The Beginning (PG; Goyle/Morag)
Archived now! Still my favorite story ever!
Title: The Beginning
Characters: Goyle/Morag
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2046
They each tell the story differently but there is one thing they remember the exact same way, even after all these years. When they sit in front of the fire, holding hands and staring at each other as if they are the only two in the room, they remember that they were lonely…and then they weren’t anymore.
Gramma gets a vague look in her eye when she remembers. These days, the remembering is the easy part, her hands so cramped with rheumatism that she convinces one of us to write down the stories as she dictates. Granpa, on the other hand, seems to see clearer with each memory, his milky eyes becoming bright as if he can see his wife as she once was. Together, they tell us their story and we can remember with them.
There is a beginning and it starts with Once Upon A Time because it must. All true fairy tales start that way and theirs is truly a tale so fantastic that it must be real.
******
Morag had spent the entire dinner hour laughing. Of course, no one could hear her as she was laughing to herself. The French students from Beauxbaton were acting like there was no civilization in the entire castle, and they especially detested the Great Hall. It was drafty, there was never any good food, the banners were faded, the children's laughter was too loud. She supposed she would have been considered one of the children if anyone could have heard her, but she was silent and forgotten as always.
It took the French students half an hour longer to eat than anyone else, nibbling on their special dishes with delicate little teeth and dabbing at their lips with delicate little napkins.
With a quiet sigh, she decided she'd had enough. It was time to go find something else to do. Anything but listening to the whining about the dreadful rugs or tacky furnishings of the Ravenclaw common room.
She grabbed for her book bag, forgetting that the flap was open. Drix, her white ermine, was partial to the olives they had been serving lately and she had been sneaking them into her bag for the last three days. As she flung the bag over her shoulder, she realized her mistake in not closing it right after putting in the last handful. Books, quills, parchments and olives went flying. The only thing she could think was I didn't hit anyone this time. There is still hope that I'll get out of this without anyone noticing.
"Zat is so sad," one of the girls murmured, giggling behind her hand.
"Yes. I've been practicing for distance lately. That was really rather pathetic," she sighed dramatically, bending down to pick up the nearest book. "I'll strive to do better next time."
She grabbed for the olives that were rolling everywhere. Everything else was replaceable but Drix was counting on this treat and she didn’t want to disappoint her pet.
“Bloody frogs.”
It wasn’t how the words were said or even who said them, but the words themselves that caught her off guard. Ever since the representatives had arrived from the other schools, it seemed that everyone was unfailingly polite to them. No matter what they said or did, it was correct and even applauded. To hear someone being honest and saying what they all wanted to say was refreshing.
Of course, leave it to a Slytherin. She had spent enough of the last three years making sure she didn’t stand out. A lot of that involved staying out of the path of people like Gregory Goyle, Draco Malfoy’s ill-tempered bodyguard. She had never heard him say more than three words and all of the sudden he was talking to her…and it wasn’t over. “Can I give you a hand?”
She was being punished. It was the only reasonable answer. Some strange god had heard her thoughts earlier and had decided she should finally have the same inflicted on her. Any moment now, he was going to make her life miserable. Ten seconds went by and still he didn’t do anything but help by stacking some books. Another five and he was reaching for her papers.
When she noticed what books where in the stack, she started to blush but stopped herself. She had completely forgotten she was carrying around these particular ones. It wasn’t often that Fourth Years read A Writer’s Guide to Writing Realistic Love Scenes or Virginity: Myth or Mystique. With any luck, Greg wouldn't notice the titles.
He was supposed to just walk by. People always just walked by her when her bag was on the floor, her stuff strewn all over the place. It was how the game was played. She wasn’t exactly the most graceful Ravenclaw at school. Stuffing the olives into the bag, she held it open for him to put the books in. The quicker she could get out of here, the better.
"Thanks, Greg.” She pushed the last of the parchment in the opening, hoping that she would be able to spread out the wrinkles later. Her professors would appreciate some smooth homework for once. Turning back to the table, she dropped into a curtsey. "I hope that my performance was up to your specifications. Be sure to catch the shows tomorrow."
Before anyone could say anything, she stalked away.
But not quick enough it seemed. When she heard him call after her, she had a strange urge to break into a run. Wasn’t it enough that she was currently letting the gods know she was sorry and they could stop punishing her now?
