Working out the kinks...
I wrote up my first attempt at anything fanfic related today. I'm not sure what to make of it as it is really more autobiographical than fiction, but perhaps I can expand on it. It's Draco/Hermione with a friendship already implied, post-Hogwarts. Probably consider this PG.
Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter.
Black Hole by Thea
I've seen this movie before. It's about that weird counter-culture animator who became a cult icon in the sixties by drawing big tits and phalluses. He's a bizarre, somewhat misogynistic, brilliant geek. His family makes him look almost normal, but not quite.
A fascinating story, but right now my mind isn't on the images that flash across the screen. It's concentrated on the tiniest pinpoint of sensation against my hand. His pinky is just barely there, yet the awareness is so powerful, so dense, that I feel as if my entire being has been sucked into a black hole.
Before I can think about the emotional ramifications of this pinky-tipped black hole and the boy--no man--causing it, my brain pauses at the physiological and scientific implications. A typical day can be filled with random brushes against other human beings: in a lift, on the tube, in a pub getting after work drinks. So why--why oh why--do those multitude of moments produce no reaction? Yet this insignificant touch is like a fully charged battery buzzing through my flesh. Is it some sort of evolutionary reaction? How do our bodies always know before our minds get clued in?
I shift a little bit on the couch, my eyes focused on the screen in front of me (the oddball is conversing with his odder-ball brother who is in the habit of sleeping on a bed of nails). That registers somewhere in the shadows of my cerebral cortex and only because, again, I've seen this film before. He is sitting to my left on the couch, little more than the width of "Hogwarts: A History" between us. To his left is Harry. I glance briefly at both of them. Harry's eyes are glued to the screen and he's got a quizzical look, caught up in the car-wreck that is R. Crumb. To the casual observer, Draco is equally enthralled with the documentary. But even in the quickest glance I know that his vision is internal, focused more on the skin of my hand.
As if to verify this assumption, he tentatively moves his phantom digit, slowly stroking it back and forth. It is so subtle, like a breeze. Except that breezes aren't heavy--though they can give you chills.
I don't directly answer his soft touch. Instead, I turn my hand over. He momentary stalls his movement as I open my palm to him. He takes my invitation adding just the tiniest bit of pressure to his exploration, as if the ghost is developing a bit of skin. I risk a glance at his face again and his eyes are still fixed on the screen. On the surface nothing has changed, just three friends watching a DVD together. Everything looks the same, but the air has shifted around me. I know, as I feel his finger figuratively crawl deep inside, that nothing will ever be the same again.
Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter.
Black Hole by Thea
I've seen this movie before. It's about that weird counter-culture animator who became a cult icon in the sixties by drawing big tits and phalluses. He's a bizarre, somewhat misogynistic, brilliant geek. His family makes him look almost normal, but not quite.
A fascinating story, but right now my mind isn't on the images that flash across the screen. It's concentrated on the tiniest pinpoint of sensation against my hand. His pinky is just barely there, yet the awareness is so powerful, so dense, that I feel as if my entire being has been sucked into a black hole.
Before I can think about the emotional ramifications of this pinky-tipped black hole and the boy--no man--causing it, my brain pauses at the physiological and scientific implications. A typical day can be filled with random brushes against other human beings: in a lift, on the tube, in a pub getting after work drinks. So why--why oh why--do those multitude of moments produce no reaction? Yet this insignificant touch is like a fully charged battery buzzing through my flesh. Is it some sort of evolutionary reaction? How do our bodies always know before our minds get clued in?
I shift a little bit on the couch, my eyes focused on the screen in front of me (the oddball is conversing with his odder-ball brother who is in the habit of sleeping on a bed of nails). That registers somewhere in the shadows of my cerebral cortex and only because, again, I've seen this film before. He is sitting to my left on the couch, little more than the width of "Hogwarts: A History" between us. To his left is Harry. I glance briefly at both of them. Harry's eyes are glued to the screen and he's got a quizzical look, caught up in the car-wreck that is R. Crumb. To the casual observer, Draco is equally enthralled with the documentary. But even in the quickest glance I know that his vision is internal, focused more on the skin of my hand.
As if to verify this assumption, he tentatively moves his phantom digit, slowly stroking it back and forth. It is so subtle, like a breeze. Except that breezes aren't heavy--though they can give you chills.
I don't directly answer his soft touch. Instead, I turn my hand over. He momentary stalls his movement as I open my palm to him. He takes my invitation adding just the tiniest bit of pressure to his exploration, as if the ghost is developing a bit of skin. I risk a glance at his face again and his eyes are still fixed on the screen. On the surface nothing has changed, just three friends watching a DVD together. Everything looks the same, but the air has shifted around me. I know, as I feel his finger figuratively crawl deep inside, that nothing will ever be the same again.