Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

As the students were arriving, Professor Snape marked the attendance and handed out reviews of Friday's lab. Gwenevere had a note on hers written in Latin; it said 'Perfect Clarity, explanation unidentified! Dinner at my place tonight? S.
Gwenevere read the note and met his gaze with a look that suggested there wasn't anywhere else she would rather be.

Professor Snape's lecture was superb as usual; he paced between tables and put numerous potions equations on the blackboard with a flick of his wand for them to copy down. The complicated equations were child's play for him and he answered difficult questions with a lazy relaxed tone, almost a hint of boredom in his velvety voice. Crisply pronounced consonants rolled off his tongue to recite long strings of formula and ratios from memory without missing a beat. He needn't stop and think or to look in a reference book of any kind, which demonstrated his amazing mental capacity for fine detail.

As they strolled the corridors toward the second floor, Boots was walking beside Severus for a change.

"I see you've got yourself a special friend there." She said, glancing down at Boots, apparently back on speaking terms once again.

They passed several ghosts and Severus remembered seeing Sir Nicholas wafting in and out of her quarters early in the morning.

"Apparently, you've made a *friend* from Gryffindor house." He said, with the inflection on the word friend.
"Sir Nicholas?" She questioned.
"Yes. I've seen him exiting your room early in the morning; about the time you are bathing I believe." Severus teased, eyebrows arched in exaggerated disapproval.

"Well, He stays in the far corner, well away." She offered, enjoying Severus's mock jealousy.
"Right."He said, as though he wasn't buying the explaination.
"He IS… well, deceased." She gestured with a sweep of her right hand, continuing the satire.
"Oh yes, yes I know." He said, amused at her ever so slight embarrassment.
"He only chats for a minute or two really."She added hopefully.
"Right." He said as they walked in silence for a moment.

"I'd like us to have a chat whilst you're in the tub sometime." He said, continuing the banter.

I'm afraid we wouldn't chat for long if that were the case." She said, under her breath in a quiet tone that he barely caught. They now reached the second floor corridor.

lee
What is with the SPAM?, - Monday, June 30, 2003 at 21:08:28 (PDT)

*Spraying SPAM repellent about and waving arms to clear the fumes*

Thank you dearest. Have some hilt, and I saved you a bit of blade as well. 8-)

MA
So, I guess this means we didn't use up ALL of New York last summer . . . *smirk*, - Monday, June 30, 2003 at 19:32:11 (PDT)

MA, dearest, I hope you had the happiest of birthdays since the begiinning of this place . . . and will look forward to wishing you many, many more . . .

And . . . not to put too fine a point on it . . . are you planning on eating that last piece of hilt?
R
(Have returned from New York in one piece!), - Monday, June 30, 2003 at 19:12:07 (PDT)

FoF—The Director's Office

Therese approached the door to The Director's office somewhat warily. It wasn't that she'd done anything wrong, exactly; it was more the idea that it was generally the case that her presence at this threshold meant that she'd done something wrong. A sort of operant conditioning, she supposed, might explain her nervous demeanor. Well, that and the fact that she wasn't quite sure how a certain someone might react to his biggest female lead, his assistant slash cast member, and one of his regular female parts decamping, en masse. How was it again that she'd gotten this duty? she wondered, tapping lightly on the frosted glass window.

"Yes, what is it?" came a harried inquiry. When there was no response, a brusque, "Well come in then," followed. Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, Therese entered the inner sanctum of Flights of Fancy.

The Director sat behind his desk, elbows propped up on the edge of the structure, piles of paper stacked neatly on every inch of surface space. His light hair fell over his forehead giving him a boyish air despite the distinguishing grey streaked throughout his temples. Light brown eyes met her gaze, and his eyes narrowed. "Yes?" he inquired, his deep voice drawing out the single syllable, conveying his inherent wariness at her presence. When she still didn't speak he sighed. "What now?"

"Hello to you, too," Therese began, her tone bright. Too bright. She tried again. "Why must you always assume that my presence means something bad?"

Dropping his chin slightly he shot her his trademark glare. "Doesn't it?"

"That's not the point—there's a first time for everything.

"Are you trying to tell me that this will be that first time?" He raised his brow slightly, challenging her.

Therese felt her face colour. "Er, not, not exactly. You see, I need a few days off." She cringed, knowing just how sore of a subject that might be, given her previous conduct. Heck, if she hadn't had an in with Cindie, she still wouldn't be getting a paycheck.

"Time. Off?" he asked, his tone mild, "that's a bit cheeky coming from you, don't you think?"

"Mary Anne and Cindie, too," she added quickly.

"Anyone else?" he demanded, his tone emphasizing the last word ominously, in that, please don't make me remind you of the policy forbidding fraternization of cast members that every bloody well ignores tone that was so familiar to them all.

"No, just us. Five days, Wednesday through Sunday, then back here, ready to wow you with our sunny attitudes and refreshed performances."

"So let me get this straight. The three of you, flying to—"

"Birmingham—"

"—Birmingham," he paused, and then looked startled. "Why in the world would you be taking Mary Anne, of all people, to the home of Cadbury Chocolate!? Her blood sugar level is still seventy times its normal level since her birthday."

"Alabama," she added belatedly.

"Alabama?"

"Yes, Birmingham, Alabama, as in The States. It's become rather a tradition of sorts, the three of us getting together each summer. Last year New York since we couldn't pass up seeing a certain someone on Broadway now, could we?" She paused as he rolled his eyes, remembering the fuss they'd made of him at the stage door, before they'd whisked him off to dinner, as if they'd not seen him for years rather than weeks. "Next year it will be my turn to host at the family farm, then in '05 we'll start off in Scotland before ending up in London, and '06 will be Cindie's turn in Ohio." Therese paused, "We hadn't planned much beyond that."

"I see," he said, "only three years ahead, well, there's still time for '07, I'm sure you'll come up with something." He pulled his planner out from under an old script, and flipped it open to the current date, then made a notation. "Fine, you can have the weekend and a few additional days, but you will be back to film on Monday, and no whinging about jet lag, understood?"

"Yes sir!" Therese nodded, her face breaking into a wide grin. "We'll be back, on time, lines memorized, you can count on it."

"What I can count on," he replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head, a slow smile warming his features, "is a peaceful week with the three of you causing trouble elsewhere. So enjoy yourselves, as I know I will!"

Therese
forgive my indulgence in some personal fun, but it's that time of the year again!, - Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 21:44:49 (PDT)

Mary Anne's flat:

Mary Anne shuts the door and leans against it for a moment before moving to drop a folder of script prospects and the daily mail on the sofa. Slowly she moves about the room, closing shades and curtains, adjusting lights, and checking her answering machine . . . a hopeful pause, here, then a sigh as the metallic voice retorts: You have no messages.

She turns to the stereo—one of her concessions to high-tech gadgetry visible in her home—and grabs from the rack of CD's, settles the discs in the player and hits Random Select. Music, any music. Better than silence.

No messages, hmmmmmm? I certainly got the message last night . . .

Mary Anne shakes her head. This day on the set . . . for the first time in all her years with the series, she had dreaded going in to work. What on earth would Brandon say? What would he do? Would he be there at all? Of course he will, she had told herself. Christopher doesn't leave his work undone, and he certainly wouldn't call in sick if he weren't really sick. And after all, why should he be bothered about coming in? It isn't as if I'm angry with him, really . . .

No, not angry. Baffled, troubled, curious. Not angry.

It had not occurred to her just how angry Brandon might be at himself. And there had been no approaching him. Mary Anne settles herself on the sofa, allowing her impressions of the day to flow over her, unimpeded.

Brandon. Reporting for work promptly on time, of course. When in human history had he ever been late? But silent, beyond the necessary civilities. A long morning of sitting next to him in the Justice Chamber set for sequences of reaction shots, preparations for the next installment of that storyline. Well, The Director will certainly got his money's worth from me today. Mary Anne is supposed to be anguished and upset and weighed down over HIM, and I was a regular Dismal Dora in there. If only acting were always so easy.

But some types of acting are easier than others. The Director, always eagle-eyed for signs of trouble among the cast, had chaffed Brandon a bit about how late hours didn't seem to have agreed with him. "Not coming down with something, are you?" And a suggestion—which everyone present had known was an order—that Brandon report to Jutta before leaving the set that day. "Just have her check you over to make certain. Things are about to really get busy, and I can't have any of you coming over funny at the wrong time."

"Of course," Brandon had replied dutifully enough, but Mary Anne's had seen that mutinous flash of his eyes and wonders if The Director had as well.

She had tried to ease the situation. "He's right, Christopher. After all, I'm the one who faints away in my cube!"

No more than the ghost of a smile in response.

The rest of the day: script conferences, a costume fitting . . . and finally, to ease her feelings, a ferocious set-to in Sei's afternoon kickboxing class, during which Valmont had retired from the field of battle, protesting in pretended terror—was it pretense?—that he had not expected a visitation of Amazons when he signed up for this session. Catcalls and snickers from the class. Dev had finally come forward as her opponent and settled her hash in short order, though she had certainly earned his congratulations by the time he helped her up from the mat; the padding had prevented any genuine harm.

"And who has your back up so high today, Mary Anne? I'd be interested to know if he escaped with his life."

"Yes, Dev, I let him off easy. I'm the Lady of Compassion. That's what I do, you know."

Keen scrutiny from behind those spectacles. Whatever Dev might have guessed, he was gentleman enough to keep it to himself and simply tease her a bit more about what a shame it would be if Sei had to close down his classes because she had scared away all of his students. That had been good for a laugh, at least.

But what, then, had driven her so hard if she hadn't been angry? Disappointment, yes, with Brandon's silence, his withdrawal, as though he did not trust himself to be near her . . .

But that's silly! All right, things got a little out of hand . . .

Mary Anne blushes at the memory of the previous night. A little out of hand, indeed. Even now, she is a taut as a harp string with that odd blend of fear and unsatisfied desire and exultation. To have driven any man, and especially this man, to such lengths . . .

And you liked it. Admit it; you did. It shocked the fool out of you, but it's flattering, isn't it? A kiss like that would make practically any woman a candidate for a knee transplant . . .

Abruptly, Mary Anne rolls off of the couch. Relaxation, that's the ticket. A long, hot soak.

Pipes shriek in the bathroom, and the stereo plays on.

Oui, c'est elle!
C'est la déesse plus charmante et plus belle!
Oui, c'est elle!
C'est la déesse qui descend parmi nous!
Son voile se soulève et la foule est à genoux!

Mary Anne emerges from the bathroom, dripping, to change the disc. Not that aria, not now.

A short time later she is feeling more human, bathed and soothed, curled on the sofa in her dressing gown and slippers, fortified with a cup of hot chocolate, content to listen to the music and look through a few magazines until time for the interview with Minion on the Gerve Mittens Show. This should be good. And in occupying herself with the music and the magazines, she manages to convince herself that she isn't really straining her ears, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting . . .

There is a tap at the door. Her hand jerks in surprise and she drops the magazine, when there it is again: a more resolute knock, and she leaps from the sofa and hurries to answer.

MA--we've had Spanish; now some French.
But I *will* provide translations on request. , - Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 21:16:06 (PDT)

Oh ACC, you gave me a heart attack! lol When I saw your posts,I thought I had just put the story on the other GB by mistake. ok, I am awake now.
lee
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 20:28:53 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday, 30th June

Gwenevere was striding along the corridor at top speed toward the staircase leading to the dungeons when Professor McClane stepped out from a large torch and blocked her way, almost causing a collision. Her robes flared to a halt as she looked at him questionably.

"Good evening Professor Collins, Allow me to introduce myself. I am John McClane, Libranomancy Professor, but please… call me John." McClane stretched out his hand and attempted bedroom eyes. He smiled broadly revealing a bit of spinach between his pointy front teeth.

"Professor McClane..." She reluctantly nodded,speaking in a cool business-like tone "what can I do for you?" McClane tentatively put his hand down.

"I was hoping we'd get a chance to meet *alone* last night before you left with that…that 'Professor Snape.' I would be most delighted to show you around Hogwarts myself, and introduce you around properly." He bragged like a pompous ass.

"Really? Well, Professor Snape is doing an excellent job of that, so if you will excuse me please, Professor McClane, I'm afraid I am quite out of time." She turned and walked a few steps then stopped.

"Oh by the way, Professor McClane?" She called.

"Yes, change your mind?" He asked, hopefully.

"Sorry, but You have spinach, I think, in your front teeth." She smiled as she continued toward the dungeons.

Severus was at his desk when Gwenevere arrived, he watched, taking notice of her attitude as she strode in abruptly and took her place at the table in the front of the room, without looking up.

"You're late Gwenevere." He quipped.

"I was delayed in the corridor by a vile creature called Professor McClane." She quietly said as she stacked books on the tabletop for lecture. Severus couldn't stop the devilish grin from appearing.

"You didn't cause him to seek medical assistance in hospital wing did you?" He asked in mock sarcasm.He had a fair idea how Gwenevere would receive someone like McClane.

"No, I let him escape for now." She said as she turned pages and took out parchment, quill, and ink. "I turned and left before he said too much, though I can tell there is no love lost between the two of you." She said, obviously still irritated by the encounter.

"Yes, very perceptive of you." Severus said, as he heard voices and glanced up toward the dungeon doors.

lee
"Temporary kindness", - Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 20:24:02 (PDT)

The life of Alan Rickman in a film starring Alan Rickman. I don't think so, but wouldn't it be wonderful if it were true? I think that he is an extraordinary ordinary man, however, so don't know how "normal" his life would be, despite going to the Portobello Market for veggies, and peering in windows at pastries.
ACC
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 20:03:37 (PDT)

Fausta, does that say that Alan Rickman is going to star in a film about an "ordinary Joe" written and directed by Michael Moore?
ACC
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 20:00:54 (PDT)

?
Manuel <Fawlty Towers>
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 15:36:55 (PDT)

ARTICULO PERIODISTICO PUBLICADO POR LA OFICINA DE LA:UNITED ARTIST: EN MADRID.
DIRECTOR DE CINE CAPTA LE VIDA DE ALAN RICKMAN EN SU NUEVA PELICULA.
HOLLYWOOD.-LUCES! ACCION! RICKMAN!
Madrid.- Tanto criticos como publico se han visto gratamente soprendidos por el argumento del nuevo documental del director Michael Moore. La pelicula,:An Ordinary Life: narra la historia personal de lo que Moore concidera:an average sort of Joe:{no se exactamente a que se con esta expresion, probabalemente quiera decir algo asi como un Joe corriente y moliente
No obstante a medida que nos adentramos en la pelicula nos vamos dando cuenta de que Rickman no es una persona nada ordinaria. Conforme sequimosal personaje en su vida cotidiana, en el dia a dia, apreciamos la fortaleza de su caracter, es que Rickman desconoce la extraordinaria naturaleza de su propia vida y la vive con total nomalidad
Las peliculas mas conocidas de Moore son:Roger& Me y:Bowling for Columbine:{esta ultima obtuvo un Oscar a la :Mejor Pelicula Documentada:} :Con ,Ordinary Life, he querido hacer algo totalmente diferente a mi anterior trabajo, declaro Moore en una reciente conferencia de prensa. :Queria representar la vida de lo que iiamamos,una persona normal, no un personaje publico,y explorar la vida a traves de sus ojos:
El resultado es una historia peculiar, iiena de humor y bastante fuera de lo comun, Muchos criticos se han referido a ella como un :Ulises cinematico: comparandola a la novela de James Joyce en la que se narra:un dia en la vida de un hombre normal ejemplar, Leopold Bloom: :Rickman es el Leopold Bloom de nuestros dias: escribe el critico de cine del:New York Times: Patrick Seguin,:Tras la vision del mundo a traves de los ojos de Rickman, nos damos cuenta de que la realidad no es exactamente lo que pensamoso creemos que es:
:La primera vez que vi a Alan, pense Oh, no,Esto va a acabar conmigo. Como voy a construir una historia intersante de la vida de esta persona?
:Pero en cuanto empezamos a rodar, realmente cuenta de que habia encontrado oro,No creo que ningun otro escritor de Hollywood hubiese podido crear un personaje tan admirable y querido como Alan Rickman:
nota Espero que esto te sirva de ayuda,Lo siento,no hablo ingles,SALUDOS Juan Coures
Juan Coures
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 09:35:18 (PDT)

Remember. for every action there will always be a reaction,Those with two helpings of mouth and one helping of brain bewary.DARK FORCES ARE ABOUND!
confucious
- Sunday, June 29, 2003 at 05:20:00 (PDT)

A bit of snogging will put Snape in a better mood…temporarily.
VGC
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 17:20:41 (PDT)

Tone of voice is missing.
I'm confused by many posts be cause I can not hear them, so I miss the feeling behind the words.
Misunderstandings abound.
I believe that's why most of us could not be actors, it's hard to get a message accross accurately.
You can even make the words, "I love you" sound hateful.

Snape kind? Of course! (I say reassuringly).
sage
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 16:05:35 (PDT)

A Concerned Citizen, that is just the most heart rending thing I have ever heard! I've met so many people in my life who say they're "laid back" or "easy going", etcetera, etcetera, but mostly they're flat wrong. It is so very lovely to meet a person who really takes what she says to heart and practices what she preaches! That is beautiful. I wish you well and God bless, dear.
Sally G.
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 14:21:16 (PDT)

OT-the injuries of life are sometimes so major for all of us that I personally don't take unkind guestbook comments to heart because I don't know if the person venting has just sustained a devastating loss and is not thinking clearly or if they havent finished growing up because of the circumstances of their life. I "let it go", so to speak, and hope that the reality of who I really am can be perceived in my responses. Most of the time I try to understand instead of react.
A Concerned Citizen <OT just to clarify a point-thanks for the story-more more!>
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 12:54:23 (PDT)

Professor Snape, Sir, you are positively kind!
Chandra <Thank You>
I love it!, - Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 12:19:29 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Saturday, 28th June

lee
*ouch* must have used the pencil sharpener. I will finish HP5 this weekend. finally. :), - Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 12:12:04 (PDT)

i want my...i want my...i want my S&G

writing muse <poking lee in the back with a pointy stick for every minute that goes by without another installment of true love's curse>
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 10:19:43 (PDT)

I think I heard my name! I did! I did hear my name!

BTW means By The Way
BtW means Barbara the Wallpaperer.

Captialization is so important *grin*

Barbara the Wallpaperer
"...and within his chest beat a heart of purest granite...", - Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 06:53:43 (PDT)

Very quiet. Creativity must be at work. Get ready for a 'wow' story!
Muse & ?
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 06:53:06 (PDT)

Plato's student. Make up your own mind.
sage
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 06:49:15 (PDT)

ACC, sweetheart - I'm sorry your heart is black-and-blue. I always like to read what you write. I know some posts are cold-hearted from other people. Maybe we could find a way to delete them from our hearts.
sage
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 06:45:03 (PDT)

Chandra, Oh my God! I did not realize the knife was that person's! I thought he looked so devastated because they just stood there and watched, his loved one just watched. How tragic.
sage
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 06:33:23 (PDT)

So has Chandra been banned from the GB..what have you been doing to deserve this?
Curious Cowardly Lion
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 05:21:41 (PDT)

*SPOILER* This should probably be in the GB, but the subject came up here. I've watched the RHPoT disc several times and what surprises me is that AR doesn't play Nottingham as all bad, and if you read the articles about the movie - AR wrote as much of that role as the screenwriters did. Yes, he's selfish and utterly sociopathic but he seems genuine towards Marion. He tells his mum to butt out, and the look of hurt and betrayal he employs when he sees the knife that's been used on him, he loved Marion, he trusted her - I could watch that scene over and over and it's not just way he's dressed and uses that huge sword - I'm gonna go watch it again before the kids get up!
Chandra <Lousy typist>
Interesting character, - Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 04:03:54 (PDT)

waiting for a story too
ACC <back on topic>
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 01:18:51 (PDT)

BTW means by the way, or "Barbara the Wallpaperer", occasionally.
ACC
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 01:09:23 (PDT)

excuse me, that was a joke. I think my heart is black and blue. Actually, I've been searching for a heart of gold, but I'm getting old.
A Concerned Citizen
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 01:07:21 (PDT)

99% and, By The Way, what is the meaning of life?
plato's student
- Saturday, June 28, 2003 at 00:52:06 (PDT)

Good Heavens! Do you people actually understand the writing of HP books? Please do use a dictionary if you don't understand a word, it's like a magic wand.