Because she was polite, sometimes to a fault, she turned and waited for him to catch up with her. When she saw the book, her heart stopped beating. She had contemplating ripping the front cover off that book but it was her sister, Una’s book. The artist who did the front cover had a way with…flesh. He certainly used enough of it. It was hard to tell if the woman actually had any clothes on at all and the man’s were shredded, most of the material at his feet.
They had attracted a crowd. Some of the younger Ravenclaw girls were surrounding them, watching to see what she did. Lately, she had found that her life was a type of game to them. She knew she was odd but they made her FEEL even stranger. It was like she was the mouse and they were the cats with a fun new toy.
He handed her the book and then…she wasn’t sure what happened but she wasn’t where she had been a second before. When the movement stopped, she found herself in the courtyard, staring at the stars.
"Sorry," he muttered, "I needed some air. Thought maybe you'd ... you'd like some too."
She leaned back against the wall and dropped her bag, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. "Thanks. It's always nice to get outside while the weather's still nice. I haven't used that passageway much. Almost completely forgot about it."
He was silent, staring up at the sky. It was nice to be able to see all the bright stars. It was the one thing she truly loved about the Ravenclaw Tower. She was so close she felt like she could touch them. Each night, before she went to bed, she pretended she could touch them. A star for every dream, her sister had always said when they were younger. She had a lot of dreams. It was nice there were enough stars to hold them all for her until she was able to do something about them.
“Thanks for helping me out. I'm not used to it. They're harmless, really. The great thing is most of them have the attention span of a reddish barnacle. Give them something to move their attention on to and they forget about being ruthless.” She grabbed his hand and lifted it up. "It beats using these."
She had seen enough of his fights to know that there was never really any damage done. Not to him, at least. Strangely, his hands were still a mass of silver lines that stood out against his tanned skin. As she slid her fingers along a long scar, she felt a callous. Funny, she had never seen him with a quill but he had all the right ridges on his hands. These were the hands of a fighter, but also, strangely, the hands of a scholar.
"I do what I have to do.”
She looked sharply up at him, confused at the image of what she saw and heard versus the image she could feel under her hand. She was a writer who prided herself on looking at the world differently. For the first time, she looked at him as something other than what she had always assumed he was.
When he pushed her hair out of her face, she got a completely different picture. Her mother was always brushing her hair off her face with a gentle gesture that showed she cared about her youngest daughter. It was odd, but this same motion didn’t feel wrong when it came from the teenage boy in front of her.
"I don't have wit like you do, so I make do with these. I have it, might as well use it. People don't expect much else from me, so it gives me an advantage."
She wanted to say something to him to make him feel better. Nothing sounded right, even in her own head. The words didn’t fit together right. When he closed his eyes, she suddenly felt better. The pain he radiated lessened when they were closed and she concentrated on stroking his powerful hand.
"I'm not an animal."
Morag couldn't help herself. She laughed. It wasn't a giggle but an outright laugh. Her mother was always telling her to think about these types of things first but she couldn't help it.
She felt him stiffen but tugged at his hand before he could pull away. "I know you aren't. It's just funny that you would think you are. Just because someone tells you something, it doesn't automatically mean it's true. Have you ever heard of the whisper theory?"
He shook his head, staring at her as if he was waiting for her to do something horrible. She laughed again, stepping closer. "Bend down.” He did as she instructed and she whispered, "We're having haggis for breakfast."
As if she had burned him, he jumped back.
"See, there's this theory that people will believe anything as long as you whisper it. It makes it more believable or something. Never believe a whisper."
He looked at her for a moment and nodded, then his eyebrows drew together in thought. "That sounds like something my Grandmother would say," he said finally. She wasn’t impressed at being compared to an old woman. It made her think of Old Granny, the wise woman in her village. Being compared to that old crone made her uneasy.
The shiver of apprehension was mistaken for cold and he was suddenly pulling off his jumper. Soft wool, surprisingly so for a Slytherin male’s outfit, slid down over her school uniform. It smelled like wood fires and heather, a treat for her Highland senses. When he commented on how big it was, she gathered it around her as if she was afraid he would ask for it back. Until she had put it on, she hadn’t noticed how cold she was.
He sat down and she followed him, mesmerized by him. There was something about him that was different. Her senses were confused by what they thought they knew and what she was discovering for herself.
"You remind me of her," he said finally. "She's little, like you. But she doesn't take anything from anyone.” Something in his tone made her sad. He sounded lonely. "Morag, would you mind just sitting here with me a little longer?"
Suddenly, she couldn’t think of a reason for saying no to his request. It was a simple question but there was something complex lurking behind. She wanted to get to know Greg Goyle and find out why he confused her.
