Fic, recs, a question and some rant
See, the problem is, having had over a week off work, I'm now all tetchy about having to go back, and I don't know what to do with myself.
I've read all the fic on my f-list: Chapter 8 of lupinslittlesis's Accidentally In Love is wonderful as usual; scoradh has posted Chapter 2 of her wonderful, tension-filled Terry Boot/Michael Corner thing (Oh! The curly hair and naked boys!); minnow_53's latest is hot and R-rated; spessartine has gone Regulus-mad again; sethkyne_blue's Snupin is just far too sexy; magistera has reposted some R/S with finger-licious smoking in; and malfoymation wrote some delightfully proper Lucius/Narcissa.
So what do I do now? (Don't say DD - I am trying!) Actually here's a question; say I wanted to edit chapters of DD (some are hideously full of mistakes - self-beta, my arse), I can just edit then re-submit each chapter to FA, can't I? Just check the 'new version' box? Will it annoy the fuck out of the mods if I do it all now?
And that James/Severus is still untitled and un-crossposted. Argh. In the meantime:
For mithborien, who asked for Harry/Luna, drunk and talking about the prophesy. Yes, I know this isn’t quite what was requested, soz.
So Long And Thanks For All The Fish
‘I mean,’ Harry said, on his fourth glass of wine already, ‘what is it, like, really, y’know?’
Luna Lovegood smiled, perhaps a little too brightly, but she was definitely the best person to deal with Harry at this point, because the last time he’d asked a pretty similar question, Hermione had - rather drunk herself - said, ‘it’s a glass of wine, Harry,’ and then started to talk about grapes and fermentation, so Ron had dragged her up to bed.
‘Forty-two,’ Luna informed him calmly.
That brought Harry’s random diatribe up short. A little too short, really, because a lot of wine sloshed up over the edge of his glass, staining the sofa. ‘What?’
‘The meaning of life, the universe and everything. Forty-two.’
‘That makes even less sense than my life,’ Harry told her sternly, the maudlin creeping in now.
He stared out across the room for a few minutes, with desperate wistfulness, pondering his heartbreakingly depressing existence and trying to remember how many times seven went into forty-two.
‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ Luna added, eventually.
Harry looked at her, because jokes seemed incongruous with those wide, limpid eyes, with their serious expression. Save for those eyes, Luna’s whole self seemed to be one unfathomable joke.
After another minute, he started to laugh. ‘Do you do that often?’ he asked her.
‘Do what?’ she said, a little archly, plenty of wine having managed to ruffle her usual demeanour, though Harry was aware that he was possibly just being that annoying.
‘Joke,’ he spluttered, ‘you do it all the time, don’t you? All that mad shit, Cacklesnorts and Crumplesnacks and all that. Just fucking messing with us all…’ He collapsed into laughter again, finally flopping onto her shoulder and sobbing against it, until he was unsure if he was crying or laughing.
‘Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are very intelligent creatures, and I’m not sure I like you making fun of them,’ she told him, her voice a little sterner and a lot less dreamy.
‘Right. Oh, right, sor-ry. But yeah. I’m allowed to offend people, because I’m doomed, you see. Doomed.’
‘Do you believe in predestination?’
‘Whassat?’ he mumbled into her neck. ‘Like destiny? Like this effing prophesy?’
‘That everything that happens is destined to happen-‘
‘So we can’t change anything?’ he asked, looking up and talking directly to her cheek. ‘You’re too pale,’ he added.
‘That’s not the sort of place that it’s considered polite to put your hand.’
‘Shit, sorry!’ He quickly snatched his hand from her thigh, but lost his balance, so slung his other arm around her to steady himself.
She glanced disinterestedly at the deep-red stain that blossomed down her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry; it goes nicely with my shirt.’