ACC, sweetheart, black-hearted means wicked, destructive. Heart of gold means goodness of character. Do not jump to conclusions: combination does not necessarily mean half-and-half. We are all a combination of good and bad, and it drives us *crazy* because it takes hard work to accept this. Someone could say he's bad. Does that mean 51% bad, or does it mean 99%?

Our dear friend Mr. Rickman, plays characters that are never 100% good or bad. You could even point out that Colonel Brandon was in the military, therefore, he probably killed people. Or the Sheriff of Nottingham was no lazy do-nothing, but worked hard at his job.

What does BTW mean?
sage
- Friday, June 27, 2003 at 23:21:43 (PDT)

It's gothic black with silver, as you already well know, ACC!
THE INFORMANT <Mwahahahahahahahaha!!!I'msoevil,tellthemACC,tellthem, pleasetellthem!!!>
- Friday, June 27, 2003 at 22:43:18 (PDT)

OT-so that means we have half gold/half gray? grayish gold? goldish gray?gray with streaks of gold -a heart with gold edges? I bet the snape worshipers have gothic black with perhaps silver or burgundy? BTW, thanks
ACC <somebody stop me>
- Friday, June 27, 2003 at 21:35:42 (PDT)

Chandra and ACC, I always want to hear what you have to say. Pay no attention to goofy comments, maybe somebody's jealous, angry, abused, hurt, lonely, isolated, etc. So, they put their hostility behind sarcastic humor. Why? I don't know. Some people are black-hearted, some people have a heart of gold. I suspect it's a combination for everyone.
sage
- Friday, June 27, 2003 at 21:13:47 (PDT)

"Just... cleared up a bit," as Jamie would say. :-) Deleted some spam (my, there's been a lot of that lately!) and removed some posts meant for the other GB when it was down. Will add them to the archives when I do the archiving for June.

And people, please don't pick on other posters. It's not nice! Remember to be kind and courteous to others.

Suz (D.o.C.)
P.S. Sorry I had to leave the chat room so suddenly yesterday., - Friday, June 27, 2003 at 16:24:46 (PDT)

Good work Lee.
Janine
- Friday, June 27, 2003 at 07:34:26 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday, 27th June

lee
Thank you ACC, Thank you Catherine...I am glad you like the story. :), - Friday, June 27, 2003 at 06:58:30 (PDT)

Have just been reading True Love's Curse tonight. Really enjoyed it. Can't wait to read more. (I'm not a big Alan Rickman fan, just thought he was great in Harry Potter and liked your story)
Catherine <cat2101@hotmail.com>
- Thursday, June 26, 2003 at 13:48:02 (PDT)

The Snape story is lovely, thank you very much. "beyond my control"hmmm, where have I heard that one before?
ACC <no offense, but John Malkovich sexy? au contraire...>
- Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 19:14:58 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday 26th. June

Severus took off his coat and hung it on hooks, then led her to the next room to sit. "Accendo" He said, and the fireplace was instantly ablaze. He set his wand down on the table.

"There is some Brandy in the cupboard in the corner, if you would like some." Gwenevere offered.

She knew he had been through a difficult day, and he looked stressed. Severus opened beveled glass doors and took out two glasses and the brandy. He poured two fingers' worth and paused to look at the label on the bottle. Very nice… he thought, shrugged and poured more in.
"Gwenevere?" He asked, holding a glass and offering her a brandy.
"Please" She said, remembering the last time she had brandy in his company, her first night at Hogwarts. He crossed the room and handed her the glass, then sat beside her.

"Gwenevere, Do you remember, in detail, the night we met?" He asked.
"Yes, very well in fact." She swallowed a sip of the aromatic amber liquid; aged to perfection, and savored its smooth warming sensation, slowly exhaling its essence..
"Describe." He said, as the amber spirits extended its warm welcome to him as well.

"My meeting with Professor Dumbledore ran longer than expected, causing me to become late for your class. He knew you would be displeased, so he insisted he accompany me so that he could introduce us properly. You were standing behind your desk as we walked in." She paused, looking straight ahead, changing focus to envision the scene in her mind's eye.

Severus glanced at the graceful way she held her glass; her hand and long fingers were delicate and feminine, yet strong and expressive at the same time. Her profile reveled long eyelashes and dark glossy hair reflecting the soft glow of firelight. The rose jumper she was wearing and the soft lamplight made her a veritable study in femininity. The combination was almost more than any healthy red-blooded wizard could bear.

"I remember my surprise that you were not an elderly wizard at all…in fact quite handsome I thought." She turned her gaze towards him and he returned it.
"I remember when our eyes met, I felt euphoric and slightly lightheaded. You were familiar to me, not as an acquaintance, but close, someone I have loved and been intimate with for quite a long time…years even. Maybe in a dream or something." Her voice softened and trailed off.

Severus let his thoughts drift, he knew exactly what she meant by familiar and intimate, he felt as if he had known her as well, in another time perhaps. His pulse quickened slightly, he unbuttoned his white collar and tossed a lock of black hair from his eyes with a sideways nod of his head. Severus was relaxing now, and acknowledged to himself the newly acquired sense of not being concerned with the time while in her company. She had a magical effect on him, and he wanted more.

"When we broke eye contact, I felt a searing pain behind my eyes and in my heart. I was momentarily blinded, and then had blurred vision for approximately seven seconds. I continued to feel slightly disoriented but functional until you touched my hand, everything was back to normal after that." She sipped again and noticed Severus's glass. 'Severus obviously prefers cognac,' she thought, 'or… his day was worse than I imagined'

"What did you think was happening?" He asked, he felt a sudden stitch in his heart when she described her own pain.

"I didn't know, I was under a lot of stress at the time. Being a runner, I recognized the presence of endorphin, dopamine, and norapinephrine in my brain. "What are your thoughts, Severus?" He looked very concerned.
"I had a similar experience myself, Professor Dumbledore noticed it and continued the conversation until most of the symptoms were gone." His demeanor lightened.
"I will speak to the Headmaster about this later, but in the interest of science, I suggest we investigate this mysterious red light at once. It's imperative we get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible." He said, very seriously.

He set his glass down and took her glass, setting it down next to his. He then pulled her close, assuming a reclining position on the leather sofa, and kissed her deeply, in order to create more red light...for scientific research purposes...
lee <afishoutofwaterwithouttheGB.comfooy>
Oh no, the GB is down. Horrifying. Here is a story then, not a suitable replacement, but maybe better than nothing, - Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 18:41:54 (PDT)

Dreambooks itself is down at the moment, and all their guestbooks, including AR Guestbook, Soloflights guestbook, story page and poetry page, and the Downtime won't be available until tomorrow.

Beyond our control, sorry.
Claudia
- Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 17:40:08 (PDT)

Oh dear, all these technical issues, how awful! I am so glad the flights of fancy board is still here. The fanfic authors are very, very talented! How terrible if they couldn't post their stories!

Sally G. <iluvyorkies64@msn.com>
- Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 17:08:34 (PDT)

credit: Rush, Moving Pictures, Limelight
thank you <for indulging me>
I feel some pity for people in the limelight, - Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 15:26:22 (PDT)

Living on a lighted stage
Approaches the unreal
For those who think and feel
In touch with some reality
Beyond the gilded cage

Cast in this unlikely role
Ill-equipped to act
With insufficient tact
One must put up barriers
To keep oneself intact

[Chorus:]
Living in the limelight
The universal dream
For those who wish to seem
Those who wish to be
Must put aside the alienation
Get on with the fascination
The real relation
The underlying theme

Living in a fish eye lens
Caught in the camera eye
I have no heart to lie
I can't pretend a stranger
Is a long-awaited friend

All the world's indeed a stage
And we are merely players
Performers and portrayers
Each another's audience
Outside the gilded cage
here we go
Chandra - Wednesday, June 25, 2003 at 15:22:12 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday 25th June

lee
- Tuesday, June 24, 2003 at 18:51:34 (PDT)

LOL LOL LOL LOL! Spam flavored viagra! Do you think my husband would take it if it tasted like spam? ;0) Oh goodness, the people here are so funny! My poor little Yorkies are looking at me like mommy has gone mad, I'm laughing so hard!
Sally G.
- Tuesday, June 24, 2003 at 15:14:14 (PDT)

All spam removed - I hope! Happy Birthday Mary Anne! Sorry I wasn't here. Can I give you a hand with all that chocolate, I'm sure you can't eat it all by yourself!

Claudia - Deputy DOC. Yes, I have a lot of reading and writing to do.

How about combining potions? A spam flavored viagra, anyone?Spam nasal spray for dieters? A compressed spam flavored enlarging potion?
ACC
- Tuesday, June 24, 2003 at 12:36:01 (PDT)

Yum!!! Spam!

Jamie sits in the corner and watches in bewilderment as a perky Diane and a beaming Eric Idle LEAP into the spam. Yummy, spam heaven. Jamie, however, turns away, pretends not to know these absurd people, and plays his cello.
Three Guesses
Spam spam spam, lovely spam, wonderful spam!, - Tuesday, June 24, 2003 at 08:46:37 (PDT)

Gwenevere was fiercely loyal to the precious few, whom she had ever let get close to her; She simply wouldn't stand for anyone to insult or disrespect Severus in her presence. As Gwenevere turned to leave the library, her long black robes flared in a spectacular fury of emotion. Madam Pince shook her head and was strongly reminded of Professor Snape's departures. How odd…she thought.
lee
fingers crossed, used italics.xxx, - Monday, June 23, 2003 at 19:41:36 (PDT)

*Awestruck, and sinking into "full court" curtsey* Oh, my lord Sheriff, thank you. What an original gift! *Another curtsey to Joya* And thank you, my lady Joya, for persuading the Sheriff to present this gift so . . . graciously.

MA
And thank you, Magda. Looking forward to that love scene. ;-), - Monday, June 23, 2003 at 17:54:16 (PDT)

"I think it would be nice if you gave it to her. You've known her longer."

"No."

"George..."

"I said, no."

"Please?"

"Forget it. I'm not touching that thing. It's too - too - frilly!"

"It's a nice pink paper and the ribbon is nice too. Silver and pink. Now stop being silly."

"A 12th century Anglo-Norman baron does not handle chocolate swords. End of conversation."

"Beginning of headache. Do you like sleeping on the floor?"

"ALL RIGHT!!!! Mary Ann, here's your present!!!!"

Magda
happy belateds, MA, - Monday, June 23, 2003 at 16:56:24 (PDT)

As good as those Chinese Fighting Muffins, Clods? *grin*

MA--Thanks to all who sent me kind birthday messages! 8-)
Now I'm wondering how the muffins would get along with the scones . . ., - Monday, June 23, 2003 at 15:46:05 (PDT)

Hi Kate - yes, we still remember your scones fondly - great for throwing. ;)
Claudia
- Monday, June 23, 2003 at 14:19:59 (PDT)

Scone anyone?
Ghost from the past <katemj@hotmail.com>
- Monday, June 23, 2003 at 12:08:50 (PDT)

Once upon a time a Site of ALAN RICKMAN!He iiiiiiiis enought good and he iiiiiiiiiis very interesting!Once upon a time a Site... I 'm crazy ,I'm know.But that's normal,I'm French,and every English people know the French people are sometimes...STRANGe!
A Posthuman <Nemos713@aol.com>
Lille, France - Monday, June 23, 2003 at 11:30:13 (PDT)

lee
A" bow to the helpful lady" Thank You JLS. , - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 19:15:39 (PDT)

Marianne, my finest lady, a large and sumptuous golden box of Godiva Chocolates, Personally selected. I was coming through Heathrow and got an instant message reminding me of your special day, a tad belated perhaps, but every bit as chocolate-enhanced....May we share one or two, together? As I would like to measure the effect of chocolate on the magnetic field of the body....
Anton Mesmer <Just think of me, I'll know....>
Feel the Power!, - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 17:13:43 (PDT)

Hello! Just popped in to say Happy Birthday MA!!! I know I'm late, yes, DO punish me (Snape's dungeon sounds fine to me), and as for my gift... hmm... how 'bout a cute little Brandon doll? Or perhaps some polish to keep that sabor of yours looking like new? Or just some more chocolate? :)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
And now... Back To Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix!!! , - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 16:41:11 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

"George, is something wrong?" Joya leaned over and whispered, so as not to attract the attention of the dinner guests on either side of us. "You're not eating."

I shrugged my shoulders in an effort to appear unconcerned. "Nothing's wrong. Where did you get the idea that anything was wrong? Everything is perfectly fine. Couldn't be better, in fact."

"I see." Her voice indicated she wasn't convinced. I didn't dare look her in the eye; she'd definitely know then that something was up.

The truth was that I was mulling over Will Scarlet's claim in the dungeon that he had a "friend" in the castle, a friend who knew he was there and would therefore presumably help him. I had a great deal of curiosity about this mysterious friend but Scarlet had gone mute after making the announcement and no degree of coercion had succeeded in prying additional information loose. After two unfulfilling hours, I had been forced to leave him to the attention of the guards while I returned to my bedchamber and prepared for dinner. Joya was already there, playing with Richard. Her gown was a deep blue that matched her eyes, her veil was the finest linen and her necklace and coronet were yellow gold set with sapphires and pearls. I stood on the threshold and admired the view. It was worth every mark I'd spent on it.

Scarlet's claim that the tax rolls for Nottinghamshire did not add up was correct, not that I was going to admit it to him. And the main reason they did not add up was right in front of me, reclining on my bed. Since our marriage a year earlier, I had spent easily tens of thousands of pounds on Joya's personal adornment. Not that she needed any; the woman could heat my blood dressed in a nun's habit. But it pleased me to please her, and after a year of mutual pleasure there wasn't a merchant in any of the surrounding counties who didn't know that I had first call on any sumptuous fabric or prime jewel that found its way north of the Thames. Of course, such items are expensive and since there's a limit to how far tax revenue can be stretched, some things had to fall by the wayside. Inconsequential things like remittances to the crown, for instance. This didn't really bother me very much. After all, the king would probably have spent it on something useless like another crusade.

No, it was Scarlet's claim that he had a friend in my castle that bothered me, not his silly notion about tax arrears. I cut another slice of chicken for Joya and watched her eat it. Was this friend the same person who'd written those notes and tried to kill Joya and Marion? Surely it defied credibility that there should be two people actively engaged against me on the premises? And why would this friend want to draw attention to himself by attempting such a crime? For that matter, why would Scarlet allow his friend to do it? Scarlet hated me with a passion but he had nothing against Joya and surely he didn't want to harm Marion, his sister-in-law.

I stabbed at the chicken with my knife, causing it to bounce on the trencher. Joya nudged my arm inquisitively. I ignored the gesture. That was the crux of the issue: was this "friend" the same person as the note-writer. Leofric hadn't returned from questioning Locksley's servants yet. Perhaps he'd have the answer with him but if he didn't, if the culprit was not with that group or was too clever to give himself away, then I'd need another plan. How could I best determine the truth?

Joya leaned closer, ostensibly to pick up another portion of meat from our shared platter, in reality to rub herself against my arm. Her delicate lavender scent sent my pulse racing. "George? What's the matter?" There was a distinct pout in her voice. She moved her hand up my thigh and slipped it into my lap. "I'm feeling neglected."

"What you're feeling right now is much more than neglect." I caught my breath and with an effort managed to keep my voice steady. "Stop that!"

"No! I won't!" She leaned closer. Her breath was warm on my neck. "You ignored me when you came up to dress. You've pretended not to hear me during the meal. I decided to do something dramatic to grab your attention."

"Well, my attention is well and truly grabbed, my dear." I tried not to pant too noisily. At the end of the table the steward was giving us strange looks. "Now if you'll just remove your hand -"

It was a struggle but I eventually managed to overpower her strength and my own inclinations to clasp her offending hand tightly in my own. The meal was coming to a close and none of the assembled company was in any mood for the evening pleasantries that had ended in near disaster the night before. As soon as a servant had picked up their gravy-soaked trencher and hurled it to the dogs, Locksley practically lifted Marion out of her chair to march her across the hall and up the stairs. I had no doubt that their door would be triple barred tonight. I knew that ours certainly would.

Still clutching Joya's hand in mine, I pulled her after me to our own tower room. She came agreeably enough and didn't cause any fuss. Our room was empty; Richard's cradle had already been moved to Bertha's room. Joya crossed the room to her clothes chest as I secured the door and tested the wood. Then I took a deep breath and turned around.

I had come to a decision. "Joya -"

She paused in the act of removing her coronet. "Oh, are you talking to me, George? I wasn't sure. It's been so long."

Sarcasm is an occupational hazard of marriage. I ignored it. "We are going to make some changes around here. I have given the matter a great deal of thought and I believe that they are necessary."

"Oh?" She folded her veil neatly, watching me all the while. "Like what?"

Best to get it over with fast. "Your maids should get in here to start packing." I saw her shocked expression and quickly looked away. "By tomorrow morning, I want you out of this castle."

Magda
Think we're about due for a love scene after this, - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 16:11:03 (PDT)

The Show:

Announcer: Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, The Brigand Broadcasting Company is proud to present the Gerve Mittens Show. And here's our host ………..Gerve Mittens!!!!

*Long and protracted applause while Gerve walks across the stage, bows, salutes the audience and sits down behind his very large, highly polished desk*

Gerve Mittens: *blinding large smile for the camera* Thank you! We're here this evening with one of a unique brand of bad guy, the villain's villain. He's operated mind switching machinery and strapped explosives on struggling heroines… please welcome …Minion!

*Applause as Minion walks onto the set looking quite dapper in his tailored Hugo Boss suit. At a wolf whistle he makes a three hundred and sixty degree turn and holds his hands out triumphantly to the laughter and more applause*

Gerve Mittens: *smiling first at the audience, then the camera and then Minion and nodding his head appreciatively* Yes, you appear much more dapper than your television character tonight.

Minion: *smirking* Thank you, Gerve. I'm afraid the Interrogator gets all the good clothes on the show. *looking about furtively* Don't tell HIM I said that.

*hearty laughter from the audience and from Gerve*

Gerve: Your secret's safe with us. *knowing glance exchanged with entire audience* So tell us, what's it like to work with HIM?

Minion: *looking very serious* Actually, Mistral has been wonderful from day one showing me the ropes… *a pause as the audience reacts with derisive laughter* Stop that. *he pulls a face* I've learned a lot from him and from the other cast members.

Gerve: Who is your favourite?

Minion: That's a hard question to answer. The cast works so much as a unit it is really impossible to single any one out.

Gerve: But if you had to? *Gerve insists but smiles so his guest knows its all in fun*

Minion: If I had to, I'd say Mary Anne since she's writing most of my scenes right now.

*Appreciative laughter at his diplomacy from the audience and from Gerve who uses this opportunity to display his teeth to great advantage*

Gerve: Now, you were originally hired on as an extra weren't you?

Minion: That's right. Originally I had a non-speaking part as a cringing subordinate.

Gerve: What happened?

Minion: Well… once I was capitalized there was no stopping me…

*Hearty laughter and Gerve wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye with an impeccably manicured hand. His pinky ring glints in the light.*

Gerve: Ha, ha, ha, that's very clever. *turns full force of his personality into the camera* We'll be right back after this message from the Toast Board.