Title: The Beginning
Characters: Goyle/Morag
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2046
They each tell the story differently but there is one thing they remember the exact same way, even after all these years. When they sit in front of the fire, holding hands and staring at each other as if they are the only two in the room, they remember that they were lonely…and then they weren’t anymore.
Gramma gets a vague look in her eye when she remembers. These days, the remembering is the easy part, her hands so cramped with rheumatism that she convinces one of us to write down the stories as she dictates. Granpa, on the other hand, seems to see clearer with each memory, his milky eyes becoming bright as if he can see his wife as she once was. Together, they tell us their story and we can remember with them.
There is a beginning and it starts with Once Upon A Time because it must. All true fairy tales start that way and theirs is truly a tale so fantastic that it must be real.
******
Morag had spent the entire dinner hour laughing. Of course, no one could hear her as she was laughing to herself. The French students from Beauxbaton were acting like there was no civilization in the entire castle, and they especially detested the Great Hall. It was drafty, there was never any good food, the banners were faded, the children's laughter was too loud. She supposed she would have been considered one of the children if anyone could have heard her, but she was silent and forgotten as always.
It took the French students half an hour longer to eat than anyone else, nibbling on their special dishes with delicate little teeth and dabbing at their lips with delicate little napkins.
With a quiet sigh, she decided she'd had enough. It was time to go find something else to do. Anything but listening to the whining about the dreadful rugs or tacky furnishings of the Ravenclaw common room.
She grabbed for her book bag, forgetting that the flap was open. Drix, her white ermine, was partial to the olives they had been serving lately and she had been sneaking them into her bag for the last three days. As she flung the bag over her shoulder, she realized her mistake in not closing it right after putting in the last handful. Books, quills, parchments and olives went flying. The only thing she could think was I didn't hit anyone this time. There is still hope that I'll get out of this without anyone noticing.
"Zat is so sad," one of the girls murmured, giggling behind her hand.
"Yes. I've been practicing for distance lately. That was really rather pathetic," she sighed dramatically, bending down to pick up the nearest book. "I'll strive to do better next time."
She grabbed for the olives that were rolling everywhere. Everything else was replaceable but Drix was counting on this treat and she didn’t want to disappoint her pet.
“Bloody frogs.”
It wasn’t how the words were said or even who said them, but the words themselves that caught her off guard. Ever since the representatives had arrived from the other schools, it seemed that everyone was unfailingly polite to them. No matter what they said or did, it was correct and even applauded. To hear someone being honest and saying what they all wanted to say was refreshing.
Of course, leave it to a Slytherin. She had spent enough of the last three years making sure she didn’t stand out. A lot of that involved staying out of the path of people like Gregory Goyle, Draco Malfoy’s ill-tempered bodyguard. She had never heard him say more than three words and all of the sudden he was talking to her…and it wasn’t over. “Can I give you a hand?”
She was being punished. It was the only reasonable answer. Some strange god had heard her thoughts earlier and had decided she should finally have the same inflicted on her. Any moment now, he was going to make her life miserable. Ten seconds went by and still he didn’t do anything but help by stacking some books. Another five and he was reaching for her papers.
When she noticed what books where in the stack, she started to blush but stopped herself. She had completely forgotten she was carrying around these particular ones. It wasn’t often that Fourth Years read A Writer’s Guide to Writing Realistic Love Scenes or Virginity: Myth or Mystique. With any luck, Greg wouldn't notice the titles.
He was supposed to just walk by. People always just walked by her when her bag was on the floor, her stuff strewn all over the place. It was how the game was played. She wasn’t exactly the most graceful Ravenclaw at school. Stuffing the olives into the bag, she held it open for him to put the books in. The quicker she could get out of here, the better.
"Thanks, Greg.” She pushed the last of the parchment in the opening, hoping that she would be able to spread out the wrinkles later. Her professors would appreciate some smooth homework for once. Turning back to the table, she dropped into a curtsey. "I hope that my performance was up to your specifications. Be sure to catch the shows tomorrow."
Before anyone could say anything, she stalked away.
But not quick enough it seemed. When she heard him call after her, she had a strange urge to break into a run. Wasn’t it enough that she was currently letting the gods know she was sorry and they could stop punishing her now?
Because she was polite, sometimes to a fault, she turned and waited for him to catch up with her. When she saw the book, her heart stopped beating. She had contemplating ripping the front cover off that book but it was her sister, Una’s book. The artist who did the front cover had a way with…flesh. He certainly used enough of it. It was hard to tell if the woman actually had any clothes on at all and the man’s were shredded, most of the material at his feet.