‘Sorry.’ Harry sniggered, then wondered if maybe that wasn’t a joke. But then, her shirt did look rather like it was made out of an old blue towel that had lettuce leaves sewn on. ‘So…’ Yes, he told himself, change the subject back, good idea. He gave up on the wine and tossed his now-empty glass to the floor. ‘So, anything that happens isn’t my fault? It was already going to happen, so there was nothing I could do about it?’
‘Well-‘
‘So I could do anything, and nothing would change?’
‘Things would change, but they’d already have been destined to change,’ she explained patiently, a faraway look in her eyes.
That one took a while to digest. ‘Yes. Right. So, say if I… did… this.’ He twisted around her quickly and kissed her sharply on the lips. ‘Would that mean we were destined to be together?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that; you might just be destined for a smack in the mouth.’
Harry snorted in surprise, because that was definitely a joke, and a good one. At his expense… ‘Well, you didn’t smack me yet…?’ he wheedled hopefully. ‘We should get pissed more often; you make a lot more sense drunk, and you’re a lot prettier.’
‘You make the same amount of sense you usually do,’ she said mildly, lifting one of her braids and tickling his nose with the end of it, her expression indecipherably blank.
‘Thank you,’ Harry replied, beaming, before again being unsure that she wasn’t just taking the piss out of him. ‘You are very pretty, why didn’t I notice before?’
‘Maybe you weren’t destined to notice until now?’
‘Ahh, yes…’ Or was she mocking him?
‘Or maybe it’s just because you’re drunk.’ Yes, he thought, mocking.
‘Kiss me,’ he murmured to distract her, aware that he probably wasn’t sounding quite as sexy and inviting as he meant to.
She took a while to contemplate the idea of it, and Harry was rather floored by the sudden jump of nerves in his stomach. ‘In the morning,’ she said, eventually, decisively. ‘If a Bottersnike doesn’t eat you in the night, ask me in the morning and I’ll kiss you.’
‘Right. Er, because you think we’re destined to-‘
‘Maybe, but that only works if you believe in it, and I think that right now all you’re destined for is a terrible hangover. Goodnight.’ She eased herself out of the chair and left the room in one smooth swish of her tie-dyed skirt, leaving Harry to try and work out what had been going on.
I've read all the fic on my f-list: Chapter 8 of lupinslittlesis's Accidentally In Love is wonderful as usual; scoradh has posted Chapter 2 of her wonderful, tension-filled Terry Boot/Michael Corner thing (Oh! The curly hair and naked boys!); minnow_53's latest is hot and R-rated; spessartine has gone Regulus-mad again; sethkyne_blue's Snupin is just far too sexy; magistera has reposted some R/S with finger-licious smoking in; and malfoymation wrote some delightfully proper Lucius/Narcissa.
So what do I do now? (Don't say DD - I am trying!) Actually here's a question; say I wanted to edit chapters of DD (some are hideously full of mistakes - self-beta, my arse), I can just edit then re-submit each chapter to FA, can't I? Just check the 'new version' box? Will it annoy the fuck out of the mods if I do it all now?
And that James/Severus is still untitled and un-crossposted. Argh. In the meantime:
For mithborien, who asked for Harry/Luna, drunk and talking about the prophesy. Yes, I know this isn’t quite what was requested, soz.
So Long And Thanks For All The Fish
‘I mean,’ Harry said, on his fourth glass of wine already, ‘what is it, like, really, y’know?’
Luna Lovegood smiled, perhaps a little too brightly, but she was definitely the best person to deal with Harry at this point, because the last time he’d asked a pretty similar question, Hermione had - rather drunk herself - said, ‘it’s a glass of wine, Harry,’ and then started to talk about grapes and fermentation, so Ron had dragged her up to bed.
‘Forty-two,’ Luna informed him calmly.
That brought Harry’s random diatribe up short. A little too short, really, because a lot of wine sloshed up over the edge of his glass, staining the sofa. ‘What?’
‘The meaning of life, the universe and everything. Forty-two.’
‘That makes even less sense than my life,’ Harry told her sternly, the maudlin creeping in now.