****Interval for Advertisement****

Gerve: Welcome back to the show. We're here this evening speaking with Minion from Flights of Fancy.

*Pause for applause. Gerve consults his note cards*

Gerve: So, Minion, I understand that you have quite a following. Web sites dedicated you and so on. Tell us about that.

Minion: Not much to tell, really. Some of my fans have created web sites with photos and descriptions of the episodes where I'm featured. I didn't have anything to do with it but its certainly very flattering.

Gerve: *perhaps a bit miffed that no one has put up a web site about him* You mean it wasn't the publicity department for the show?

Minion: No. A lot of my fans seems to be very technologically adept and they've done this on their own. Somewhat disconcerting to find that someone knows more about you than your family but very flattering. *Minion's sincere smile takes any sting out of the remark.* I really am grateful to the people who follow my work, it makes it all worth while.

Gerve: Yes, I couldn't agree more. The fans are what its all about. *BIG teeth as he smiles at his appreciative audience (Gerve is making a mental note to make sure the network starts a fan based page immediately)* Can you give us the inside scoop on what its like on the set of FoF?

Minion: Well, you know what this business is like, Gerve. There's quite a bit of hurry up and wait.

*Gerve simply nods encouragingly with his teeth winking in the strategic lighting.*

Minion: Well…. *there are coaxing sounds from the audience and Gerve's smile, impossible as this may seem, broadens*

…there was once a tickle fight on set.

*There are chuckles from the audience and a speculative look from Gerve.*

Gerve: You can't keep us in suspense. Who was it? *Gerve holds up hand* Wait, let me guess, Claudia and Ed?

Minion: No. Actually, it was Mistral and Therese. *Disbelieving guffaws from the audience and Gerve* Really. I think Therese was trying to break up the tension on set. *A wink of a grin* It worked.

*The sounds from the audience indicate they are well pleased with their inside look into FoF. Gerve looks solemnly into the camera.*

Gerve: I'm afraid that's all the time we have folks. *His hand goes up, palm outward, to placate the audience who has moaned their discontent with this state of affairs.* I know, I know, but we'll be back tomorrow night with special guest Lola Vavoom. *Cheers go up* So goodnight, and keep your Mittens handy. *Gerve waves goodbye to the audience. They obviously love him.*

Cindie
Homages and accompanying apologies., - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 15:08:48 (PDT)

Off Set:

Mistral knew she wouldn't relent. She would not join him now that it was the work day's end. There would be no quiet dinner together, neither conversation nor companionable silence and no walk shared hand in hand. They'd run into each other again in the course of the day as one would expect. Only yesterday he would have considered that a treat. A little sliver of joy in his day. The quiet interludes they shared had become a demulcent to life's irritations. Today she had been polite. The thought rankled him; particularly when he considered that in essence he'd been turned down flat by the woman he'd pledged to see exclusively. What a state of affairs. If deValera knew he'd have a field day. It wasn't that long ago that he'd told Dev in no uncertain terms that the Irishman needed to have his head examined over wanting a firm commitment from Therese. And here he was, left to dine alone and wonder what had happened. He was apparently to be given no opportunity to discuss the situation with her. And women said men were uncommunicative.

When he left the office Mistral appeared in perfect control and outwardly serene. He slid behind the wheel of his car and drove in the direction of his flat. He really had no desire to be there just yet, however, and when he saw a car pull out of its spot in front of a row of maisionettes he slipped into the convenient vacancy and parked his car. He exited the Jaguar and began to walk.

******

After what had been the longest work day since starting at FoF, Cindie went straight home. After tapping on her neighbor's door to let him know she was home, she went in and changed into her most comfortable clothes, the ones she wouldn't set foot outside in, and settled in with her cornflakes and bananas in front of the telly. There was a scratching at her door and she got up to let Rafter in. This was in accordance with her prearranged dog-sitting agreement for whenever Chandos was out for the evening. Rafter and she had each others' company and Chandos would either pick up the pooch when he arrived home or Cindie would take her across the hall in the morning. It worked for them both and Cindie was pleased to have the benefits of a large, sweet tempered fur bearing friend on a semi-regular basis.

They settled in, Cindie on one end of the couch and Rafter on the other. Chandos would disapprove but then he didn't have to know. The canny dog knew the rules. When she was here alone the furniture was fair game. When the pet man was around, she was relegated to the floor. Picking up the remote, Cindie flipped through the channels and stopped when she saw a familiar face. Taking a bite of cornflakes she watched the show.

Cindie
Sick puppy?! I resent that remark. , - Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 10:40:00 (PDT)

Hi Lee, did you recieve my message? there were problems with sending it, you know, when all the PCs are in one net it's a bit difficult... Happy Birthday Marry Anne!!!
Anne
- Sunday, June 22, 2003 at 07:44:22 (PDT)

Happy Birthday, Mary Anne! Sorry this is late but many warm wishes and just call if you need any help with that chocolate (just kidding!) Have a brilliant rest of the evening and have another year of WONDERFUL writing! :)
Rhys
Uriel was helping with the divinity and trust me- its gooooood..., - Saturday, June 21, 2003 at 17:29:55 (PDT)

*squeal* Thanks, everyone! What lovely thoughts. And presents . . . mmmmmmm . . . *munching noises*

MA
Cindie--chocolate-covered beagles?! I'll avoid any comments about sick puppies . . ., - Saturday, June 21, 2003 at 07:15:58 (PDT)

Out of time:

Mistral whispered in her ear, "It's not like we haven't done this before."

"I know, but you don't have to be so forceful about it." Cindie felt a more subtle hand was appropriate.

"Really, my dear, trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"I do trust you. It's just that… this isn't like those other times."

Unused to having his prowess questioned, Mistral's tone was becoming a bit vexed, "I can extrapolate…"

Cindie placed a soothing hand on his bare forearm, "I know. It's just that working with popcorn isn't the same as the other things we've done."

Mistral relented and let her work her fingers under the mass of fluffy white while he swirled the chocolate on top. They managed to give the hull less white popcorn a generous latticed coating of Godiva's dark and milk chocolate. When it was dried, Mistral placed it with care in a tin depicting the Welsh countryside. It should just fit that empty space in the basket.

Cindie
I suppose chocolate covered beagles would be out of the question..., - Saturday, June 21, 2003 at 06:24:40 (PDT)

Severus and Gwenevere walked swiftly to the dungeons, the short way, to start on a very unique and special potion. Gwenevere set up the Erlenmeyer flasks and Severus controlled the flame on the cauldron. They were intensely concentrating on the task at hand, it was tricky…very tricky. Everything had to be perfect or the potion would lack.

Supplies had been sent from around the world. Cream and butter from Gwenevere's Grandparents' registered jerseys, chocolate from Jacques Torres, a personal friend of Gwenevere's owing to her acute addition. He assured her several times that the order would meet with her strict standards concerning chocolate.

They measured and weighed ingredients, set multiple hourglass timers and read thermometers. Severus for a moment felt slightly nervous for the first time in his life, and Gwenevere's heart pounded as she heard the words from his mouth: "It's time." In a flash, everything was blended and the potion was a work of art, rich velvet in a goblet.

"Well done" Severus said as he marveled at the brew. "She deserves only the best." Gwenevere added.

Together they prepared to apparate to the place where the other chocolate was, and then did so just in time, placing the goblet amongst the other offerings. In a moment they were gone, robes snapping behind them as they turned, but not before penning a note on parchment to Mary Anne wishing her a happy birthday.

lee
Happy Birthday, MA, - Saturday, June 21, 2003 at 00:32:39 (PDT)

A slight diversion, with apologies to all:

Brandon stands, feet firmly planted, lips parted in breathless anticipation. The men of FOF crowd around him, craning their necks, anxious to see what holds his rapt attention. Brandon leans forward, slowly, carefully, delicately, bending down toward his beloved . . .

double boiler.

The Delaford kitchens are uncharacteristically chaotic, dirty pots and pans are strewn about, cooking tools are scattered and the chef would be in despair, had he not thrown up his hands and stomped away hours ago.

"Is it ready?" Dev asks.

"I think so," Brandon answers uncertainly.

An enormous basket, worked from reeds found on the Delaford estate, sits on the polished wooden work table. The Director stands before it, carefully placing inside the basket the items the other men had brought, deliberating the precise placement of each one.

From Valmont, a ballotin of dark Valrhona bon bons he had selected that morning in Paris, wrapped in Alencon lace removed from his favorite shirt. From Dr. Mesmer, the mystifying Sachertorte, delivered that morning from the Hotel Sacher in Vienna. From Metraton, a small parcel of chocolate divinity, direct from a higher source. From Hamlet, an assortment of chocolate Danish made by his beloved mother. From David Friedman, the finest chocolate pralines he had ever been bribed with by a French Quarter shopowner. From Hart, oversized chocolate chip cookies made by the pastry chef of the Hotel Bel-Air under the strictest secrecy. From Hans, a German chocolate cake resting on an elegant crystal stand crafted by the finest artisans of the Gruber Glass Works. From Dev, an embossed box of Butler's chocolates (should he tell her which ones were flavored with Bailey's?). The Director, perenially too busy to shop, tucked his offering in the side of the basket: a gift certificate from the Max Brenner Chocolate Bar at Harrod's.

George stood off to the side, not troubling to hide his boredom with the proceedings. Valmont noticed, nudged the Director and asked whether Nottingham had arrived empty-handed. The Director whispered back, "What do expect? Chocolate didn't arrive in England until the mid-17th century, a bit after his time. But he did bring a very nice leg of lamb. "

"It is time, gentlemen," Brandon announced, motioning to a tray of English toffee waiting on the counter.

The next few minutes were a flurry of hands, chocolate, toffee, chocolate, toffee and hands as the men took turns dipping the toffee into the chocolate melted over the double boiler. Before long, more than a pound of chocolate-covered toffee rested on waxed paper, ready to be wrapped and packed into the basket.

Brandon whistled. A large brown dog bounded happily into the room and came to a crisp stop at Brandon's left side.

"We must away, gentlemen, for we have a very special delivery to make to Miss Mary Anne," Brandon announced as he started down the hall, the rest of the men falling in behind him.
Leigh
MA: Happy Birthday! Chocolate delivered by a chocolate Lab -- I couldn't resist. Anyone care to add to the basket?, - Friday, June 20, 2003 at 18:35:10 (PDT)

Rickfan37: can you email me? mgrantwichatyahoodotcom please.
Magda
- Friday, June 20, 2003 at 08:01:37 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday 20th June.

He would think about the red light and the strange occurrence in the dungeon, on the night that they met, on another day as it was very late now and he was going to bed.
lee <potionmistress@hotmail.comfoo>
Anne, Thanks but I don't think I am good enough to write a book, and and the only ideas that are mine are Gwen. and the curse. If you want to chat email me and I would be really glad to. take away the foo.:), - Friday, June 20, 2003 at 04:34:39 (PDT)

I just wanted to come out of Lurkdom and mention this here as I know a few of the GB's denizens have been following the story.

I just posted the last two chapters of "Snape In Love", and I feel really weird. I feel like I've just waved goodbye to it and left the schoolyard. I finished writing it weeks ago, but I've been editing and tinkering constantly all the way through, making it as perfect as I could, and now I can't tinker any more. In the last few days I have read the last two chapters over and over and over until I know there's no more I need to do, but I was still extremely reluctant to post it. It's letting it go, and I never wanted to do that.

And I have started two others, SIL's 'babies', if you will. One is "Hermione's Diary", which started off well but I seem to have lost my momentum after 10000 words of it. The 'evil twin', "Chasing Darkness Away", has taken over completely! It's some of Snape's backstory and is told in the third person in flashback from his point of view. It's somewhat of a challenge, but he's so fascinating to write and I tell myself it'll come in useful for my original novel, which is my third current work in progress! I decided to use the Snape and Ella archetypes, and the overall themes of Snape In Love (yes, there ARE some, it isn't just mindless bonking!), in a novel of my own.

I have little idea of to whom I shall pitch it, however. Having originally intended to approach a publisher of mainstream erotic fiction, I find that my story will be far too long and involved, and also not steamy enough! Apparently they like 50% of the text to be sex, which is overkill even for me. And an ordinary romantic fiction publishing house wouldn't want as much sex as I want to write! So I either compromise my vision (yes, I know it sounds very pompous!) or I may have to follow in JKR's footsteps (Yeah, right! I wish!) and send it off to agents and suffer the pain of continual rejection.

I harbour few illusions. Competition has never been more fierce and I have read sufficient fiction, published and fan fiction, of such high quality that I sometimes feel I should just throw in the towel now. However, I have also read some complete and utter drivel, ineptly plotted and poorly written, and it has been published, so why not mine??

Anyway, I still have a great deal of work to do on it before I can even consider sending off a synopsis, so all this is just pointless rambling. But it makes me feel better. I think.
Rickfan37
Snape In Love, - Thursday, June 19, 2003 at 16:05:18 (PDT)

So there he sat, stirring a mug of tea that was rapidly getting cool while a blind Corgi sniffed his shoes and two cats eyed him warily. He sniffed the brew, smelling some sort of Asian, herbal concoction, and remembered how he never really liked tea much. At least with the others he could take them out for drinks.

Uriel didn't care for tequila. And tonight was not a night to get liquored up.

She had slipped on a bathrobe before leading him out of her tiny room and pouring him some tea, then exited, explaining the obvious that she needed to put something 'more appropriate' on.

He'd seen everything before.

Still, modesty was modesty and she returned into the kitchen, not sitting across from him but standing warily at the doorway, clad in oversized t-shirt ("United Dyslexic Church of Dog"?) and men's boxers. Silence ensued until he sipped the tea, smiling weakly.

"Good."

She blinked. Then: "Why are you here, Metatron?"

Involuntarily, he winced, hating that she used that name. Her eyes bored into him and, omnipotent as he was, he found himself looking down at the dog instead of at her.

"I thought that should have been fairly obvious. It's been-," but she cut him off.

"I know how long its been, Metatron." He found a bit of pride in the fact he didn't wince as largely as he had done this first time. "Do you know, Metatron, that I've been running for all those years? How can you explain the fact that your appearance never changes? That you never age? I've been running all that time, because how can you answer those questions they ask? You can't." Her voice was flat. "Every time I run, I think how many years its been. And if my sister remembers me. And," a barely noticeable catch in her voice, "And my brother."

Glancing up at her, he found her looking away, deadness in her eyes. Standing, he resisted the urge to take her into his arms and simply said, "Uriel. You can stop running. You can come back."

Silence. A blur of black was visible as her head snapped back to stare at him and her words stunned him as she shook her head, incredulous. "All these years and you haven't changed at all. No, Metatron. That's where you're wrong, I can't come back. And I'm not coming back. Not for Her, not for my sister, and not for you."

Never, in all of his years of doing this, had he heard of a Muse NOT wanting to return. Even her sister had been more than ready to return, and she'd only been down a few years. But he stopped pondering this as he saw she had retreated back into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door.

"What? Now wait just a minute, Uriel!" His wings were back as he entered into her room and she stayed in her position, laying sideways on her bed, back to him. "You can't just stay here. What am I to tell Her? You can't NOT come back. You have to."

This was wrong. The Voice of God should not be pleading with ANYONE to come BACK into heaven.

"No."

Again, the horrible silence that had never existed between them... before. This had to end, now. Bracing himself for the pain, he reached over to his left wing, and gritted his teeth, before pulling one father. Metatron walked to the side of her bed, then gently took the feather, running it along the bumps of her spine. She shivered and gave a small gasp, before curling farther into herself.

"I'm..." her voice dropped into a choked whisper, "I'm sorry. But- I can't. I can't, Hed-"

She stopped and he froze, dropping the feather.

"Metatron. I can't. Please, leave."

When she turned to see if he had left, she picked up the feather, squeezing it in her cold palms, willing the tears to stop.
Rhys
What a way to unwind after a day of dealing with day campers! Melting into puddles of goo is a good relaxation method..., - Thursday, June 19, 2003 at 14:36:18 (PDT)

Hi Lee, you shouldn't thank me for my comments - I only try to say what I think. We must thank you for the time we spend reading it... What about a book - I think it is an idea you have to think about...
Anne
- Thursday, June 19, 2003 at 07:03:40 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday, 19th June

lee
Anne, your comments are very kind, Thank You. :) , - Thursday, June 19, 2003 at 05:11:23 (PDT)

Ed and Claudia

"My dear, dear man. The fleet will be exhausted and stressed. They will not know what to do when we're not there to greet them. But it isn't as simple as that."
Claudia
- Wednesday, June 18, 2003 at 18:52:07 (PDT)

Hi Lee, thank you for answering my post! I really enjoy reading the True Love's Curse! About "if it was a book"... don't you think you may try to contact to Joan Rowling about making a book out of it? I think it would be a bestseller for AR's/Snape's fans... If it is a curse it is a curse they can enjoy... Now...
Anne
- Wednesday, June 18, 2003 at 10:57:20 (PDT)

lee
- Wednesday, June 18, 2003 at 06:19:30 (PDT)

On a street somewhere near Mary Anne's flat:

Brandon, who has so often proven himself a man out of the common way, does so once more by listening to the first promptings of Reason that tell him he is driving too fast. Gripping the wheel as if he fears it will slip from his hands, he turns into a dark and quiet side street and pulls to the curb, then shuts off the ignition and spends a moment of wondering whether his shuddering nausea will pass, or if he is about to be sick in the car.

Brandon lets down a window, allowing the cool evening air to rush across his face; this, at least, is a refreshing cold and not the icy clench of shame that had knotted his stomach. Resting his forehead against the wheel, Brandon breathes deeply. Once. Twice. It helps. A little. The air is strangely refreshing, an atmosphere not of the city: turned earth, a brief, sweet whiff of nearby gardens, moist greenery.

You should go home, now, or you'll not be fit for work in the morning . . .

Work. The mere thought is almost enough to knot his stomach again. The thought of going on to the set with, as it feels to him, his actions plain on his face—or, if not on his, then Mary Anne's. Brandon leans back and rests his head against the seat, tempted to remain exactly where he is, sleep here until morning, if sleep will come near him. Why not here, as well as anywhere else? For he doubts that he would sleep any better in his own digs, tonight.

A thread of music. Frowning, Brandon opens his eyes and looks about until he spots an open window in the building beside him. There, three floors up, a light through pink curtains. A voice.

There is freedom within, there is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There's a battle ahead, many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're traveling with me

Brandon grimaces. Someone in the room up there, singing with the radio, perhaps, and missing a bit of the peculiar, skipping rhythm of the verse but coming out strong and sweet on the chorus.

Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win

Does he know this? The World had been strong in him tonight. Shivering a little at the cool air, Brandon eases the window up, leaving only a sliver open and thinking that whoever is up there must like the cold. Like HIM. Or does Mistral like it, too, I wonder . . .

Brandon burrows deeper into his coat.

Now I'm towing my car, there's a hole in the roof
My possessions are causing me suspicion but there's no proof
In the paper today tales of war and of waste
But you turn right over to the T.V. page

Suspicion. But no proof. Some painful creature turns over in Brandon's heart, and the least recognition . . . Brandon remains still. That thing of darkness, he will not acknowledge his. (homage)

Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart
Only shadows ahead barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling of liberation and relief

If only.

He should go back there, this minute, and explain himself.

As if.

Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
Don't ever let them win

Brandon remains where he is for some moments, even as the song fades, but whoever is up there goes on singing, attempting to sing, formless humming . . . but it is the sound of happiness overflowing, of pleasure with life and the present moment. Well enough, for them.

Brandon turns the key in the ignition, guiding the Aston-Martin slowly away from the curb and down the street.

Don't ever let them win.

For now, that means getting himself home, alive. And after that—he has some steps to count and a door to seek.

