prompt for April 30th - Harry Potter/Sneakers
And here's me being somewhat atypical with my prompt responses again. But there's only so much one can do, when things start eating at one's brain...
Prompt for April 30:
Write about an injury.
"...But honestly, changing your grades by subterfuge? Was that really necessary on your part?"
"Probably not. Me slacking off still meant I was passing everything. But it seemed like the best idea at the time, and considering it got me into the best use for my natural talents I can think of, I'd say it worked out pretty well. Anyway, is it really that different from letting your friends copy your notes?"
Hermione sighs. "Yes, it is. There are no rules against lending one's notes to one's friends, and anyway, Harry and Ron were always terrible at staying awake in class."
"Maybe you should've worked on that, then. At least with my approach, the only person I screwed over was myself--" Carl stops mid-sentence and tenses up, his attention quite occupied by something behind Hermione's left shoulder. She almost asks what it is, then decides having a look for herself would be more expedient.
What she sees, however, is somewhere between a comfort (in that there's no immediate danger) and cause for bafflement (also in that there's no immediate danger).
"Honestly, Carl, it's only Cosmo. I don't see why that worries you so much."
"No. No, you wouldn't." Carl sighs, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Gee, I wish I lived in the same clear-cut world you did."
"I really don't know what you're all on about, in that regard. After all, you each took a stand against Voldemort, so you shouldn't have such problems with each other's presence--"
"A little advice, Hermione. Most of the world doesn't follow the rules you went to school in, and when the enemy of my enemy once ordered my boss' death? He's still my goddamn enemy. It's not the sort of thing that's easy to let drop, whether he's carrying his gun around or not."
Carl leaves before Hermione can even muster a token protest, or rather, before she can decide which protest is the best one to start with. He can't expect her to have known that already; he can't expect her to believe it, after the saturation in Good Vs. Evil she's had; and he certainly can't expect her to stop asking questions after that tidbit. She's about to follow him out of the Great Hall, but then Cosmo sits down next to her and helps himself to some of the roast and mashed potatoes still out for supper.
"Well," he says, after a few moments. "That was interesting, don't you think?"
"If by 'interesting,' you mean even more confusing," Hermione replies, eyeing the remnants on her own plate. "Was it true, what he said about you?"
"I'm afraid so. I did need to talk to Marty, at the time, but trying to pull him under when I didn't hear what I wanted to was... not one of my better-judged decisions. I won't be pursuing that again, though I doubt any of them will forgive me for a long time coming, if ever." He sounds more resigned to the fact than at peace with it, which she supposes makes sense, under the circumstances.
"I still don't understand. Not entirely. If you were at odds with each other before, how can you be working toward the same goal now?"
Cosmo just looks at Hermione for a moment, then sighs. "Marty and I stopped seeing eye to eye some time previously, if we ever really did in the first place. That we worked toward a common purpose in this case was more coincidental than anything, and even in that, we don't have the same ultimate goal."
"What happened? if you don't mind my asking, of course."
He hesitates just long enough to make her suspect he does, in fact, mind her asking, but he does continue. "We wanted to change the world. I did, anyway - it's entirely possible Marty was just amused by putting the government's money in nobler causes' pockets. We were college kids with no idea how to cover our tracks - or any idea that we should cover them, since computers weren't terribly widespread at the time - people caught on, and the police turned up. I didn't know until this afternoon whether Marty left me alone to take the fall on purpose. Turns out he didn't."
"I'm sorry," Hermione says. "What came after that?"
"I spent just over ten years in prison before I found a way out, and... well, I still think I can change the world. But it seems Marty is a man of lesser ambition. I wanted him to answer for what he'd done, if only for my own peace of mind, though I should have realized he would involve the rest of his team. He never did learn to keep his friends out of more personal danger."
Hermione considers that for a few moments, brushing aside the suspicion that the Sorting Hat would drop Cosmo into Slytherin as easily as it would a Malfoy; if she must worry over that, she can do so later. For now, there are two far more intriguing possibilities.
