder than books that he could find in the last, slightly dodgy section of the town’s library if he wanted to. Not that he wants to. He’s just proving a point, really. Once he snuck into Harry’s bedroom, because he wanted to see if Harry sometimes changed the positions of his broken toys. If he had, it might mean he liked it and maybe then he could take it back. Or break it. Or something. Afterwards he couldn’t really remember anymore why he’d went in that room while Harry was downstairs doing the dishes.
The sight of that trunk opened like a beckoning mouth is imprinted on his eyelids, though. He could see the gleam of new books with glossy covers and wrinkled old yellowish paper. Something he thought then: maybe they’re love letters and over his spine ran a shiver of pleasure when he envisioned Harry’s face as he read them out loud at the dinner table. It didn’t occur to him then that maybe that was magic, how that trunk called him over from the shelves of dusty toys which should have been so much more interesting. It doesn’t occur to him now, oh no it doesn’t, especially not at night when his blanket is wet with sweat and summer warmth.
It was all terribly boring, though. The titles were sort of freakish (Advanced Transfiguration, So You Want to Be a Seeker?, 1002 Herbs Unsuitable For Human Consumption and a battered old rag called Darke Magic) but they were just books - just books, not things that could jump up and latch at his throat or burrow themselves into his brain. He thought it should be weirder than this; it seemed stupid that a sort of world where waving around a stick could turn things into mice or ice would have books, as mundane as they are.
The yellow paper was full of things he didn’t understand and some he did, but they weren’t love letters. There was a message from someone who called himself ‘Red’ who seemed to be going on about some kind of cup, and there was a sort of recipe (but not one he fancied eating), and then there was one scrap of paper that was full of lines - angry streaks of ink, some so harshly put they’d pierced the paper. Whatever.
He opened up Impossible Saves and had a shock running up his nerves as he realised the pictures inside it were moving - streaks of colour on smooth lines of wood, chasing after things that were too fast to see. And suddenly his mind went numb and he remembered the recurring dream that always sent his head spinning: everything fast and moving around him as he slid through the air, in control, looking for something, looking for something… He slammed the book shut and it didn’t occur to him then that maybe that was magic and it never occurred to him later.
A picture fell out of the book and propelled down to the floor in a graceful arc. Up at him stared two faces full of deep happiness - a girl with hair that seemed to have exploded and a boy red like a dancing flame, towering tall over her. They were grinning brightly and as he watched, they reached out of the frame of the photo and pulled a third person in - with a shock he realised it was his cousin, but not like he’d ever seen him, smiling, smiling… They waved at the camera and embraced in a wonky three-way hug before the images started all over again. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop his head from saying: this is weird enough for me, but it’s also not weird enough. It occurred to him then and it occurs to him now; maybe that was magic.
Anyway! Whipped up a little HP fic.
Title: Magic
Rating: G
Summary: "Sometimes he thinks it should all be a little weirder." Dudley-centric.
Sometimes he thinks it should all be a little bit weirder.
Weirder than this anyway, weirder than hats and dresses and silly sticks, weirder than books that he could find in the last, slightly dodgy section of the town’s library if he wanted to. Not that he wants to. He’s just proving a point, really. Once he snuck into Harry’s bedroom, because he wanted to see if Harry sometimes changed the positions of his broken toys. If he had, it might mean he liked it and maybe then he could take it back. Or break it. Or something. Afterwards he couldn’t really remember anymore why he’d went in that room while Harry was downstairs doing the dishes.
The sight of that trunk opened like a beckoning mouth is imprinted on his eyelids, though. He could see the gleam of new books with glossy covers and wrinkled old yellowish paper. Something he thought then: maybe they’re love letters and over his spine ran a shiver of pleasure when he envisioned Harry’s face as he read them out loud at the dinner table. It didn’t occur to him then that maybe that was magic, how that trunk called him over from the shelves of dusty toys which should have been so much more interesting. It doesn’t occur to him now, oh no it doesn’t, especially not at night when his blanket is wet with sweat and summer warmth.
It was all terribly boring, though. The titles were sort of freakish (Advanced Transfiguration, So You Want to Be a Seeker?, 1002 Herbs Unsuitable For Human Consumption and a battered old rag called Darke Magic) but they were just books - just books, not things that could jump up and latch at his throat or burrow themselves into his brain. He thought it should be weirder than this; it seemed stupid that a sort of world where waving around a stick could turn things into mice or ice would have books, as mundane as they are.
The yellow paper was full of things he didn’t understand and some he did, but they weren’t love letters. There was a message from someone who called himself ‘Red’ who seemed to be going on about some kind of cup, and there was a sort of recipe (but not one he fancied eating), and then there was one scrap of paper that was full of lines - angry streaks of ink, some so harshly put they’d pierced the paper. Whatever.
He opened up Impossible Saves and had a shock running up his nerves as he realised the pictures inside it were moving - streaks of colour on smooth lines of wood, chasing after things that were too fast to see. And suddenly his mind went numb and he remembered the recurring dream that always sent his head spinning: everything fast and moving around him as he slid through the air, in control, looking for something, looking for something… He slammed the book shut and it didn’t occur to him then that maybe that was magic and it never occurred to him later.
A picture fell out of the book and propelled down to the floor in a graceful arc. Up at him stared two faces full of deep happiness - a girl with hair that seemed to have exploded and a boy red like a dancing flame, towering tall over her. They were grinning brightly and as he watched, they reached out of the frame of the photo and pulled a third person in - with a shock he realised it was his cousin, but not like he’d ever seen him, smiling, smiling… They waved at the camera and embraced in a wonky three-way hug before the images started all over again. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop his head from saying: this is weird enough for me, but it’s also not weird enough. It occurred to him then and it occurs to him now; maybe that was magic.