MA--Leigh, here's some more "human" Brandon for you. 8-)
"Hey Now (Don't Dream It's Over)" by Crowded House, - Tuesday, June 17, 2003 at 20:16:37 (PDT)

Hi Anne, Thank you for clarifying your post. Sometimes I forget what you are reading because I am writing so far ahead. Soon they will know they are under the influence of a curse and try to break free of it before they die. I hope this helps, and I am glad you like the story. If it was a book, you could skip the early chapters. :)
lee
- Tuesday, June 17, 2003 at 14:14:02 (PDT)

Sorry Lee, I think it's my problem with learning English... I only meant there soon could be a little bit routine there because every evening they meet each other, drink wine, every day they work together, every day... So I hope you understand it now. But now I see you don't need it any more because it is something really happening with the intrigue of the story now... And I'll say it one more time: It's really great what you write!!!
Anne
- Tuesday, June 17, 2003 at 13:12:43 (PDT)

As an adult, She had very little patience for men who were only attracted to her physical beauty and lacked the wherewithal to hold an intellectual conversation with her at her level. Her dating experience rarely led to serious interest on her part and she became very good at politely declining future invitations from perspective beaus.
lee
- Tuesday, June 17, 2003 at 04:28:15 (PDT)

Thanks MG for your George story :))) It keeps on getting better and better
Magda
Scotland , - Tuesday, June 17, 2003 at 02:58:03 (PDT)

*checking feet* Nope, socks are still on.
Cindie
- Monday, June 16, 2003 at 18:18:28 (PDT)

The Hart and Grace story to date:

As part of their work in the government sting, Hart and Grace found concrete evidence that at least two of the notorious Investors were again involved in illegal stock trading and money laundering. It was a major breakthrough in the sting, and Hart believed a celebration was in order. An avid sailor, he took Grace on a trip to nearby Catalina Island aboard his yacht, the Sea Dove. The sail ended in the tragic death of a crew member, despite Hart's heroic efforts to save him. Hart's selflessness during the ordeal erased the last of Grace's suspicions of him.

A short time later, Hans ordered Colin to investigate suspicious sales of large blocks of Hansbank stock, which Hans suspected was another attempt by the Investors to crash the bank, but directed Colin to use an outside attorney to avoid raising suspicion. Colin was referred to Grace, who was intrigued, and concerned that the fall of the Hansbank could result in a worldwide financial panic, as the Investors' earlier attempt nearly had. But she felt that the last person Hans would want to handle Hansbank business was a woman involved with Lukas Hart. She turned Colin down, but didn't tell him why. Grace was curious enough about the Hansbank to look at public information about the massive stock sales, and discovered a surprising link to one of the Investors implicated in the sting. She concluded that the Investors were trying to finish what they had started, the destruction of the Hansbank, but was relieved that Hart was not involved this time. This was exactly the information Colin was looking for. But the US Attorney in no uncertain terms prohibited Grace from revealing what she had found to the Hansbank, fearing that any leak would compromise the sting, and threatened to charge her with obstruction of justice if she revealed what she knew. Grace reluctantly agreed not to help Colin.

Grace was permitted to tell Hart about the Investors' renewed attack on the Hansbank. But she never get the chance, due to the unexpected arrival of Hart's undisclosed wife. Hart quickly explained that he and his wife were long estranged, and frankly hated each other, but his wife had spitefully refused to divorce him to prevent Hart from remarrying. Grace's newfound trust in Hart was badly shaken by his failure to tell her he was married, even though it turned out that Hart's wife had reappeared only to finally ask for a divorce.

Meanwhile, Colin had pursued his own investigation and again called upon Grace for help. She agreed to meet with him, despite the US Attorney's threats. Colin told her that he had zeroed in on one particular stock trader with unsavory connections, a former felon named Abbott Merisel, whom Colin had learned had served prison time with Hart. Grace was shocked; Merisel was the linchpin of the sting, the broker Hart relied upon as his main contact with the Investors. But she knew she could not tell Colin. Grace believed she was protecting the sting by leaking to Colin the name of the other broker she had connected with the Hansbank trades in order to divert Colin's interest away from Merisel and prevent him from uncovering the sting. Grace told herself that Merisel's apparent involvement with the Hansbank scheme was probably just part of the sting. Everything she knew pointed to that conclusion. But nagging doubts surfaced again: perhaps Hart was using the sting for dual purposes: to ensare the Investors, and for revenge for his humiliation at Hans' hands by crashing the Hansbank at the same time. It was pure conjecture on her part, but made her desperate to prove Hart innocent.

Grace's desperation drove her to break into Hart's private office, where she found records of Merisel's involvement in dozens of illegal transactions and manipulation of Hansbank stock. But there was nothing to indicate Hart was attacking the Hansbank for his own purposes. Ashamed of her lack of trust, Grace was also troubled by the realization that her own actions, leaking evidence and burgling Hart's office, were uncharacteristic compromises of her very black and white view of right and wrong, and more in line with the shady practices she suspected of Hart. She resolved to drop her suspicions and focus on the sting, and on Hart. She even agreed to Hart's request that she learn how to play golf, and in her first foray in a foursome, found herself partnered with a man she had never met. He introduced himself as Abbott Merisel.

Hart could not hear what Merisel said to Grace during a search for her lost ball on the 15th hole. He noticed that she was quiet and preoccupied for the rest of the round, but chalked it up to golf fatigue. She was her ususal self by the time they arrived back at Hart's home.

Which was why Hart was surprised when he woke the next day to find her gone.

Leigh
MA, Cindie: fanning madly! Did you plan that magnificent confluence of posts? I'll take more of Brandon being human any day. Sandy: it's good to be back. Hope I'm not boring everyone's socks off with this Hart recap, but I thought it would help the story going forward make sense. , - Monday, June 16, 2003 at 17:34:55 (PDT)

Connemara, Ireland:

Alexander leaned back in his seat as he watched Melanie and Jack finish repeating their vows. He cast a sidelong glance towards Sandy and saw that she was watching the couple with a serene smile on her face. She caught the glance and her smile widened. He returned it and turned his attention back to the couple just as the priest said, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

As applause broke out among the guests, Jack eagerly leaned forward and took Melanie into his arms for a kiss - being careful not to crush her pink rose bouquet - a kiss that lasted a bit longer than expected. "Hey, are ya gonna snog her all day long or what?" somebody called out good-naturedly from somewhere in the audience and laughter broke out.

Jack slowly broke the kiss and blushed furiously while Melanie tried not to giggle as a blush stained her own cheeks. The priest offered a soft word of congratulations to the new couple and they thanked him. There was a slight pause as Melanie's attendant straighted the train of the bride's dress after they turned around to face the others. Jack smiled down at Melanie and she looked radiant as she gazed up at him and returned the smile. The cellists started playing and the two headed towards the altar stairs.

"OI! WHO LET THOSE BLOODY CREATURES LOOSE?" a loud voice suddenly echoed from the rear of the church.

"What on Earth?" Jack mumbled, his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement as he and his new wife came to a halt just before the top stair. There was a slight commotion behind them as the others in the wedding party stopped themselves before they walked straight into the newlyweds and accidentally pushed them down the stairs.

"Oh no!" Melanie groaned as everyone in the pews turned towards the direction of the outraged voice, the music stopped playing, and soft murmuring broke out amongst the guests. "I was afraid of this..."

A dark eyebrow rose questioningly. "You don't mean?"

Another soft groan. "Uh huh."

There was a momentary pause before Jack responded with a soft, "Hoo boy."

Melanie looked a little resigned as she observed, "There's never a dull moment around here, honey."

Jack snorted with laughter. "Nope. That's for darn sure!"

What sounded like nails skittering on marble suddenly echoed inside the church, followed by loud footsteps. Suddenly, three very large Irish wolfhounds bounded into the church and up the carpeted aisle with broken leads trailing behind them. They were followed by two very angry-looking ushers.

The one at the front of the mini-pack let out a deep bark and the terrible trio skidded to a halt - directly at the pew where Alexander and Sandy were sitting at. With tails wagging, the three stuck their faces inside the pew so that their faces were literally inches away from a thoroughly perplexed looking Alexander's. He managed to pull his head back just in time before a long and slobbery pink tongue flicked out to give him a big kiss on the face.

"Are these new members of your fan club, Alex?" Sandy asked lightly, her lips beginning to twitch at the startled expression on the Englishman's face.

"Sandy... You're *not* helping," Alexander growled as the three dogs made what he could only think of as goo-goo eyes at him.

"Sorry!" A high-pitched giggle was choked back.

"Fiona! Deirdre! Brendan! COME!" a deep Irish-accented baritone commanded.

The dogs did not obey their owner's command, but continued gazing at Alexander with what could only be described as love-struck expressions on their faces.

The two ushers approached the pew where the recalcitrant pooches had come to a halt. They were followed by a tall and handsome gray-haired man with sparkling green eyes. "Dreadfully sorry about the ruckus, Mr. Dane," the man said with an apologetic note in his voice as he took one of the broken leads and the ushers took the other two in hand.

"Uh... That's quite all right," Alexander managed to reply, a strained smile crossing his lips.

The man nodded and murmured a soft command to the three wolfhounds. This time, the trio obeyed their master's command and with a final longing look at Alexander, the three humans and canines turned around, walked down the aisle through the opened church doors and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.

The congregation rose to their feet as the music started up again and the wedding party made their way down the aisle. As Melanie and Jack walked past Sandy and Alexander, they smiled apologetically and shrugged their shoulders. As Sandy returned the smile, Alexander felt a gentle tug on his blazer sleeve. He turned around to gaze at Roberta and David, who had been sitting in front of him and Sandy. "Yes? What is it?" he asked curiously.

"I figured I better let you know now," Roberta began, looking very sheepish as she gazed at her co-workers and friends.

"What's the matter?" Sandy asked softly.

"The one with the dogs... That's Mel's Uncle Dermot. He traveled quite a distance just to get here. He's a great guy, but he's a little bit... uh..."

"Eccentric?" Alexander supplied.

"Yeah," Roberta nodded. "The dogs go *everywhere* with him."

Alexander heard the emphasis placed on *everywhere* and his hazel eyes widened in sudden realization as Sandy started giggling softly. "You mean?"

A single empathetic nod. "Yep."

Alexander sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I can see that the reception is going to turn out to be very interesting indeed." He offered Sandy the crook of his arm, which she accepted with a smile, and they and the rest of the wedding guests filed outside the church and headed towards their various modes of transportation to get to the reception hall.

Sandy - welcome back, Leigh! Good to see you here :-)
Going to the dogs, part two - and one Alex torture session (patent pending) coming up! I hope this will be a sufficient start, Barbara ;-), - Monday, June 16, 2003 at 11:29:01 (PDT)

Easing back on the sofa a little, Mary Anne swipes at her eyes. "Thank you." A long breath. "Perhaps it's done me good to get that off my chest." A quick, ironic glance at the front of her gown. "Though some people would say there's too much missing already . . ."

The words are a spark to gunpowder. In an instant Brandon's arms are around Mary Anne, the full weight of his body bearing her down on the sofa as she gives one quick little gasp, all that she has time to utter before his lips meet hers in such a searing kiss as he has never given her on or off the set.

He had meant only to offer comfort. Truly. That was all he had meant to do. Then, that volcanic surge of indignation—he had almost literally felt the burning of it, as if his heart had burst into flame. That anyone had ever hurt her so much, and that she had believed what they said of her, how they saw her . . . still does believe it, in spite of all he has said and done. Will nothing convince her? Perhaps this will convince her . . .

"Will nothing . . ." he breathes, but it is a only a momentary respite; he will not free her lips but sustains the kiss until he can feel himself growing dizzy, the tremors of his fury radiating to his burning fingertips as they push themselves through Mary Anne's hair, wrecking every careful curl, then exploring the few inches of her throat left exposed by the high collar of her gown. There. The zip fastener at the back of her gown. He manages to work it down an inch or so, but the collar still lies close about her throat.

Brandon makes a sound in his own throat. It is not precisely a growl.

Well, then, if not that vulnerable throat . . .

Brandon cups his hand against one smooth, rounded shoulder. High-necked the gown might be, but those deeply-cut armholes . . . his fingertips trail across the soft flesh at the juncture of shoulder and collarbone, and down a little, just there, one slide of his flattened palm and he might rest his hand over her beating heart . . .

Her frantically beating heart. Their kiss, broken by Mary Anne's agitated movements beneath him.

God. Oh. God. That front slit in her gown. The silken warmth of her bared legs against . . .

"God." A broken whisper into the perfumed skin of her half-exposed throat and shoulder. "Will nothing convince—"

"Christopher--!"

Brandon pulls back a little—a very little. After a moment, it occurs to him that he is waiting for The Director to call "Cut!" Or for some line of Mary Anne's, appropriate to such an outburst. Be gentle, sir . . .

Gentle?!

Her face. Her eyes.

What she must think.

Brandon is on his feet, swaying for a moment over Mary Anne, who is apparently too petrified with surprise to stir from the couch.

"Sorry," manages Brandon. "Mary Anne, I am so sorry . . ."

Another second and he is at the door, stopping only long enough to snatch his coat from the hall tree, which rocks dangerously in his wake. At that, Mary Anne breaks from her paralysis, leaping up and running to steady the heavy antique and calling "Christopher, wait—!" But by the time the hall tree rests secure on its base, the ring of running footsteps can no longer be heard on the iron stair. Mary Anne turns, leaning against the closed door, inhaling in long, calming breaths and surveying her flat, in which there is now no sign of Brandon's visitation—save her own very rumpled appearance and the second cup of coffee gone cold on the table.

MA--Caution: this post contains Brandon acting like a human being. Extreme caution is recommended.
Leigh: don't think you can just show up and tease us like that. As Cindie said, your penance is to post LOTS! It's one of our sayings, you know: "Post early and often." ;-), - Sunday, June 15, 2003 at 19:00:43 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: First Kiss, Monday 16th June

lee
- Sunday, June 15, 2003 at 17:59:47 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

"Well, well, well." I rocked back on my heels, grinning with delight. "So we meet again, Will Scarlet. Welcome back to the castle. Of course the last time you were hanging feet first from the ceiling. It must be a novelty for you to be right-side up this time."

I paced along the line of prisoners. Scarlet glared at me through the curtain of his filthy hair. The grime on his face shifted slightly as he scowled at me. I sneered. He was in no position to get uppity with me. Time to take him down a peg or two. I stepped back and nodded to the chief torturer. "All right then. Bring it out."

He stared at me, slack-jawed, and then a great smile lit up his face. He saluted me smartly and scurried across the room to one of the darker corners. The captive men watched his movements uneasily. I examined my gloves and waited. From the corner where the torturer had disappeared came the sounds of a heavy object being moved around. After some moments the man reappeared, dragging a large object shrouded in cloth. He tugged and heaved at it, rivulets of sweat running down his leather jerkin. The screeching sound of wood against stone was earsplitting. Finally he got it to the middle of the room and stopped, sagging against it and sucking in gasps of air. Then he straightened up and took a firm grip of the cloth and yanked it off. The prisoners flinched in spite of themselves. Scarlet affected an air of unconcern.

The torturer balled up the cloth as he examined what he'd revealed. "There you be, sire. Not a thread out of place. Aye, it brings back the memories, don't it now?"

I strolled across the room to his side. "It certainly does."

It was the old chair I'd used whenever important torturing was going on. Old and heavy, made of good stout English oak and built decades, if not actually centuries earlier, it had previously graced the hall upstairs until I'd had new furniture built when I'd come into my title. It was understood throughout the shire that when I took my official seat in the dungeon, those unfortunate fools who were being held could look forward to several hours of misery. I gazed at it fondly and patted the heavy cushion with an affectionate hand.

The prisoners groaned with one voice. The guards and torturers grinned at each other.

I took my seat, carefully making sure that my cape did not brush the floor or get sat on. The chief torturer bustled about the room, sending two assistants to the braziers to heat up pokers and pliers, ordering another to check the points on the stakes and assigning yet another to make sure the extra chains weren't tangled up. I rubbed hands together happily. They do say there is no pleasure greater than watching a gifted professional do his job and I fully endorse the sentiment. I always hired the best torturers in the kingdom and I flatter myself not one bit when I say that working for me was the goal pursued by a number of ambitious professional persecutors over the years. They knew that in Nottingham they'd be employed by a master who appreciated their craft.

Yes indeed, an aficionado of agony, a master of maiming, a connoisseur of cacophony - that was me.

"All right then. Let's get on with it, shall we?" I leaned forward. "Now who wants to go first? Don't push, plenty of hot coals for everyone. Any volunteers?"

One of the assistants plunged a heated metal rod into a pail of water; the sizzling steam rose to the ceiling. The prisoners huddled together into a large pile. Will Scarlet leaped to his feet, chains dragging on the ground. "You can't do this to me! My brother will have your hide!"

"Do I look worried at the prospect?" I yawned. Melodrama is so tedious at the best of times. "Your brother can't touch me since I'm brother-in-law to the king. You know how the Lionheart hates quarrels in the family."

Scarlet lunged at me, chain links clanking loudly. "You bastard!"

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" I can appreciate a little comic relief as much as the next autocrat but this was cutting into work hours and I do like to run a professional shop.

Time to get back to business. "Now let's talk about your presence in Sherwood Forest. According to your brother, you're supposed to be in Winchester with the king."

The torturer stepped up behind Scarlet and began measuring him with a small tape. Scarlet was too focused on me to notice. "I was with the king. For several months in fact. And I got to know a lot about how the government works in this kingdom." He leaned as close as his fetters would allow. "Did you hear me, Nottingham? I said a lot."

"Yes, yes, I heard you." I propped my chin on my hand. "I'm sure you had a jolly fun time. Why should I care?"

He grinned at me evilly. "Well you see, I spent a lot of time in the Exchequer halls. You remember that institution, don't you? It's the place you send the tax money twice a year. And as part of my responsibilities for the king, I examined the tax rolls for this shire carefully - nay, I should say very carefully. And I could see that there was quite a discrepancy between what you were supposed to pay and what you actually did pay." Scarlet sagged to the floor, dragged down by the weight of his chains and the release of emotion.

For the first time I felt a small tingle of foreboding. We glared at each other without speaking. The other prisoners shifted their gazes between us, the guards doing the same. Only the torturer and his assistants seemed oblivious to the atmosphere; overly refined sensitivity is not an asset in their profession.

"That is absolutely fascinating, Scarlet. Total nonsense, of course, but fascinating." I smiled with as much confidence as I could muster. "Now getting back to your recent activities in the forest - "

"Don't you understand?!" Scarlet surged to his feet again. "Your larcenous tactics have been discovered. Your days as sheriff and lord in this shire are almost over!"

"My, my, what a terrible fate is in store for me." I raised my hands in mock terror. "I am quivering with terror, I do assure you. Not that you'll be around to see it, of course. Because as a result of your outlaw activities in the forest and your ambush of me when I returned from visiting the king - who, by the way, received me with his usual warmth and said absolutely nothing about taxes being remiss - you will unfortunately be dead. Now if you're through with the melodramatics we'll get on with your imminent disfigurement. Maybe then you'll feel like answering some questions." I nodded to the torturer.

"Wait!" Scarlet leaped backward, out of the torturer's reach. "Wait. I'll tell you why I was in Sherwood Forest. I didn't want the king to arrest you."

"Oh come now." I lifted my brows in disbelief. "Come, come now."

"No, I'm telling the truth. I didn't want the king to arrest you." He glared at me with molten hatred. "Because I wanted to kill you first!"

Well, that did make more sense, I had to concede. "So you slipped away from the king's court and made your way back here to kill me. Of course you didn't tell your brother because his tedious ideas about legality would have ensured that he would try to argue you out of it, perhaps even tell the king about your plan so that I'd be arrested first. Would that be a safe conjecture?"

Scarlet nodded once, not taking his eyes off the torturer who waited impatiently for permission to get started.