"You would have liked Harry's godfather, I think," she finally says. "Sirius spent twelve years in prison for a horrible betrayal one of his friends actually committed, before he broke out. He would've known a bit about... well, something like your experience, anyway - Azkaban's a bit more intense than most Muggle prisons."
"Another casualty of the war, I take it?"
"Two years ago. He got into a duel with a cousin of his - most of his family came down in favor of Voldemort - she stunned him, and he fell through a veil. This was in the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry, and no one's entirely certain what it did to him."
"...You do realize, given your choice of words, that he may not be dead."
"We don't have any way to find him. Besides, Dumbledore said--"
Cosmo snorts. "One would think the man was God, the way you all go on about him. Have you even tried to find Sirius?"
"...Well, no. We had more important things to do."
"I'll grant you that. But now that the war is off your hands, you might consider it."
"Perhaps." And certainly, if - no, when - Harry wakes up, he'll be interested in the possibility. "That does lead me to the other thing I've been wondering about, though."
"If it's that prophecy you've mentioned, I'd rather not discuss it."
"Whyever not? It might fit the circumstances."
"Oh, I don't doubt you could perform a lot of verbal gymnastics and odd semantic interpretations and tie it to what happened. But I didn't come here with any expectation of living up to someone else's attempt to tell the future. I came here in order to take care of some business, and I did exactly that. Anyway, to hear your friends tell it, you disregarded the class that would have told you how to deal with the information. I suspect you just want to know how I could cut in on Harry's glory so easily."
Hermione sighs. "Is that really so much to ask, after all the work we did to get to this point?"
"The way you're going about it, it is. After all, it's not as though the answer would be of much comfort to Harry."
She can't give voice to her outrage over that; she still doesn't understand why the Americans are so insistent Harry is really dead. Any hour now, Madam Pomfrey will be calling everyone to the infirmary, and Harry will be wanting to know everything he's missed since he went out into the forest the other night.
But tomorrow's the third day, as Carl suggested timing it, and Hermione's finding it harder and harder to hold back her doubt.
Cosmo finishes his potatoes, sets down his fork, and stands. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger," he says, though it makes little difference whether she does or not, and they both know it.
Despite that, she barely notices him leaving. She's got a lot to think about now, and almost none of the implications are pleasant.
Prompt for April 30:
Write about an injury.
"...But honestly, changing your grades by subterfuge? Was that really necessary on your part?"
"Probably not. Me slacking off still meant I was passing everything. But it seemed like the best idea at the time, and considering it got me into the best use for my natural talents I can think of, I'd say it worked out pretty well. Anyway, is it really that different from letting your friends copy your notes?"
Hermione sighs. "Yes, it is. There are no rules against lending one's notes to one's friends, and anyway, Harry and Ron were always terrible at staying awake in class."
"Maybe you should've worked on that, then. At least with my approach, the only person I screwed over was myself--" Carl stops mid-sentence and tenses up, his attention quite occupied by something behind Hermione's left shoulder. She almost asks what it is, then decides having a look for herself would be more expedient.
What she sees, however, is somewhere between a comfort (in that there's no immediate danger) and cause for bafflement (also in that there's no immediate danger).
"Honestly, Carl, it's only Cosmo. I don't see why that worries you so much."
"No. No, you wouldn't." Carl sighs, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Gee, I wish I lived in the same clear-cut world you did."
"I really don't know what you're all on about, in that regard. After all, you each took a stand against Voldemort, so you shouldn't have such problems with each other's presence--"
"A little advice, Hermione. Most of the world doesn't follow the rules you went to school in, and when the enemy of my enemy once ordered my boss' death? He's still my goddamn enemy. It's not the sort of thing that's easy to let drop, whether he's carrying his gun around or not."
Carl leaves before Hermione can even muster a token protest, or rather, before she can decide which protest is the best one to start with. He can't expect her to have known that already; he can't expect her to believe it, after the saturation in Good Vs. Evil she's had; and he certainly can't expect her to stop asking questions after that tidbit. She's about to follow him out of the Great Hall, but then Cosmo sits down next to her and helps himself to some of the roast and mashed potatoes still out for supper.
"Well," he says, after a few moments. "That was interesting, don't you think?"