He stared out across the room for a few minutes, with desperate wistfulness, pondering his heartbreakingly depressing existence and trying to remember how many times seven went into forty-two.
‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ Luna added, eventually.
Harry looked at her, because jokes seemed incongruous with those wide, limpid eyes, with their serious expression. Save for those eyes, Luna’s whole self seemed to be one unfathomable joke.
After another minute, he started to laugh. ‘Do you do that often?’ he asked her.
‘Do what?’ she said, a little archly, plenty of wine having managed to ruffle her usual demeanour, though Harry was aware that he was possibly just being that annoying.
‘Joke,’ he spluttered, ‘you do it all the time, don’t you? All that mad shit, Cacklesnorts and Crumplesnacks and all that. Just fucking messing with us all…’ He collapsed into laughter again, finally flopping onto her shoulder and sobbing against it, until he was unsure if he was crying or laughing.
‘Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are very intelligent creatures, and I’m not sure I like you making fun of them,’ she told him, her voice a little sterner and a lot less dreamy.
‘Right. Oh, right, sor-ry. But yeah. I’m allowed to offend people, because I’m doomed, you see. Doomed.’
‘Do you believe in predestination?’
‘Whassat?’ he mumbled into her neck. ‘Like destiny? Like this effing prophesy?’
‘That everything that happens is destined to happen-‘
‘So we can’t change anything?’ he asked, looking up and talking directly to her cheek. ‘You’re too pale,’ he added.
‘That’s not the sort of place that it’s considered polite to put your hand.’
‘Shit, sorry!’ He quickly snatched his hand from her thigh, but lost his balance, so slung his other arm around her to steady himself.
She glanced disinterestedly at the deep-red stain that blossomed down her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry; it goes nicely with my shirt.’
‘Sorry.’ Harry sniggered, then wondered if maybe that wasn’t a joke. But then, her shirt did look rather like it was made out of an old blue towel that had lettuce leaves sewn on. ‘So…’ Yes, he told himself, change the subject back, good idea. He gave up on the wine and tossed his now-empty glass to the floor. ‘So, anything that happens isn’t my fault? It was already going to happen, so there was nothing I could do about it?’
‘Well-‘
‘So I could do anything, and nothing would change?’
‘Things would change, but they’d already have been destined to change,’ she explained patiently, a faraway look in her eyes.
That one took a while to digest. ‘Yes. Right. So, say if I… did… this.’ He twisted around her quickly and kissed her sharply on the lips. ‘Would that mean we were destined to be together?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that; you might just be destined for a smack in the mouth.’
Harry snorted in surprise, because that was definitely a joke, and a good one. At his expense… ‘Well, you didn’t smack me yet…?’ he wheedled hopefully. ‘We should get pissed more often; you make a lot more sense drunk, and you’re a lot prettier.’
‘You make the same amount of sense you usually do,’ she said mildly, lifting one of her braids and tickling his nose with the end of it, her expression indecipherably blank.
‘Thank you,’ Harry replied, beaming, before again being unsure that she wasn’t just taking the piss out of him. ‘You are very pretty, why didn’t I notice before?’
‘Maybe you weren’t destined to notice until now?’
‘Ahh, yes…’ Or was she mocking him?
‘Or maybe it’s just because you’re drunk.’ Yes, he thought, mocking.
‘Kiss me,’ he murmured to distract her, aware that he probably wasn’t sounding quite as sexy and inviting as he meant to.
She took a while to contemplate the idea of it, and Harry was rather floored by the sudden jump of nerves in his stomach. ‘In the morning,’ she said, eventually, decisively. ‘If a Bottersnike doesn’t eat you in the night, ask me in the morning and I’ll kiss you.’
‘Right. Er, because you think we’re destined to-‘
‘Maybe, but that only works if you believe in it, and I think that right now all you’re destined for is a terrible hangover. Goodnight.’ She eased herself out of the chair and left the room in one smooth swish of her tie-dyed skirt, leaving Harry to try and work out what had been going on.