"Then it seems your plan has come a cropper, hasn't it? For here you are in my dungeon and no one knows." I posed another question. "What are you going to do now?"

Scarlet smiled with far too much assurance for my liking. "Oh, not to worry, sheriff. I've got a friend in this castle. And they know I'm here."

Magda
- Saturday, June 14, 2003 at 17:57:53 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE. Weekend, 14th & 15th June.

Gwenevere had a premonition that today would turn out to be a day to remember for the rest of her life…
lee
Thank You DoC...I am taking a break from italics as it keeps out-smarting me, either that, or my far-sighted eyes cannot see those little arrows..., - Saturday, June 14, 2003 at 15:24:53 (PDT)

Some Hart and Grace background:

Hart and Grace have a complicated relationship, seasoned with suspicions (hers) and ambiguity (his); much is left unsaid and unresolved, which results in awkward misunderstandings between two very different people who love each other very much. The main question of the thread is whether you can completely love – and trust – someone who may – or may not be – at the opposite end of the moral compass from you.

The contemporary real life counterparts of Lukas Hart III are corporate financial manipulators like the former CEOs of Enron, WorldCom, Tyco and too many other companies to mention. In his first appearance in the Realm -- brilliantly written by Renie and others -- Hart was a man ahead of his time as he conspired with the Investors to crash the Hansbank, but the plot failed spectacularly the day Hans and Renie were married. Hart was sentenced to a prison term, but struck a deal with US prosecutors for an early release in exchange for his participation in a government sting to ensare the Investors, a consortium of prominent international bankers who, like Hart, were involved in the dark side of finance through the lucrative, and dangerous, business of laundering money for organized crime through legitimate banks and securities markets.

Grace is a private attorney and had brought an unrelated fraud case against Hart years before. Hart encountered Grace again shortly after his release from prison as he was setting up the sting in Los Angeles. Grace was tipped that Hart was up to his old tricks, and started to investigate. Hart turned the tables on her and bluntly confessed that he was, indeed, plunging right back into business with the Investors – but this time as one of the good guys! He explained the sting and arranged for the US Attorney in charge to recruit her to help. Hart's original plan was to discredit Grace, a former adversary, by implicating her in the Investors' scheme, and use her as a bargaining chip with the government, but dropped that plan as he fought a growing, and from his point of view, completely irrational, attraction to her. Grace was skeptical whether Hart had truly changed his ways, but over time, Hart gained her trust and admiration. There is no doubt that Hart and Grace love each other, but from time to time Grace encountered facts that raised questions about Hart's motives about the sting, and about her. Although she insisted to herself that her feelings for Hart did not cloud her ethics or her judgment, she tended to close her eyes to uncomfortable facts she discovered while working on the sting. An encounter with Colin Molyneux of the Hansbank then caused her to question everything.

We last saw Hart and Grace on a golf course at the Alisal Ranch outside of Santa Barbara. It is now two years later and Grace has unexpectedly arrived at Hart's Bel-Air home, and is about to explain why she fled the Alisal and evaded all of Hart's efforts to find her.

Leigh
temporarily italic-phobic.... Thank you, DoC!, - Friday, June 13, 2003 at 18:36:52 (PDT)

Thanks Anne, patience, Professor Snape is a cautious kind of guy, and Gwenevere is too. Just keep reading, and you will see more puzzle pieces that can be put together any time soon! This is more a mystery than a love story if I read your message correctly, but you won't be disappointed when they make sparks!
lee
- Friday, June 13, 2003 at 12:55:47 (PDT)

I only want to say: Lee, Your story is really great!!!!! But can't it be better if we hadn't to wait so long before "something unawaited happends"... ?
Anne
- Friday, June 13, 2003 at 11:31:40 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
Cut you off...? Hummm, sounds like Mr. I's territory.
D.o.C.

Help DoC, I am not sure, but I think I may have Italicized the book AGAIN. I checked it five times and was sure it was off, but the book is italicized so I must have done it. I am sorry, very very sorry. I will understand if you cut me off from the use of HTLM...HTMl, whatever it is. Please forgive me.
lee
- Friday, June 13, 2003 at 09:05:25 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE"S CURSE Friday the Thirteenth.

After everyone had gone, Professor Snape and Gwenevere went back to his office to prepare lab reviews and have dinner. Gwenevere hung her lab coat on the brass hooks whilst Severus took off his coat revealing his pristine white Slytherin embossed shirt. He unbuttoned the collar's first two buttons. Gwenevere felt the rhythmic pulse of her heart alter noticeably upon seeing him unwind.

Vivaldi's Concerto No. 2 in G minor: Adagio-Presto-Adagio was quietly playing in the background as flames crackled in the fireplace. Severus opened a bottle of Chateau Margaux.
"Excellent!" she said as she held the glass by its stem to view its clarity, then gently swirled the liquid breathing in the exquisite aroma before taking another sip.

"Its Bordeaux's 2000 vintage; From the Chateau Pichon-Longueville" He said.
*Yes. The vintage of a lifetime, scoring over 90 points.* She remembered to herself.
"This is magnificent." She said, impressed that he had the formidable connections to even lay his hands on wine such as this, with it's worldwide demand.

Severus permitted himself the luxury of savoring the rare wine, the classical music and the company of the intelligent, beautiful woman for a time before going to work on the lab reviews.

"The Potions Board requires the use of Latin for grading and laboratory records, consequently these notes must be trandlated into English for the students" he said as he handed her half of the stack of notes. Gwenevere took the first one and began rewriting the review in English as Professor Snape instructed. She had beautiful calligraphy style script whilst his handwriting was very masculine, and his S's were very pronounced.

"I typically work in my den half the night on Fridays." He said. It was his way of expressing appreciation.
You know…you still owe me an explanation concerning my research project, just in case you've forgotten." She teased, whilst writing. Her entire research project had been written in perfect Latin. Boots was fast asleep in front of the fire.

"That's because a grade would have insulted it." He said without looking up as he continued to trandlate. "With your permission, I would like to submit it for print in The Chronicle" He said. "It's the most well- researched piece I've seen to date on the subject."

"Well then, you may have my permission to do so sir." Pleased that he though so.

Gwenevere was deeply affected by the fact that Severus had trusted her enough to let her help him with his work, a monumental first that was not lost on Gwenevere by any stretch. The words that remained unsaid carried more weight than the spoken ones by far. They were equivalent in many ways and his actions tonight, proved he thought so as well.

Gwenevere noticed his spelling and word usage errors on just one of the pages of his brilliantly written notes, and smiled to herself, after simply making the correction. She was encouraged by the indication that he was human and not completely unflustered by her, although the double entendres at the end of the lab flew both ways and he took his in perfect stride otherwise.

When they had finished the work and the last of the wine, Gwenevere scooped up Boots, who laid over her shoulder not bothering to wake up as they walked to the second floor, the long way and said goodnight. Severus waited and watched as Gwenevere entered her room before entering his own room. He felt the twinge of loneliness in his gut, and missed her company even before her door quietly closed and locked.
lee
Pleasure to *meet* you Leigh, Love the Margarita story and can't wait for "Grace and Hart!", - Friday, June 13, 2003 at 08:52:18 (PDT)

Woo-HOO!!! The charming bridal monster had made way for the charming FoF poster. Welcome back, Leigh.

Does Hart know you're here?

Cindie
Penance--Post lots. , - Friday, June 13, 2003 at 05:38:04 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
*shackling Leigh to the FOF set* (welcome back!)
D.o.C.

Leigh! {{{{HUG!}}}} Good to see you!

Hurry, D.o.C.! Clap her in irons! Don't let her get away again! 8-D

MA
Grace and Hart again? Oh, frabjous day, calloo callay!!, - Thursday, June 12, 2003 at 20:20:36 (PDT)

Oh no! I've italicized the book! I've never done that before. Apologies, Suzanne. Please tell me my penance.
Leigh
- Thursday, June 12, 2003 at 18:35:22 (PDT)

"May I bring you another margarita, miss?"

Leigh looked down at the table next to her chaise longue and tried to count the number of little paper umbrellas already scattered there. She couldn't. "No thank you," she said, trying not to slur her words. "I have a very busy afternoon ahead of me." The gorgeous young man in the Arizona Inn polo shirt suppressed a laugh and sailed away, tray in hand. "I don't think he believed me," she said out loud and in injured tones to her husband. "After all, I have a spinning class at 3:00, a riding lesson at 4:30, a massage at 6:00, and we still haven't done our half mile swim." She waved a hand vaguely at the sparkling blue pool. "Plus, I can barely tear myself away from this stuff." Husband just shook his head. A week in Tucson at the height of summer -- just as she liked it -- and she was still overscheduling herself as though they hadn't left Los Angeles. He reached over and plucked the bulky bound document out of her hands.

"Deposition transcripts?" He made them sound like a contagious disease. He carefully kept the documents just out of her reach as she lunged for them. "We have a motion for summary judgment coming up, you know that," she said. He nodded his head, resigned. She looked at him over her sunglasses. "You don't trust the government to clean up corporate America, do you? Parading Martha Stewart around lower Manhattan isn't the whole story," she nearly pouted. "Of course not, but do you have to do this all the time? I suppose I should be amazed that you took time off to get married," he said. A low blow, he knew, but it was time for drastic measures. He was determined to get her mind off of the CEO-nistas and crooked accountants that were her particular bete noir and legal specialty. He had tried nearly everything, then had a brainstorm. "What about FOF?" he drawled, trying hard but failing to arch one eyebrow, "you've been derelict. Everyone else has been busy, juggling commitments, but they've managed to continue posting. And there are new people there, too, with exciting new stories. You're just a lurker these days. What's your problem?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "A low blow, mister. Right in the conscience." She looked guiltily at him over her sunglasses. "I don't like deserting FOF, but I take work seriously. If you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a corporate crime wave." He pressed on, nevertheless, "but you left Hart and Grace on that golf course for an eternity. Seasons changed, for goodness sake as Hart eternally two-putted. Then you managed one itty bitty confusing post. How insufferable is that?"

"Stop, stop," she put up her hands and covered her ears. "The next thing you'll do is have Brandon look at me reproachfully. I don't think I could stand that. Nobody could."

Husband knew that she loved him tremendously, but also knew that he couldn't even come close to a reproachful Brandon look, and wisely never tried. Instead, he said, "Then why not use this quiet time to think about how you can revive the Hart and Grace thread."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You're a genius, my darling. Of course. That's the perfect solution." She tilted her head to one side, plots already sifting through a brain already pretty well soaked in tequila. "I can start right away." She swung her feet to the flagstones, gathering up her things.

"Not so fast, speedy. Aren't you forgetting something?" Husband did not stir from his comfortable chaise despite her bustling around. And he quite liked being called a genius.

"Like?"

"Like you don't have a computer with you. Like if you try to shanghai one from the Inn, I'll catch the next plane back home and leave you with the bill. Things like that." His tone turned a shade brusque. He had only planned to distract her from the transcripts, and had forgotten the magnetic pull of FOF. Such a good plan, gone awry, with only himself to blame, he thought to himself. She stood up and stared at him. "This was your idea, mister. Now what do you suggest?"

He thought quickly. "I suggest. . . that any new direction in your thread will take will require some planning, and thinking, and research. Especially research." A serious gamble on his part, he knew. But, luckily, she took the bait, or understood what he was really trying to tell her. He never knew which.

"Ok," she said, sitting down. "But I can't do this alone. I'll need your help," she was talking so fast she was starting to splutter. He stopped her.

"No. I had a slightly different idea of what to . . . research." He signalled for the young man.

"Yes sir," the waiter trotted over to Husband's chaise.

"We are going to need a great many more of these..." Husband began, holding up one of the little paper umbrellas from his last margarita. "A very... great ... many ... more of these."

She sat back in her chaise. She was going to like this research, she decided. "Is there anything you wouldn't do for literary accuracy, my darling?" she sighed.

"There is no sacrifice too great..." he began, reaching for the next glass while leaning gracefully back to look at the beautiful cloudless desert sky. "Absolutely none."
Leigh <lparker@wyca.com>
crossing fingers . . . , - Thursday, June 12, 2003 at 18:29:48 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE. Thursday, 12th June.

Gwenevere stepped up and handed Hagrid the beaker. Everyone was watching. "Professor Collins, ma'am." Hagrid said with a nod.
He applied the potion along the top line of the cat; instantaneously long fur of every color grew in glossy patches of orange, black, white, and tortoiseshell. The class was amazed at not only the power of the perfect potion, but more so, the instant transformation of the cat. The dreadful creature was now the most beautiful calico cat imaginable.

As Professor Snape sat at his desk finishing his written comments, completely ignoring the fact that wet ink was dangerously close to Boot's restless tail, the class chatted and Hagrid beamed like a proud dad. Suddenly, without warning the ugly duckling turned most beautiful swan leaped into Gwenevere's arms, caught by her quick reflexes.

"Well hello there," Gwenevere Cooed. "You're feeling better aren't you? You're just craving some long over due affection, so you have come to the right place for that. I happen to be an expert at feline massage, just ask Boots over there."

Professor Snape was suddenly having trouble concentrating and misspelled narthecium praemedicatus. Gwenevere was lightly using her fingertips to gently relax the cat's lithe body under its new coat of many colors. As she worked her magic, the cat went completely limp the result of total surrender to the magical healing energy transferred to her from Gwenevere. This was the only magical power Gwenevere was able to access since her father's murder, possibly because it was accessed through love. Many possess the power of deep healing touch, but hers was an exceptionally pure and powerful form of it.

"I can see you have a way with animals, Professor Collins." Hagrid said.

"I especially love cats." She said as she continued administering the blissful T.L.C. to the calico.

"Well, she needs a good home, after she recovers a bit more, Professor Collins." Hagrid said hopefully.

"Maybe Professor Snape would like a beautiful domestic long hair companion to keep him company in the evenings?" Gwenevere said, this time she had the beginnings of a devilish grin as she met Snape's eyes.
Without realizing it, Snape wrote 'amator' (to love a woman) instead of 'aestus' (heat liquids) on the parchment.

Gwenevere handed the cat zombie back to Hagrid. "Look!" Hagrid said, "The fur on her belly finally grew out!"

"That is due to Professor Collins' generating enough body heat to stimulate a chemical reaction." Professor Snape said with a smirk as he glanced at Gwenevere.
"Touché" She mouthed to him.

"Class is now over, I will see you all back here on Monday evening."

"Let me know if she still needs a home when your work is finished, will you Hagrid?" Gwenevere said as she used her own potion to finish the fur restoration process for the still very relaxed cat, which was lying on the table serpentine with all fours in the air and purring very loudly. ^.^

lee
- Thursday, June 12, 2003 at 06:41:02 (PDT)

You all have been so busy, every time I look in there's something new to read - Thank You!!!
Chandra
- Wednesday, June 11, 2003 at 14:28:01 (PDT)

Ladies, I've rewatched both movies and looked with great care, and I'll still can't figure out what type of long-sleeved white shirt Snape is wearing? Anybody know the answer? I wonder--is it a "Poet's" style shirt with ruffles at the neck and wrists--a laced up shirt or, is it one of those actual high necks with lots of frothy actual lace at neck and wrists or WHAT?! Does anybody know the answer to this? We'll have to barge onto the movie set and catch Mr. Rickman before he puts on coat and cape, won't we?!
Sara Briggs
- Wednesday, June 11, 2003 at 12:49:52 (PDT)

Hello Magda,Cindie, ladies: I do so appreciate your taking time to help out an absolute novice. I would not dream of attempting a first-time story--I am in awe of those of you talented enough to do so. How does it happen for you? A dream comes to you? You look at pictures, reread or watch the video and a story comes to you? It must be wonderful!
Sara Briggs
- Wednesday, June 11, 2003 at 12:35:29 (PDT)

Indeed, Metatron, why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?

Sitting inside her small apartment, amidst the darkness and flickering candles, the Metatron had little appreciation for Her cosmic riddles. At any moment, he hoped, she would be home and he could get this over with.

Of course, at that precise moment, he froze with the sound of a key entering a lock and the door opening. Though he was invisible, he could of sworn she would know he was there.

Instead, she only tossed her keys onto the small table, removed her wet boots and hung her cloak up, stopping once to stroke the two cats that rubbed up against her shins. Then, pulling something from a cabinet that Metaton hoped against hope wasn't a fire extinguisher, she walked to the dog sitting on the rug by the door.

Quietly, the dog (blind, he presumed) lifted it's head and she let it eat out of her palm, murmuring, "Good Pep, good girl..."

Scooping the dog into her arms, she kissed her on the head, walking into the bedroom. Apprehension filled him, still, he knew he had to follow and quietly snapped his fingers, appearing in the room behind her.

Her hand held her thick braid above her head, curves and flesh barely illuminated by the candles, sliding her jacket, jodhpurs and shirt to the floor, and letting the braid fall again. His breath froze in his chest, as her dark eyes turned and fell directly on him. She squinted and he stopped breathing.

The words sat in his throat, a whisper almost making it to his tongue, two simple words.

I'm sorry...

When he opened his eyes, her bare back was turned and she crawled into the bed, her breaths quick and shallow.

-

"Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty, and voice of the one, true God! Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty, and voice of the one, true God!"

Uriel felt him before she heard him, the slight warmth from flames on her bare back, the breeze his wings created when he opened them to full span. Realizing the situation, however, she sat straight up, pulling sheets around her to cover her body.

There he stood, dark suit, green hood, snowy wings almost touching the walls in her small bedroom and the flames licking around him.

"Look, just shut up a minute!"

His spiel stopped and his dark eyes fell on her. Suffice to say, he was a tad surprised. She pulled the sheet over her head, before slipping a large t-shirt on, and emerging back out from the bedcoverings.

"You're creating quite the fire hazard," she said wearily and the flames died as quickly as they had started.
Rhys
Shakespeare at twelve? Mary Anne, I feel your pain, - Wednesday, June 11, 2003 at 12:30:13 (PDT)

Mary Anne's flat:

Brandon sips at his coffee, watching Mary Anne as she tastes her own coffee without appearing to enjoy it, her lips set in that tight line that signals trouble—what Brandon, in the privacy of his own thoughts, calls "flying the danger flag," though he would never confide to Mary Anne that he thinks of her in this manner. She is so sweet-natured and tolerant, so high-spirited . . .

But, thinks Brandon, if once that look appears on her face . . . No stranger to the ability to deliver a look himself, Brandon knows that Mary Anne wears that expression perhaps once or twice a year—and when she does, even The Director might pause before it. Even the high and mighty Mistral might tread more lightly. Yet there is Brandon's ever-present impulse to comfort and assist her in trouble. He sets down his cup.

"You are not all right. Please, tell me."

Mary Anne is silent for long moments before she sets aside her half-drained cup and reaches for the album, drawing it onto her lap. "It's nothing, Christopher. Only . . . " She bites her lip. "Well, this arrived a few days ago. My folks were cleaning out some things and they thought I'd like to have these, so they sent them—said they had copies and plenty of others, so . . ."

"And so what is the trouble?"

"Well . . ." She leafs absently through the pages of the album, her cheeks stained crimson as she looks at some of the pictures in it, then shuts it again. "I don't really like to look at too many old pictures of myself. They're . . ."

"What?" Very softly.

"Well, see for yourself." Defiantly, she opens the album and thrusts it into his lap.

Brandon's first impulse is to refuse it, since she seems so uncomfortable. Yet she seems to want him to look, if only to prove her point. Whatever her point might be.

There is the rustle of turning pages.

Brandon smiles a little to himself. Fondly, caressingly. "I do not see anything so very terrible here."