"If by 'interesting,' you mean even more confusing," Hermione replies, eyeing the remnants on her own plate. "Was it true, what he said about you?"
"I'm afraid so. I did need to talk to Marty, at the time, but trying to pull him under when I didn't hear what I wanted to was... not one of my better-judged decisions. I won't be pursuing that again, though I doubt any of them will forgive me for a long time coming, if ever." He sounds more resigned to the fact than at peace with it, which she supposes makes sense, under the circumstances.
"I still don't understand. Not entirely. If you were at odds with each other before, how can you be working toward the same goal now?"
Cosmo just looks at Hermione for a moment, then sighs. "Marty and I stopped seeing eye to eye some time previously, if we ever really did in the first place. That we worked toward a common purpose in this case was more coincidental than anything, and even in that, we don't have the same ultimate goal."
"What happened? if you don't mind my asking, of course."
He hesitates just long enough to make her suspect he does, in fact, mind her asking, but he does continue. "We wanted to change the world. I did, anyway - it's entirely possible Marty was just amused by putting the government's money in nobler causes' pockets. We were college kids with no idea how to cover our tracks - or any idea that we should cover them, since computers weren't terribly widespread at the time - people caught on, and the police turned up. I didn't know until this afternoon whether Marty left me alone to take the fall on purpose. Turns out he didn't."
"I'm sorry," Hermione says. "What came after that?"
"I spent just over ten years in prison before I found a way out, and... well, I still think I can change the world. But it seems Marty is a man of lesser ambition. I wanted him to answer for what he'd done, if only for my own peace of mind, though I should have realized he would involve the rest of his team. He never did learn to keep his friends out of more personal danger."
Hermione considers that for a few moments, brushing aside the suspicion that the Sorting Hat would drop Cosmo into Slytherin as easily as it would a Malfoy; if she must worry over that, she can do so later. For now, there are two far more intriguing possibilities.
"You would have liked Harry's godfather, I think," she finally says. "Sirius spent twelve years in prison for a horrible betrayal one of his friends actually committed, before he broke out. He would've known a bit about... well, something like your experience, anyway - Azkaban's a bit more intense than most Muggle prisons."
"Another casualty of the war, I take it?"
"Two years ago. He got into a duel with a cousin of his - most of his family came down in favor of Voldemort - she stunned him, and he fell through a veil. This was in the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry, and no one's entirely certain what it did to him."
"...You do realize, given your choice of words, that he may not be dead."
"We don't have any way to find him. Besides, Dumbledore said--"
Cosmo snorts. "One would think the man was God, the way you all go on about him. Have you even tried to find Sirius?"
"...Well, no. We had more important things to do."
"I'll grant you that. But now that the war is off your hands, you might consider it."
"Perhaps." And certainly, if - no, when - Harry wakes up, he'll be interested in the possibility. "That does lead me to the other thing I've been wondering about, though."
"If it's that prophecy you've mentioned, I'd rather not discuss it."
"Whyever not? It might fit the circumstances."
"Oh, I don't doubt you could perform a lot of verbal gymnastics and odd semantic interpretations and tie it to what happened. But I didn't come here with any expectation of living up to someone else's attempt to tell the future. I came here in order to take care of some business, and I did exactly that. Anyway, to hear your friends tell it, you disregarded the class that would have told you how to deal with the information. I suspect you just want to know how I could cut in on Harry's glory so easily."
Hermione sighs. "Is that really so much to ask, after all the work we did to get to this point?"
"The way you're going about it, it is. After all, it's not as though the answer would be of much comfort to Harry."
She can't give voice to her outrage over that; she still doesn't understand why the Americans are so insistent Harry is really dead. Any hour now, Madam Pomfrey will be calling everyone to the infirmary, and Harry will be wanting to know everything he's missed since he went out into the forest the other night.
But tomorrow's the third day, as Carl suggested timing it, and Hermione's finding it harder and harder to hold back her doubt.
Cosmo finishes his potatoes, sets down his fork, and stands. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger," he says, though it makes little difference whether she does or not, and they both know it.
Despite that, she barely notices him leaving. She's got a lot to think about now, and almost none of the implications are pleasant.