They had attracted a crowd. Some of the younger Ravenclaw girls were surrounding them, watching to see what she did. Lately, she had found that her life was a type of game to them. She knew she was odd but they made her FEEL even stranger. It was like she was the mouse and they were the cats with a fun new toy.
He handed her the book and then…she wasn’t sure what happened but she wasn’t where she had been a second before. When the movement stopped, she found herself in the courtyard, staring at the stars.
"Sorry," he muttered, "I needed some air. Thought maybe you'd ... you'd like some too."
She leaned back against the wall and dropped her bag, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. "Thanks. It's always nice to get outside while the weather's still nice. I haven't used that passageway much. Almost completely forgot about it."
He was silent, staring up at the sky. It was nice to be able to see all the bright stars. It was the one thing she truly loved about the Ravenclaw Tower. She was so close she felt like she could touch them. Each night, before she went to bed, she pretended she could touch them. A star for every dream, her sister had always said when they were younger. She had a lot of dreams. It was nice there were enough stars to hold them all for her until she was able to do something about them.
“Thanks for helping me out. I'm not used to it. They're harmless, really. The great thing is most of them have the attention span of a reddish barnacle. Give them something to move their attention on to and they forget about being ruthless.” She grabbed his hand and lifted it up. "It beats using these."
She had seen enough of his fights to know that there was never really any damage done. Not to him, at least. Strangely, his hands were still a mass of silver lines that stood out against his tanned skin. As she slid her fingers along a long scar, she felt a callous. Funny, she had never seen him with a quill but he had all the right ridges on his hands. These were the hands of a fighter, but also, strangely, the hands of a scholar.
"I do what I have to do.”
She looked sharply up at him, confused at the image of what she saw and heard versus the image she could feel under her hand. She was a writer who prided herself on looking at the world differently. For the first time, she looked at him as something other than what she had always assumed he was.
When he pushed her hair out of her face, she got a completely different picture. Her mother was always brushing her hair off her face with a gentle gesture that showed she cared about her youngest daughter. It was odd, but this same motion didn’t feel wrong when it came from the teenage boy in front of her.
"I don't have wit like you do, so I make do with these. I have it, might as well use it. People don't expect much else from me, so it gives me an advantage."
She wanted to say something to him to make him feel better. Nothing sounded right, even in her own head. The words didn’t fit together right. When he closed his eyes, she suddenly felt better. The pain he radiated lessened when they were closed and she concentrated on stroking his powerful hand.
"I'm not an animal."
Morag couldn't help herself. She laughed. It wasn't a giggle but an outright laugh. Her mother was always telling her to think about these types of things first but she couldn't help it.
She felt him stiffen but tugged at his hand before he could pull away. "I know you aren't. It's just funny that you would think you are. Just because someone tells you something, it doesn't automatically mean it's true. Have you ever heard of the whisper theory?"
He shook his head, staring at her as if he was waiting for her to do something horrible. She laughed again, stepping closer. "Bend down.” He did as she instructed and she whispered, "We're having haggis for breakfast."
As if she had burned him, he jumped back.
"See, there's this theory that people will believe anything as long as you whisper it. It makes it more believable or something. Never believe a whisper."
He looked at her for a moment and nodded, then his eyebrows drew together in thought. "That sounds like something my Grandmother would say," he said finally. She wasn’t impressed at being compared to an old woman. It made her think of Old Granny, the wise woman in her village. Being compared to that old crone made her uneasy.
The shiver of apprehension was mistaken for cold and he was suddenly pulling off his jumper. Soft wool, surprisingly so for a Slytherin male’s outfit, slid down over her school uniform. It smelled like wood fires and heather, a treat for her Highland senses. When he commented on how big it was, she gathered it around her as if she was afraid he would ask for it back. Until she had put it on, she hadn’t noticed how cold she was.
He sat down and she followed him, mesmerized by him. There was something about him that was different. Her senses were confused by what they thought they knew and what she was discovering for herself.
"You remind me of her," he said finally. "She's little, like you. But she doesn't take anything from anyone.” Something in his tone made her sad. He sounded lonely. "Morag, would you mind just sitting here with me a little longer?"
Suddenly, she couldn’t think of a reason for saying no to his request. It was a simple question but there was something complex lurking behind. She wanted to get to know Greg Goyle and find out why he confused her.