Mary Anne leans closer, until he can feel the soft waft of her breath against his shoulder and cheek. "Perhaps not those," she admits reluctantly, as Brandon examines a series of photos of a very small child, golden-curled and blue-eyed, smiling a little as if the famous spark of mischief had already ignited in her soul. "I was . . . pretty enough, then, if you can believe these. But that was part of the trouble. I looked so much like a little angel . . ." A grimace. "People expected me to behave like one. If I heard, 'act like a little lady!' once, I heard it a thousand times. When all I cared about was playing ball and climbing trees and doing all sorts of other things a 'lady' never does."

"I see." And Brandon does, even though he can feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, desperate to expand. "Perhaps that is where your Evil Mary Anne story came from?"

A small noise of bitter amusement. "Perhaps."

Brandon turns over a few more pages, then stops when he hears Mary Anne exclaim in disgust, "I can't believe they actually kept some of these. They should be lining a bird cage somewhere!"

Brandon, again, sees nothing so very terrible, though he dares not speak. There is a spread of photos, an older Mary Anne. No smile child merriment here—in many of them there is a set, wary look, as if daring both photographer and camera to turn out any picture worth seeing. Is this what they call "the awkward phase?" wonders Brandon, thinking of certain trying passages in his own adolescence when he had been fearful that the rest of his face would never grow to fit his nose, and devoutly thankful that Mary Anne is not perusing any pictures of him from that era. She is not exactly pretty in these, though . . .

"I was ugly." Bluntly.

"You were not!" His tone, harsher than he had intended, out of his momentary fear that she had somehow read his mind.

"I was. Look at this! All feet. Like a basset hound. And this one, all arms and legs and I didn't know what to do with any of them. And those clothes—"

Her tone wavers, near tears, and Brandon slips one arm around her. "Christopher, it isn't just the pictures, I suppose. It's what they . . . bring back. I was . . . all wrong. My looks weren't like what everyone thought was pretty then, and I was . . . different. Too different."

"Mary Anne . . ." Soothing, even though in his secret heart Brandon burns with indignation, sensing what must come next. "I suppose by 'everyone' you mean all the other children your age, don't you?"

"Yes." One venomous monosyllable, almost a hiss. "I know that a lot of children feel that they're different and don't fit it, but I really didn't. My looks were all wrong. I was so awkward and clumsy; I couldn't walk across an empty room without bumping into something. My clothes were wrong. My mother made them because we didn't have all that much money. I never did without anything I needed, but I couldn't have the clothes the other girls' mothers bought them, and they wouldn't have looked right on me if I could—they were meant for . . ." Her lip curls. "Sweet little cuties with tiny feet and dainty little hands. Not big gawks like me."

"Mary Anne!" Tender reproach.

"It's true. And not only that—well, I think I was a bit more sheltered than some of them. My folks wouldn't have let me wear what they paraded around in, sometimes. And they were right, but . . ." Swiftly, she swings to another line of attack. "Oh, and the things I liked weren't right, either. Try being the only twelve-year-old in your class who reads Shakespeare and prefers classical music."

"You were teased, then."

"Putting it mildly." A sigh. "I know you must think I'm horrid, Christopher—"

"No, I do not think you're at all horrid—"

"But what frosts me is that people say you're supposed to 'get over' these things. They say, 'you were only a child, and that was a long time ago.' Don't they know—"

Brandon tenses at her tone. How she manages a contralto growl is a deep mystery to him, but she can.

"—it's the soft clay that takes an impression, not the hard stone? Of course the things that happen when you're a child are hard to get over! It's when you're impressionable. Do they have no understanding of what that word means?!"

Whoever 'they' are, Brandon pities them from his soul.

"I'm sorry, Christopher . . ."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Mary Anne," as the photo album slides to the floor after a microscopic knee-nudge from Brandon; let the damned thing fall and be forgotten. If only he had never looked at it. And yet, he is touched and flattered. Mary Anne had let him look, knowing that some men might tease her about the contents, but that he never would. That she could trust him completely.

Easing back on the sofa a little, Mary Anne swipes at her eyes. "Thank you." A long breath. "Perhaps it's done me good to get that off my chest." A quick, ironic glance at the front of her gown. "Though some people would say there's too much missing already . . ."

MA
A classic case of getting started and not being able to stop . . . ;-), - Wednesday, June 11, 2003 at 06:05:26 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE. Wednesday, 11th June

The dungeon door opened and Hagrid entered carrying a box with some sort of an animal inside. The class began chatting, as they were finishing with the potions. Hagrid placed the container with the animal in it, on the table next to Professor Collins.
"Silence" The class was quiet in an instant.

"For those who didn't attend Hogwarts, this is our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Hagrid. It is now time to test your potion for effectiveness. Please come to the front of the room. Hagrid?"

Hagrid took the hideous animal out of the box as the students were gathering around them carrying purple potions of various shades. The tiny creature was emaciated and bare except for its head, which had a mane of tortoise shell and white fur, making its body seem smaller yet. The pathetic creature huddled, shivering from cold and fright. Hagrid explained:

"This is a cat that was found at Hogs Mead by a student. The cat was trapped in an abandoned shed for an unknown amount of time with out food or water, and very near death. She also suffered from a bad case of mange as you can see. The mange has been completely cured and we are feeding her very well, but she needs her fur now so we asked Professor Snape for some help, and here we are."

Gwenevere felt for the poor creature but was glad that Hagrid was taking such good care of her now. The cat was beginning to relax a bit now after noticing Boots sacked out on Professor Snape's desk.
The first potion that was introduced looked too dark and cloudy resulting from too much air being introduced during the pour, however, Hagrid dipped cotton and applied it to the cat's right shoulder. Orange fur instantly grew but stopped short of the original length.
"Not bad." Professor Snape said, as he marked the results on parchment, in Latin.

On Mondays, Professor Snape provided each potions pupil with tremendously detailed written reviews and explanations concerning their lab work, translated from the latin notes he took during the labs, another credit to his exceptional teaching ability. Unfortunately, few could fully appreciate the time, talent, enormous background knowledge and experience it took for him to accurately pin point the exact reasons why any given potion performed as it did. Gwenevere understood.

Next." He called.
The next potion was very blue, Hagrid applied it on the left shoulder and instantly, black fur grew, but of various choppy lengths.
"Too much cobalt, check the formula. Next." Professor Snape instructed as he recorded results.

This potion was too red and very light in color. Hagrid applied some to the stomach of the cat and everyone waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing much happened except the cat's stomach was now pink. The potion formula contained an automatic drying agent so once the cat was treated, she was instantly dry to avoid undue discomfort. The remainder of the potions were being tested with varying results but most of them worked fairly well and the only problems seemed to be minor.
"Last one." Professor Snape said, as he looked up at Gwenevere.

lee
That's the spirit Claudia. Did she see his reflection in the soup spoon as well?, - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 21:27:44 (PDT)

*pang*

Oh, Cindie....

sniffling....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Sandy -- where's that promised "Alex torture session"? Claudia -- you posted! TWICE! *jots on calendar*, - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 21:25:51 (PDT)

Flash forward to--
The morning after:

Actually by the time we get round to this it's the afternoon after:

Cindie sat at a corner table stirring her soup with a teaspoon and watching as pieces of chicken and bits of noodle were caught up in the miniature vortex. The morning had been hauntingly uneventful as if everything were right with the world. She had mostly kept to herself, focusing on some of her administrative duties and grateful she didn't have to be in front of a camera today. It was hard enough simply acting normal.

She knew Mistral was around the set somewhere because she'd heard the page call for him when it was time to shoot one of his scenes. Cowardly as it was she didn't seek him out and kept telling herself that she was busy and wasn't hiding from him. She couldn't decide what bothered her more, that the creature she'd encountered last night was someone with whom Mistral had once been on intimate terms or that said creature seemed to still have some sort of claim on him. If he'd only told the creature in no uncertain terms that Cindie was his choice. If only she were a lotus flower instead of a lotus mouse.

Slowly she realized that there was a shadow across her little whirl pool and, carefully placing the spoon aside, looked up to confirm its source.

"Is my company unwelcome?" Mistral's face was an impassive totem, a tribute to the uncertainty it masked. It appeared that she had avoided him last night after the mess at the museum. He didn't know what had transpired before his arrival at the fountain but surely he had done nothing to justify such a response.

"Of course. Of course not." She had meant to answer the implied 'may I join you', but winced when she saw the sardonic flicker of his features at her hasty amendment.

He placed the plate from his tray across from her stilling soup and arranged the cutlery and glass before sitting down. When he'd seated himself he made no move to eat but simply looked at her. "Did you get home all right last night?" When he finally spoke his voice betrayed a roughness he'd been concealing all morning. It vexed him that it slipped out just then.

"Yes. Chandos took me home right after. . . when you were busy with…" This was horrible. He could always fluster her but never had he flustered her like this. Never like this. None of the flip retorts she'd planned in bed last night could bear to be spoken. Her eyes dropped to his plate. She idly noticed that in the midst of his romaine was a brown bit of lettuce that had gone off. Her fingers itched to pluck it out for him.

"I'd thought that must be what happened. But when I tried your flat no one answered." His eyes didn't waiver from her and he clearly saw the guilty flicker as she looked at him and then back down at his salad.

She squared her shoulders and met his eye. "I was across the hall. I hadn't eaten at the opening so Chandos made me an omelet. Cheese and bacon." She added the last needlessly and was too caught up in watching him now to wonder at the non sequitur. "Then I petted Rafter for awhile before I could… before I went home." It wasn't that she felt she needed to explain her actions. She just needed to explain where she'd been.

"I'm surprised you didn't hear me. I most persistent."

"I heard you."

"I see." His eyes hardened as he gripped his fork.

"No, its not that, Patrick…" There was too much and she'd no idea where to begin. Did she even have the right to wonder about the things she was guessing at. "Look, this isn't the place…"

"No. It isn't." He'd regained control of his voice and those words emerged all reasonable smoothness. He didn't feel that he needed to explain anything. But there were things he had to tell her.

"I hope you didn't catch cold. The fountain … it was wet." Good grief, would she never be able to say anything that wasn't banal again?

"No. A bit of a sore throat; it passed." He had been hoping she might turn up in his office with hot tea this morning but was resigned when she had not.

"Oh. Well, that's good. That it passed." She tried a spoonful of the soup but this situation was too much even for comfort food of this magnitude.

He picked up the fork and stabbed a wedge of tomato. This wasn't the place but he had to know… understand. "Why don't I drop by your cube after work and we can go and dine together in an environment more conducive to conversation?"

She considered. The need to be with him was tangible and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to feel his arms around her while she buried her nose in his shirt front. To hear him tell her everything was fine and wonderful. To simply go on as if last night hadn't happened and continue on as before. The sorry truth was that she couldn't do it tonight.

She'd spent most of last night at Chandos' and even though she hadn't slept well, by the time she went to her flat she did little more than stare at the ceiling. She had to consider what she'd learned and how to approach it. Him. A swell of anger rose in her and she wasn't sure just then exactly for what. No. She needed to think. Cliché that it was, that was her answer. "No, Patrick," her voice pitched low, "I need to think."

His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "Think." One word. Much vitriol.

She couldn't stand it.

On impulse, forefinger and thumb reached out and plucked out the offending non-greenery from his plate and she placed it on a paper napkin which she folded and tucked under the saltcellar. When she looked back at him there was a relaxing about his eyes.

"Think." He repeated blankly. Less vitriol and more puzzlement.

Cindie
Very relieved to hear the Mistral's job is secure., - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 18:47:19 (PDT)

Claudia and Ed

Armed with a positive attitude, and nothing else, she decided it time to find out just what was going on here. She exited the room at a jog, determined to either find Ed, or whoever was in charge here, whoever she bumped into first. She was at her best when she had a mission, though she knew Ed would disagree. No more waiting.
Claudia
- Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 18:45:58 (PDT)

Anything, everything, dearest. Always and all ways. 8-)

And yes, HE will indeed be baaaaack . . . this off-set thread is only temporary, so don't anyone go trying to break him out of jail! *look*

MA
Hmmmm, perhaps that *look* should be into a mirror . . . ;-), - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 17:26:01 (PDT)

Welcome to all the new writers and readers at FOF. And to the returning, delurking writers! Yes, the Interrogator thread will presumably resume in due course . . . however, never assume anything . . .

Here, anything, everything can happen.

Yes, dearest?
Renie
You'll see the blue Speedo, and raise a fremitus, Cindie? A bet is as good as a flutter..., - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 16:17:22 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE. Tuesday 10 June

Professor Snape barged back into the dungeon and loudly announced, " Begin the lab. Upon its completion, we will use a live animal for the testing phase." He took his chair opposite Gwenevere and sought out her violet irises. Boots fled for safe harbor under Professor Snape's desk.

Gwenevere met his stare and looked *overstated* at the parchment, then back at him for an explanation.
Professor Snape's eyes told her *patience, you'll just have to wait and see*
Gwenevere's eyes were bright and vivid violet with mock exasperation, turning a deeper shade of amethyst.
Professor Snape's expression was that of *hey, what do you want from me now, it will be address later!*

A very devilish grin had appeared now. He made a point of looking at the cauldron then back at her; hinting she should begin the potion and discontinue her futile attempts at prying information from him, as it would be folly to do so.

Professor Snape quickly changed the subject by stretching taller and scanning the students'progress behind them, none of the students was at all aware of the elaborate *mime game* preformed just now by the playful pair of Professors.

Gwenevere now shifted gears, eradicating her mind of the puzzling pending potions grade issue and was focused and ready to begin her work.
As she read the potion formula, her intense concentration suggested that a supreme being that nobody could see was guiding her. Professor Snape found her trance-like concentration fascinating as she measured and calculated time and temperature. As Professor Snape followed concise instructions as her lab partner, he was taking mental notes of her methods and accuracy for a later time when she would become his protégée. They worked together fluently; their chosen techniques of assembly, timing, and execution of plan were almost identical.

At last, Gwenevere had two equal amounts of crystal clear liquid in matching long- necked beakers. One of them was the color of liquid sapphire the other the color of liquid ruby. The two thick liquids had to be slowly blended in equal amounts. If not blended equally, the end product would not be the color of amethyst, meaning a mistake had been made which could significantly alter the potion's performance. Air present in the 'pour' will result in a cloudy product, which is almost impossible to prevent.

Gwenevere and Severus locked eyes for a moment signaling that the pour was to start in a second or two. She reached into her pocket and put one gtt of protein-based surfactant in each long-necked beaker, reminding Snape of her promise to supply him with her Grandfather's chemical equation for making it. She then put a size four dram amber vial on the table. At Gwenevere's signal they began the pour, Snape slowly poured the sapphire and Gwenevere slowly poured the ruby. They were both concentrating as the liquids entered the third beaker in perfectly equal amounts. When the pour was completed, Gwenevere added the thick clear substance from the vial into the amethyst creation. She waited two minutes then strained the potion through the filter and into another beaker. The result was perfection.

Professor Snape's eyes were sparking black onyx as he studied the potion's perfection.

"I have never seen this level of clarity before in this type of philter." He said absently as he marveled at the result.
lee
^.^, - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 07:34:31 (PDT)

Hi Cindie,

To underline, use this < u > to start and < / u > to end it. Just eliminate the spaces between the brackets :-)

Sandy
I don't care for the large font sizes myself, but I'm a non-conformist at heart. Catholic school can do that to you :-P, - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 07:33:56 (PDT)

I have to state for the record that these large font sizes scare me. Don't think I can handle it. As far as I'm concerned H2 = The Chamber of Secrets and H3 = The Prisioner of Azkaban. Once again I am in awe of the html prowess of my fellow FoFers.
Cindie
So how *do* you underline, anyway?, - Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 07:26:07 (PDT)

BtW reigning queen of the HTML realm, I like the h2 size and am impressed with how Claudia made her title inside her excellent story (with cliff hanger that will need to be addressed soon. hint)which I will try today. My question is if one screws up...uh and forgets to turn off h2, would the GB be h2 everywhere?
lee
- Tuesday, June 10, 2003 at 06:43:47 (PDT)

What size are we using for the header text?

H2? H3?

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Stylistic minds want to know....., - Monday, June 09, 2003 at 21:53:14 (PDT)

Compiled by Barbara the Wallpaperer

Here is, as far as I can tell, a complete list of characters claimed and mentioned in the entire history of FoF. Let me know if I'm missing someone.

FILMOGRAPHY (a bit trimmed) The Search For John Gissing (2001)
as JOHN GISSING

Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone (2001)
as SEVERUS SNAPE
Snape has been claimed by Lee and Jutta

Blow Dry (2001)
as PHIL ALLEN
Phil has been claimed by Barbara

Help, I'm A Fish! (voice) (2000)
as JOE

Play (2000)
as MAN

Dark Harbour (1999)
as DAVID WEINBERG
David W was claimed, but is now available

Galaxy Quest (1999)
as ALEXANDER DANE
Alexander has been claimed by Sandy

Dogma (1999)
as the METATRON
Metatron is claimed by Rhys

Judas Kiss (1998)
as DAVID FREIDMAN
David F was claimed, but is now available

The Winter Guest (1997)
as the DIRECTOR
The Director is a shared character

Michael Collins (1996)
as EAMON DE VALERA ("Dev")
Eamon has been claimed by Therese

Rasputin (TV) (1996)
as RASPUTIN ("Raz")
Rasputin was claimed, but is now available

Sense And Sensibility (1995)
as COLONEL CHRISTOPHER BRANDON
Brandon has been claimed by Mary Anne

An Awfully Big Adventure (1995)
as PL O'HARA
PL has been claimed by Dana

Mesmer (1994)
as DR MESMER
Mesmer has been mentioned but not claimed

Fallen Angels (TV series, one episode) (1993)
as DWIGHT BILLINGS
Dwight was claimed, but is now available

Bob Roberts (1992)
as LUKAS HART III
Lukas has been claimed by Grace

Closet Land (1991)
as the INTERROGATOR ("HIM")
The Interrogator is a shared character
The actor who plays the Interrogator -- "Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral" -- has been claimed by Cindie.

Close My Eyes (1991)
as SINCLAIR BRYANT
Sinclair has been claimed by Claire

Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves (1991)
as GEORGE, SHERIFF of NOTTINGHAM
George has been claimed by Magda

Truly, Madly, Deeply (1991)
as JAMIE
Jamie has been claimed by Diane

Quigley Down Under (1990)
as ELLIOT MARSTON
Elliot has been claimed by Alice

The January Man (1989)
as ED
Ed has been claimed by Claudia

Die Hard (1988)
as HANS GRUBER
Hans has been claimed by Renie

The Barchester Chronicles (TV miniseries) (1984)
as OBADIAH SLOPE
Slope has been mentioned but not claimed

Busted (TV) (1982)
as SIMON JACKS
Simon has been claimed by Dana

OTHER (a bit trimmed) Les Liasions Dangereuses (1985)
as VICOMTE de VALMONT
Valmont is a shared character, though he was claimed earlier.

Private Lives (2002)
as ELYOT CHASE
Elyot has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's As You Like It
as JACQUES
Jacques was claimed, but is now available

Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (2002)
as MARC ANTONY
Antony has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's Hamlet
as HAMLET
Hamlet has been claimed by Chris.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Be sure to click on the Who's Who at the top of this page for a full explanation of the TV Studio "Flights of Fancy", - Monday, June 09, 2003 at 21:51:23 (PDT)

Sara: it's easier to write your story on your word processor first and then copy it and paste it into the "Story" box. That way you can go back and make changes and edit, etc.
Magda
- Monday, June 09, 2003 at 20:02:51 (PDT)

Ed and Claudia

And he opened the door, and was gone.
Claudia
Do I qualify for the e-mail now Cindie?, - Monday, June 09, 2003 at 19:38:56 (PDT)

Oh dear, Sara, Snape is claimed by lee at this time and by Jutta for the behind the scenes adventures. Please consult the Who's Who linked above for a list of characters and their availability.
Cindie
- Monday, June 09, 2003 at 18:26:42 (PDT)

Thank you Cindy. I will follow your suggestion. I have many questions about Snape that would have to be answered, before I would even dare attempt to write an adventure for him, that's for sure!
Sara Briggs
- Monday, June 09, 2003 at 18:21:21 (PDT)

Yes, Sara. What is appearing here has been typed in the large box designated: Story.

If you type in your e-mail address you will receive a copy of what you have posted in an automatic e-mail.

Have you scoped out the HTML guide? It is very handy for paragraphing. At first I did big blocks of writing before someone kindly pointed that out to me. I still don't know how to underline yet, which is why I am so in awe of BtW. :-D

Looking forward to your story.
Cindie
This was typed in the side note/comment section. , - Monday, June 09, 2003 at 17:58:40 (PDT)

Forgive my absolute inexperience, but is that box just below Comments, titled "story" the place where you talented writers type in those wonderful stories? I'll try my best to learn quickly. I'm new to everything, Rick, computers, etc.
Sara Briggs
- Monday, June 09, 2003 at 17:42:46 (PDT)

Ooooo Barbara... interesting HP dream there... but poor Jamie! What to do with him? He is quite the exasperated fellow right now (you should see him clasping hands around his neck), and if you're not careful, he might come haunting at your place one of these nights! (Then you again, you probably wouldn't mind that now, would you?- LOL)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
*munching away on popcorn, CRUNCH*, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 21:02:11 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday 9 June

Friday # 2 INSTANT FUR AND FEATHER RESTERATION POTION
At 4:30 Gwenevere slipped her lab coat on and headed for the lab to set up. From deep immaculately kept shelves, she gathered several apothecary jars, and poured water in the cauldron. Professor Snape set the flame under it with his wand as he walked by on the way to his desk. They worked quietly as conversation between them was unnecessary.

By now the other students were in various progressions of setup, arriving in plenty of time after Professor Snape's wrath last Friday. The chastisement was sure to be embedded in the core of each of them for the rest of their earthly lives and beyond, reaching into the sprit world. Professor Snape was finished marking attendance and had commenced opening instructions. He spoke in a falsely soothing voice, and was slowly stalking the aisles, stopping to deliver the apparent *miserable excuse for a research assignment* to each student. As he did so, he stopped commentary and glared poignantly at the receiver with the look of disdain etched in deep shadows on his grim face.

When at last, only one work remained undelivered in Professor Snape's hand, he simply laid it down on Gwenevere's table next to Boots and advanced next door to his office for a few minutes as the horror-struck students learned of their disappointing attempts at pleasing their Professor via the written word.

Gwenevere idly flipped pages and read the enigmatic message penned in Severus Snape's spirited serpentine script. It read:

'I need a word with you after class tonight, (signed) Severus.'

The work was not graded. Gwenevere contemplated the meaning for a moment conjuring up images of Boots playing at a cat and mouse game...
lee
Hum...Waking up with a jerk, what a visual! BtW LOL, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 20:50:12 (PDT)

Mary Anne's flat:

Mary Anne enters with the coffee, and Brandon returns to the task he had set himself before the photo album had distracted him: clearing a space for the tray. Plenty of room on this coffee table, a leviathan of oak topped with a slab of rose-coloured granite. How they every managed to move it up the stairs . . . Yes, plenty of room.

Mary Anne sets down the tray. Brandon smiles at her choice of the stout ceramic pot and copper-sheathed mugs; how many times has he heard her proclaim that coffee is meant to be either iced or steaming hot, but never lukewarm—always followed by a squinch-faced "euuuwwww" of disgust. The silver coffee service is for high and stately occasions, such as rare cast gatherings here, but for the two of them . . .

Brandon's eyes follow Mary Anne as she sets the tray down but does not yet take a seat herself. To the wall first, to touch a switch that sets the gas logs crackling in the fireplace. Not a real fire, someone—had it been Mistral?—had teased her during one of the parties here. To which she had retorted that he could go and put his hand in the flames, and then decide if they were real or not. Convenient. Fire at the touch of a button, no need to feed it with sticks and papers. Involuntarily, Brandon glances at the coffee table; one of the items he had shifted was a newspaper insert with the television logs for the week. A closer look shows a penciled circle around one of the notations; it would seem that Minion is going to appear as a guest on one of the evening talk shows.

She would notice something like that. Any of us . . . well, maybe she wouldn't for someone like Valmont, but any of the rest of us, like Hans or Dev or Mistral . . .

Brandon pushes the TV log away from him and sets the pencil on the open pages so Mary Anne will not lose her place.

Will she light candles? There are several about the room, various scents of potpourri and bayberry and apple spice . . . no, the scents would interfere with the aroma of the coffee. But she is adjusting the lights with the dimmer switches, until the room is warmed by a subdued glow, bright enough to see but soft enough to soothe tired eyes.

And then, as it seems to Brandon, she is there beside him quicker than thought, curling her legs under her and wiggling her bare feet luxuriously against the plush upholstery of the sofa, the brilliant blue and gold of her gown glimmering in the muted light.

"Ahhhhhh," she sighs, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring cups for both of them. "It feels so good to get out of . . ."

Her voice trails off as she spots the photo album. Brandon, feeling vaguely guilty for no reason he can name, sugars his coffee and murmurs, "I am sorry. I just looked at it while you were preparing the coffee . . . some of it, that is . . . some of the pictures, I mean." He shakes his head. What on earth ails him this evening?

Mary Anne, meanwhile, busies herself with her own coffee. "It's all right," is her short reply.

And yet, it is plainly not all right.

MA--things getting a bit tense in the flat (art imitating life, I suppose.)
Oh, Barbara--Phil in those dark robes . . . *swoon*, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 19:59:27 (PDT)

Sandy --

Anyone the size of Hagrid is "unusually large".....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Still the master.... even da Vinci made mistakes. ... Really!, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 19:30:32 (PDT)

Master of Itallics, but not underlining, it seems ;) All fixed.
Claudia
Deputy DOC, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 19:08:46 (PDT)

Yes I did get your homage, Barbara! *Chortles and claps*!

Sandy
*Unusually LARGE?! Whoa, you're in trouble, missy! Gonna sic a fire-breathing Ollie on you for that one...* Phhht...., - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 18:45:30 (PDT)

D.o.C.....

Please fix my Underline after "Harry Potter"....

Thanks!
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Oh, the SHAME!, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 18:34:16 (PDT)

Barbara's Flat
Night of Day Eight of the Investigation

Barbara awoke with a jerk. (homage, but only Sandy will get it). She glanced over at the book by on her bedstand. She ought to know better than to read right before going to bed. No more Harry Potter nightcaps, she thought. The strange conglomeration of people in her dream unnerved her, more so because they had been so vivid:

Jamie, floating around with his head half-off, an enormous pleated ruff around his neck; Sandy, unnaturally large, caring for a fire-breathing Ollie she'd hatched from an egg; Brandon, transforming into a werewolf and back again; Claudia, perched on a broom, whistle in her mouth, watching Ed chase a Remembrall across a field -- the Remembrall sprouted wings and turned into an owl; the Director, peering at her over half-moon reading glasses, saying, "Oddment. Tweak. New sets. Chop-chop!" And Phil... she flushed and turned over, burying her hot face in the cool pillow.

Phil, dressed in dark robes, kissing her as the staircases shifted beneath them.

She'd forgotten kisses. She rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Kisses made her hungry for more kisses; even dream kisses. She reached out to turn her alarum clock around: 2 a.m. Her hand shook in the dim light.

Would it do any harm, she wondered, to make of Phil a dream lover? Perhaps it would harm how she could act around him. Would she like it, after all, if she discovered she was starring in someone else's erotic imaginings? Horrified? Disgusted? Pawed over in some untrusted stranger's thoughts. She imagined herself so portrayed in Phil's mind and checked her horror quotient. It was a bit... weak (homage).

He loved her; she knew that. He desired her; she knew that, too.

It seemed she also had desires. Lov--no. Her mind was quick to squelch that idea. But she had desires. Desires were... a physical thing. Natural. Perhaps her hormones had spiked this month (homage), fathering such desires. Desires to touch and be touched. She desired a man, a male body with which to share human contact. But did she desire Phil? She didn't know.

Barbara stared sightlessly at the ceiling until dawn.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
I think The Adventures of Phil and Barbara" is a bit weak for a title.... :D, - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 18:33:15 (PDT)

I have deleted some of the more vitriolic posts. May I remind you that this is not a discussion board. Everyone is welcome on FOF - readers and writers, both. But personal attacks and cattiness won't be tolerated. We've tried to accommodate everyone, and Ella, Suzanne has been discussing things with you via e-mail.

As Suz is away for a few days, please respect her, and all the works she does, and don't let things get out of hand. There is room for all kinds on the internet - but respecting yourself and others is a must. We each have a corner of the www that we call home, and want to protect. Great - but don't come into someone else's house with muddy boots on, and expect them not to say anything.

There are intelligent people here - please try and keep the conflict out of your posts, and enjoy the stories, the parties, each other and the fun.

Claudia - Deputy DOC
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 13:30:33 (PDT)

Yes, Ella, I remember Suzanne's suggestion about moving over to FOF and I also remember thinking at the time that it was a bad idea. The point that I was making in my history lesson was that both pages have evolved over the years and that the virtual party idea would be almost unworkable in this existing format when large numbers of people take part. We had a hard enough time the last few times there were parties with characters and I for one think the time has come to toss the idea out the window. A designated chat time would work much better for that sort of thing and would allow many more people to take part.

I also suggest we drop the talk about bullies and victims. While people mean well, it obviously inflames others and thereby sidetracks the discussion. Some people seem determined to take all disagreement as personal attack.

Magda
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 13:25:33 (PDT)

Hi all, could FOF Writers all please e-mail me. Thanks all.
Claudia <claudiaatparadisedotnetdotnz>
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 13:21:17 (PDT)

Thank you, Magda. It was very kind of you to respond so quickly. I'm almost computer illiterate--so it'll take time, but I'll try to catch up both computer-wise and viewing other performances from Alan Rickman.
Sara Briggs
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 11:30:51 (PDT)

Well, I'll lay claim to one more bit of bandwidth in an attempt to make a contribution to restoring peace to the realm.

I've also been hanging around here for a few years as well, and was there when a number of folks (not only current "wenches") got chatting about numerous subjects regarding AR, his characters, and bantering back and forth. For the sake of clarification for anyone new, it developed into a game of sorts with people becoming members of Houses representing different AR characters, and quizzes to gain points. A lot of silliness also ensued. Some of it racy, some of it fluffy, some of it serious.

And it was quite different from the usual interaction up until then on the GB. Most of it a result from not much new going on with Alan as far as new movies, etc. Some folks enjoyed it, some did not and all those who wanted to continue were asked to take it to chat. So, from there, a website was created in an attempt to make a place where more interactive "chatting" in the same vein could find a home. There was also suggestion that FoF would be an okay place to move it to as well.

Up until this point to summarize, we've all gone back and forth as to whether the FoF was an appropriate spot (see Magda's comments about the confusion about "parties"), and the new webpage format wasn't working, either. A number of us also joined Live Journal as a separate offshoot altogether.

Unfortunately, personalities have clashed, feelings have been hurt and unpleasantness has ensued in the process on all sides. Magda brought up a lot of good points. Personally, I think the Downtime Bar is a really good idea. It leaves the FoF open for stories, GB for on topic discussion, and a place for people who want to let their hair down to do so. I think this is a bad case of growing pains in a great community. So, can we all work together and wipe the slate clean? Please, no hurling of eggs or vegetable matter. I'm only trying to help.
saturnine
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 11:03:57 (PDT)

Totally OT: .... a moment of comic relief

THOUGHTS ON LIFE

The early bird still has to eat worms.

The worst thing about accidents in the kitchen is eating them.

Don't argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell the difference.

Wouldn't it be nice if whenever we messed up our life we could simply press 'Ctrl Alt Delete' and start all over?

Stress is when you wake up screaming and then you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet.

My husband says I never listen to him. At least I think that's what he said.

Just remember . . . if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off.

If raising children was going to be easy, it never would have started with something called labor.

Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
I dropped a glass vase once and reached for the "Undo" command...., - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 10:05:43 (PDT)

Cindie, In regards to the private/public post issue, simply put-Thank you! :) No hard feelings here. Happy to put it to rest. My earlier response was only an attempt to clarify the situation. If it added fuel to the fire, I apologize as well.
saturnine
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 09:43:19 (PDT)

I would like to issue an apology to the wenches, my fellow FoF comrades and the readers of these pages. It was not my intention to invade anyone's privacy and did not know that the quoted post was meant to be locked. It appeared on what I thought was a public forum and therefore I believed it to be public.

I had visited the Revelers site once before in order to express hope that some of the members of that group would begin a story. FoF is a wonderful place populated by equally wonderful people with amazing talent and I would always wish to encourage anyone to write a story here with an available character and within the guidelines established. I hope that the new writers will not be discouraged by the recent tone here and will post early and often.

My last post fanned the flames of dissension and for that I am very sorry.

Anyone wishing to discuss any issues raised may feel free to e-mail me.
Cindie <cynthiagreen@cox.net>
I already e-mailed Suzanne a private apology but felt since my post was public the apology ought to be as well. , - Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 08:39:24 (PDT)

Sara Briggs: good luck with your computer. A few days ago, before you posted, Barbara listed the characters available if someone wanted to write a story about one of them. For info on posting a story here, click on the link at the top of the page about HTML tips. It will make sure all your stuff doesn't appear as one lump of text.

Re: all the other stuff that's taking up space for the past few weeks. There seems to be a bit of confusion about "the virtual party" reference above. A history lesson is in order. Back in the paleolithic era, when the GB and FOF got up and running, Alan Rickman was a not-very-well-known British actor best known as "that Die Hard guy who fell off the building" or "that guy who kicked Costner's butt in RHPOT". Some women make the effort to track down his other appearances and began to tend the flame on these pages.

Then he appeared in S&S and attracted more attention. The GB got bigger (for instance, that's when I first started hanging around). Then he appeared in "Dogma" (which went a long way to removing any respect I had for his ability to pick a script) and in the Harry Potter films. With these three movies, he's attracted quite a large number of new fans who are more involved with popular film culture than the rest of us fuddy-duddies tend to be and who (pay attention here, ladies, because I think this is the crux of the problem) based on this experience are used to GB's that are run a different way than this one.

The virtual parties referred to in Suzanne's greeting at the top of the page were designed with a small group of people in mind who would take their characters "out of" character, as it were, and take them to a party. The sort of virtual party others would like to have is not really conducive to the FOF/GB format. It would be better held in a chat room where spontaneous give-and-take is possible.

The problem is that people are going to be offended when they are asked to "take it to chat" because they will feel snubbed. And they're going to lash out and make comments that shouldn't be made because they feel dissed. And I don't know really how to settle that issue because it's going to require everyone (did you all get that? EVERYONE) to chill out and resolve this issue before more bandwidth gets used up.

Any suggestions how this can be resolved?
Magda
- Sunday, June 08, 2003 at 08:34:36 (PDT)

How does one submit a story to this website. I'm just starting on the computer, and I really need some help!
Sara Briggs
- Saturday, June 07, 2003 at 18:46:52 (PDT)

Lee: I just noticed the dedication. That was very sweet of you.
CdC
- Saturday, June 07, 2003 at 12:46:31 (PDT)

Barbara the wallpaperer-that was stunning. I feel like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and A Funeral, reading your post with "bewildered awe". I love this place. I have learned so much from all of the posts-poetry, quotations, swordfighting, medieval history, Egyptology. Keep it coming, please, and any wenches lurking, if you write a story, I am sure that I will enjoy that too.
A Concerned Citizen
- Saturday, June 07, 2003 at 10:28:35 (PDT)

As a brief aside, the song is John Talos' Canon.

It is credited to the musical group Echo's Children, comprised of the superb songwriting talent of Cat Faber and the incredible musicality of Callie Hills.

Go here
http://echoschildren.org/
or click on my name to view their fabulous work, read lyrics, print out sheet music and listen to samples from their albums.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Eagerly awaiting Barbara Hambly's return to sense, so EC can have "Minhyrdin the Fair" on the next album...., - Saturday, June 07, 2003 at 00:23:29 (PDT)

Phil's Flat
Evening of Day Eight of the Investigation, Night of the Museum Opening

The music played in the background, as Phil heated up dinner. Bubble and Squeak. Bachelor food.

"Lines of passion do I craft;
If my gentle words offend,
Dared I drink a deeper draught
That which injures might yet mend --"

He stirred the cabbage. Dared he drink a deeper draught? He already knew it had offended. But he'd offered to push the cup aside and pretend not to thirst. But she had refused. Was that enough to hope upon? If he dared, she might heal. If. If. It was a small word to hang the future from.

"-- Though indiff'rence I pretend
My spaniel heart you may perceive
Fawning at your fingers' end. --"

Phil tossed in the potatoes. He knew what they sang, these angel-voiced women. Sometimes, he looked at himself without recogniztion. A spaniel heart. How could he have one? He was Allen, a force to be feared, an opponent to be eliminated, and obstacle to overcome. But the force turned inward on himself and he was his own fear, his own opponent, his own obstacle. Fighting with himself was like fencing with the ocean -- all his blows turned soft and powerless (homage).

" -- He who loves is doomed to grieve."

Phil sighed. Doomed to grieve. The Elizabethans were a angst-filled bunch, in love with the idea of suffering for love. He was and he found it appalling; there was nothing romantic about it at all. He slid the heated dinner into a convenient bowl and set it aside to cool. "-- Passion's pledge I dare not make.
Never word our hearts may link.
I may touch, but never take;
Kiss the cup but do not drink. --"

And he wanted to drink. From her cup. He wanted to drink her in -- her hair, her eyes, her long-fingered hands. Her kindness. Her temper. Her utter loyalty. Phil puttered around the flat, tidying here, neating there. He nipped back into the tiny kitchenette, double checked that the hotplate was off, and picked up his dinner. Cool enough to eat, warm enough that the cabbage wasn't disgusting. The musicians' voices rose, the verses twining in a round, the alto holding the melody, the soprano spiraling around her. "-- Shadows fall as dark as ink
And darker eyes enchantments weave --
Trembling on passion's brink
He who loves is doomed to grieve. --"

Phil wept.

*******************

Phil brushed his teeth, remembering a vision of Carmen Miranda surprising him at his door. He pulled on pajama bottoms, remembering them draped across the foot of the bed. He lay down, tucking the pillow under his head, remembering white arms twined about it. Something tickled his ear. Frowning, he reached over and plucked a hair off the pillow. Shining silver and long. It was hers. He looped it around his hand. There was no scent in it. But it was hers.

He slept.

Barbara the Wallpaperer (aka BtW)
There ya go, Cindie. Don't you wish it worked half so well on Claudia? (Yes, Clods -- write, woman!), - Saturday, June 07, 2003 at 00:02:37 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE. Saturday 7 June

On Friday at quarter till four, Professor Snape knocked on Gwenevere's door and invited her to tea in his office before lab class. She was wearing a deep aubergine colored dress that made her eyes an absolutely beautiful shade of bewitching violet. Each one of her new eye colors surreptitiously became Professor Snape's current favorite Her long black lashes and high cheekbones completed the breathtaking effect. Snape helped her into her cloak; both of them feeling the tiny red shocks as his fingers lightly brushed her shoulders in doing so.

They walked slowly to the bottom floor, taking the long way down to the dungeon and chatting about the creation of tonight's instant fur restoration potion, Boots following close behind them.

Upon arriving to the office, Snape hung Gwenevere's cloak next to her lab coat, which had been there since last Friday's lab, a small detail not unnoticed by either of them. Gwenevere sat at the round table to watch the Potions Master at work to make the most important brew of all in her opinion-a nice cup of tea.

The professors chatted while he made the tea. With a touch of a wand and a word; "appareo", There appeared a tray that contained a tea pot, an antique silver apothecary tin of custom-blended tea, heat proof beaker filled with water, sterling silver spoons, mugs with the pattern resembling the deep green and silver Slytherin crest, a small pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, white linen napkins and a plate of scones with clotted cream.

"How are you planning to test the fur restoration potion tonight?" She asked.
"Hagrid, the care of magical creatures teacher, is planning to bring to the lab, some poor creature in need of fur."
He placed loose tea in the pot; he touched his wand to the beaker saying "concoquoo"to instantly boil water and "incalifacio" to sufficiently pre-warm the teapot. He then added the 100c water to the tealeaves and replaced the lid.

"Apparently a student found the thing half dead and they brought it back from the grave so to speak."
He added a splash of milk to both cups and a quarter teaspoon sugar to one. "Poor thing." She said, Gwenevere adored animals. Severus poured the tea.

Snape and Collins were truly enjoying each other's company, as they sipped tea and nibbled scones. The exchange of friendly banter had a profound relaxing effect on Professor Snape that he couldn't explain because he had never been comfortable communicating this way with anyone else before her. The same was true for Gwenevere; she was by no means a naturally social person and normally did so strictly for business purposes, preferring to spend time alone reading or going for long walks with Boots. The close friendship they were beginning to share seamed to happen overnight, without their realizing it, and now felt as though it had always been this way since the beginning of time. They both knew in their hearts that they could never go back to former lives absent from the other, even though neither were ready to admit it yet The thought terrified each of the fiercely independent professors equally.
lee
Ella deserves credit fot title idea! Good one Ella., - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 20:26:06 (PDT)

Lee: thank you for my Snape fixes this week! Also thanks for titling your entries. It's a small thing, but it makes it easier to find the things I'm looking for.
Carolyn, dear Carolyn
- Friday, June 06, 2003 at 19:51:18 (PDT)

Nothing wrong with a triple play. As I've recently been reminded, the by-word around here is: Post early and often. ;-)

Cindie
Feeling the need to pester BtW. What is happening with Barbara and Phil? , - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 17:58:17 (PDT)

Great start Rhys! Don't worry, I have italicized the book twice, and found that the DoCs are most gracious and understanding in fixing the mistake. (Unless I do it again I think) I just bought *Dogma* today, what a coincidence.
lee
I'm Italicized...run away..., - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 17:45:28 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
Wonderful start!
D.o.C.

Oh dear, I seem to have italicized the book. I apologize profusely and ... eep. *blush* Um, help?
Rhys, the embarassed
Oh dear, three posts in a row... , - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 16:55:34 (PDT)

Why was it whenever he came down to earth, every uncomfortable feeling seemed to penetrate his angel form even more? If he could, he would've unfurled his wings, held them high above his head to block the rain and shield him from the breeze that cut down the street he had appeared on. True, the action would make him less than inconspicuous and maybe get him mistaken for a rather large duck, but on a summer's night when the temperature had dropped to at most, fifty-five degrees and the rain streamed over his suit jacket, at least it would make him comfortable.

"I hate it there," he had said to God, her eyes following him as he looked down into his dropoff point, neon blurring in the drops of water, cars droning past lights. "I shiver when it's cold, I ache when it rains. Couldn't you send anyone else? It's supposed to be summer down there."

But when he looked back up from the edge, he saw in her eyes that yes, he was the only one for the job. Besides for that, something was growing in him, or perhaps not growing but returning for the first time.

She has to come home, Ver…you want her to…

So, there he was, not able to bring himself to enter the tiny coffeehouse just yet. A taxi sped by him and his face soured into a grimace as the water rose up over the curb, splashing his shiny shoes and dark suit.

"Just perfect…" It was either continue getting soaked to the feather or just take a deep breath and tell her to come home. He wouldn't have to say more than that, would he?

Sighing, shaking his hood in a futile effort to clear it of raindrops, he slipped into the doors.

"Here for open mike?" A tiny girl, looking no older than sixteen, smiled up at him from behind owlish glasses, her bright blue hair spiked in various directions.

"Excuse me?" he asked, shaking his head to be rid of the moisture. She gestured to a tiny stage where various people sat around, eyes to the stage as another person finished a poem on the acoustic guitar. "Oh, no, but thank you." With a second glance, he found he looked oddly familiar. "What's your name?"

She poked her glasses up, smiling sheepishly. "Oh, you'll think it's weird."

"Try me."

"Um, Rufus. Rufus Roberta Sloane. Any reason for asking?"

He gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head, thinking of how small this earth was. "No, not at all. I'll just go in, I think. Do you serve tequila here?"

He was grateful that she didn't know but went to the counter just the same, where indeed, the bartender did have tequila and a sign said, "ID's Please!" Obviously his age must have shown, because there he sat with empty glass and four shots of tequila, swirling one mouthful when he heard it.

"Look, it's Uri! Singing for us tonight?" A merry laugh returned, he could almost feel the sparkling green eyes, the way her tongue sort of lifted when she laughed with her entire mouth.

"Not tonight, kidlings. Just a poem. I hope that will suffice?" Applause and whistles greeted her and he barely turned to cast his dark eyes at her when he saw her freeze. Her face went blank and he flinched, hating that he made her feel like that. Instead, however, she swallowed and picked up a small book where she had set it on the ground.

"Um, so," she cleared her throat, once, twice, voice hushed, "Here it is."

"Because I do not hope to turn again/ because I do not hope/ because I do not hope to turn/ Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope/ I no longer strive to strive towards such things-" His heart, if he had one, twisted, and for once the Metatron found that he might never have anything to say to her.

"Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?" Her eyes turned to him and he tried to tune her out, taking in her appearance, ne'er changing, forever young, an old soul, an inspiration. Long, black braid running down her back, casual suit jacket sitting over her small shoulders, violet jodhpurs tucked into high brown boots. Her skin was olive complexioned, petite, belt running over her curved hips that were covered by a peasant top. Bringing his eyes away from her and back to his tequila, he tuned back into her poem.

"And pray to God to have mercy upon us/ And I pray that I may forget/ These matters that with myself I too much discuss/ Too much explain/ Because I do not hope to turn again/ Let these words answer/ For what is done, not to be done again/ May the judgement not be too heavy upon us…"

In an effort to make his heart from hurting, Metatron spit his first mouthful out and swallowed the next three in quick succession… he knew the next part, knew she was staring at his slicked hair, dark clothing, eyes focused on nothing else.

"Because these wings are no longer wings to fly/ But merely vans to beat the air/ The air which is now thoroughly small and dry/ Smaller and dryer than the will/ Teach us to care and not to care/ Teach us to sit still…"

Her voice dropped, quiet, hushed, maybe broken but he couldn't tell, for she was hiding it too well.

"Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death," a crack, but a smooth recovery, "Pray for us now and at the hour of our death…"

Somehow, when he exited outside, the cold and rain no longer affected him. He let the numbing elements caress him, wishing he had never gone in there.

Rhys
I feel so weird having a double post! ... hope you guys are liking it, - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 16:53:38 (PDT)

Thanks, ladies- I guess that's my go ahead.

I thought I'd give an intro- I love Metatron, love AR, wanted to see PL when it was in NY but my car broke! *sniff* I'm an English Major at Vassar, my name is Rhys, I love animals and might be working pt at a stable this summer. I've been reading this for quite some time (after I saw DOGMA, which was a while ago) and I love it so much! All the witty and wonderful dialogue, the references to ... everything, the complex characters, it's so enjoyable! I figure it will keep me in touch with my creative writing roots while I'm out of school. :)

About my story: My girl/alias (I suppose) is a banished muse named Uriel. Kind of a weird name, I realize, but so is Rhys. (Uriel means light, I had a dog named Uriel, or if you've read A wrinkle in time it should also be familiar!) I should be posting later tonight.

Thanks for the warm welcome... I'm really excited!
Rhys-Rev
Good for Ollie! Can he have a milkbone?, - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 13:16:24 (PDT)

Outside Chris' flat:

Two men dressed in black from head to toe breathed sighs of relief as the tall blonde and her temporary canine companion went inside the flat, shutting the door behind them. They listened intently as the door was locked and watched as the living room light was turned on. They continued their tense observations as Chris drew the lace curtains hanging in the large bay window of her living room together and walked away from it. They saw her silhouette walk over to the right side of the room and a moment later, the two saw the glow of a computer screen and watched as Chris sat down before it.

As darkness settled in over the neighborhood, it grew quiet with the exception of the muffled sound of some television sets blaring in nearby flats. The two ducked down, breathing anxiously as a car drove past them in the bushes and turned into a driveway at the opposite end of the street. They watched as an older woman got out of the car, opened the car trunk, and took two bags of groceries from it. She shut the trunk and pressed the button of her car remote. The horn beeped twice and the car lights flashed as the remote activated the lock. She briskly walked to the door of her flat and temporarily placed her groceries on the stoop so she could unlock the door. Having done so, she picked the groceries up and went inside, shutting and locking the door afterwards.

"I can't believe that we almost had this assignment compromised by a fifteen-pound miniature poodle!" the first man finally hissed in an angry whisper. He shifted position slightly behind the bushes that they were using for cover in a futile effort to get comfortable.

"I'm telling ya, that little black furball is too damn smart for his own good!" his companion snarled back as he eyed the door. "How did we manage to bag this crappy assignment anyway?"

"Smith was overdue for vacation and West had to go in hospital for a burst appendix. We got the short straw."

"Wonderful." A long pause. "This totally sucks!"

"*Tell* me about it..."

The bright light of a halogen flashlight suddenly shone in their eyes. "Why don't you two tell me about it then?" another voice with the unmistakable accent of a native of the Midlands broke in over their hastily whispered conversation.

Squinting, the two men slowly looked up and saw that a police officer was glaring down at them. "Aren't you two a little old to be playing Mission Impossible?" he barked. "And don't be telling me that one of you lost a contact lens in the bushes either! Get up!"

The two rose to their feet, both of them swallowing hard as they raised their hands up. I can't believe that we were so *stupid* not to hear this jerk come up from behind us on foot! the taller of the two men thought miserably. Oh, this is *not* gonna look good on our next performance reviews...

"Well?" the officer demanded.

The two stared at him, keeping silent.

The officer rolled his eyes. "So, cat's got your tongues, eh? Well, perhaps you'd be more amenable to being questioned down at the station then," he growled, pulling his pair of handcuffs off his belt. He opened them and cuffed the men together.

Just as the second cuff clicked shut, the smaller man suddenly drove his left knee up, hitting the officer squarely in the groin. Moaning in severe pain, the officer instinctively doubled over and got a quick uppercut to the jaw, knocking him backward a couple of steps. The taller man's right arm shot out and he finished the assault with a chop to the officer's neck, knocking him unconscious.

The taller man smirked as the hapless police officer tumbled to the ground in a heap. "C'mon, let's get the..." He stopped short when an unearthly high-pitched howl/bark echoed from behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow in Chris' window and he cursed roundly. "Forget it! We have to make a run for it before anybody else sees us!" he snapped. His companion nodded and the two began running haphazardly down the street, still handcuffed together.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris smiled down at Oliver as he padded over to her, wagging his tail. "Hey, you little cutie!" she exclaimed, kneeling down to ruffle his curly fur. "I'd love nothing more to play with you, but if I don't get some work done for this next scene, I'll be in deep trouble with the Director! You don't want that, do you?" she finished with a giggle.

Deep brown eyes sparkled with intelligence as the miniature poodle gazed up at her, still wagging his tail. A pink tongue quickly flicked out to give Chris a kiss on her hand and she laughed. "I swear that you understand every word that I'm saying, don't you, you little rascal?" Another kiss, followed up with a contented sigh.

Regretfully, Chris rose to full height after she gave Oliver one last pat on the head and she murmured, "Right. Back to the grindstone." She walked over to the bay window and drew the curtains shut. The kettle began whistling then and she stepped inside her kitchen for a minute to prepare a cup of cocoa for herself. She walked back out and saw that Oliver was pushing toys out of the box that Sandy insisted that Chris take with her.

"Goodness, you are a messy one!" she exclaimed with laughter in her voice as the little dog finally found the toy he was looking for. Oliver trotted away from the box with his head held high, the floor around it strewn with various playthings, squeaking the toy triumphantly and lay down on the floor, chewing on it happily.

Shaking her head and laughing softly, Chris turned her computer on and while waiting for it to warm up, she turned on her stereo for a little relaxing background noise. She then opened up the latest script draft that she had been working on earlier in the day before her set call and began pounding on her keyboard with a flourish, pausing every so often to take a sip from her cup of cocoa and re-read what she had just typed.

Chris looked up from her work curiously when Oliver suddenly discontinued squeaking his toy and rose to his feet, facing the bay window. His ears moved back and forth and his head cocked to one side as he listened to something that only he could hear. To her astonishment, Oliver ran over to the big overstuffed chair that was placed in front of the window and easily jumped up onto it. He stood on his hind legs, placing his front paws on the chair and peered through the lace curtain, growling low in his throat.

"What is it, Ollie?" Chris asked quietly, turning her computer chair so that she could watch the little dog. She knew that this was typical behavior of her friend's canine companion, so she wasn't particularly worried. Sandy laughingly referred to it as "Ollie's nighttime patrol." She took another sip of her cocoa and placed the cup down on her desk. "Do you hear something out there?"

Chris' eyebrow rose when not only did Oliver continue growling deep in his throat, but he became agitated, moving back and forth in the chair. Her mouth suddenly grew dry and she licked her bottom lip nervously. "What is it?" she asked sharply.

Oliver suddenly threw his head back and let loose with a loud and high-pitched "from the diaphragm" bark that ended in a howl. Chris felt the blood drain from her face at the noise. She knew that the only time the little dog made a noise like that was when there was an unwelcome stranger in the vicinity.

Either that or a strange animal was invading her tiny patch of a front yard.

"Oh, I hope that was a squirrel you saw out there," Chris muttered as she rose to her feet and quickly walked over to the front door to switch the floodlight at her front door on. Her head whipped around as Oliver repeated the noise and she rushed over to the window. "What is it, huh?" she said, distractedly patting Oliver's curly head as she parted the curtains with her other hand and gazed outside.

"Oh my God!" Chris gasped when she saw a police officer lying near the bushes that Oliver had growled at earlier when the two of them had returned from the park. She turned around and ran into her kitchen again, this time retrieving her cell phone that she had left to re-charge. She ran back out to her living room and burst through the front door after unlocking it, Oliver hot at her heels.

"Sit! Stay!" Chris commanded harshly. Oliver immediately sat down on the top stair and watched as she ran over to the unconscious police officer. She knelt down next to him, briefly checking him over. She saw that he was breathing steadily, but he was knocked cold and she could see the faint beginnings of a bruise darkening the officer's jaw. With shaking hands, she turned the cell phone on and quickly pressed 999. Willing herself to calm down, she told the dispatcher that answered what appeared to have happened.

After giving her address, Chris sat back and carefully watched the officer for any signs of him coming to while waiting for the ambulance and a patrol car to arrive. Just as the ambulance turned into her street, the officer let out a soft groan. "Nuggh... Bush..." She saw the neighbor across the street come to his window and peer out to see what was happening then as quickly as he arrived, he walked away, shutting his lights out.

"Don't try to move," Chris said, feeling a wave of relief overwhelm her. "Someone's coming to help you."

The officer moaned again and began mumbling incoherently as a pair of medics disembarked from the ambulance and one ran over to the fallen officer while the other opened the doors on the rear of the vehicle and took out the stretcher. "Miss, how long was he out?" the medic asked as she checked the officer's pulse.

"At least ten minutes. Probably longer. My friend's dog, who I'm taking care of while she's on holiday, began barking," Chris indicated Oliver, who was still sitting on the top stair. "I went to the window see what was the matter and I saw him lying out here."

The medic nodded curtly as a patrol car, sirens blaring, pulled up. "He needs to go in for observation. He might have a concussion," she said as the second medic came over with the stretcher. He was followed by the officer, who quickly got out of his car to see if his colleague was all right.

"You can forget about asking him anything at the moment, Sergeant. He's pretty out of it," the second medic informed the new arrival. Together, the medics carefully put the officer onto the stretcher, carried him over and put him inside the ambulance.

The sergeant turned to gaze curiously at Chris, who had risen to her feet as the ambulance drove off into the night, lights flashing and sirens blaring. "You're the one who found Officer Baker?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Chris nodded. "Actually, it was Ollie - " she motioned to the miniature black poodle, who rose to his feet and trotted over to the two humans " - who made quite a racket. I went to see what was getting him so upset and I saw the officer lying near those bushes once I turned my front door light on," she explained.

The sergeant's eyebrow rose. "You didn't see anybody that you didn't know around here leaving the scene?" She shook her head. "Have you noted any strange goings-on in the area recently?"

"No. I'm out most of the day at work," Chris said, wondering what prompted the last question. "I'm afraid that I didn't see anything or anybody that appeared suspicious to me. It's a pretty quiet neighborhood, Officer. If anybody saw anything, I'd wager that it was this little guy," she said with a shaky grin as she inclined her head in Oliver's direction.

The sergeant nodded and knelt down in front of the dog. "Good boy," he praised Oliver warmly. To his amusement, Oliver raised his left paw up towards him and he shook it.

Chris began laughing. "You little ham!" she exclaimed. Oliver, having finished giving his greeting, rose to his feet and he wagged his tail. He then walked over and sat down next to her in heel position. She looked down at him and smiled, which faded away as she looked up at the sergeant, who had risen to his feet. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

The sergeant nodded curtly and walked over to the bushes, using his flashlight to do a preliminary search. He shook his head when he saw nothing amiss. He turned back to Chris and said, "I'm satisfied with what you've said, but I'm going to the other neighbors and check things out with them. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Good night."

The sergeant nodded again and walked over to the next door neighbor's flat, ringing the doorbell.

Chris watched as her neighbor opened up her door and he began asking some questions. She turned her head to look down at Oliver and smiled. "Good boy! Sandy will be very proud of you," she told him. She chuckled when the poodle looked back up at her and wagged his tail. "C'mon, you little scamp! You deserve a little play time after all of this commotion," she said, walking over to her door and re-entering her flat, allowing Oliver to enter first. She carefully shut and locked the door behind her.

Later that evening:

Chris exited her flat, Oliver on his lead. "C'mon. Time for your last walk before bedtime for the two of us!" she exclaimed. Shutting the door behind them and turning on her flashlight, they descended the stairs and began walking down the sidewalk. As the two walked near the bushes where she had found the officer earlier that evening, Oliver stopped and began sniffing audibly.

"Hey, leave it alone," Chris commanded softly, pulling very slightly on the lead to get the dog's attention. As the dog stepped away from the bushes, she noticed something and she turned the light on the object. "What on Earth?"

Chris knelt down and saw what appeared to be a small hearing aid device lying on the ground. "How very odd," she murmured to herself. She made a note to herself to call the police station and notify them that she had found - or rather that Oliver had found - the little device after she returned from her walk. She didn't touch it but left it lying there. As the two continued their walk down the street, Chris shivered a little as she remembered the officer saying "bush" as he started coming to.

At the bushes, a buzzing noise suddenly emitted from the hearing aid Oliver had worried up a few minutes before. "Collins, are you there? Come in! COLLINS!" a harsh voice rasped.

In an another flat, several blocks away:

The two men who had been watching Chris' residence stood in front of a desk, still handcuffed together. A woman with sharp features and snapping light brown eyes slammed her hands down on the desk as she rose to her feet. "You IDIOTS! Do you realize how you've managed to jeopardize this *entire* operation with your foolishness?" she shouted. "Look at the two of you! Just wait until you have to go back to Headquarters and make your reports! Your butts are gonna fry for this one, let me tell you..."

As the woman continued railing at them, the taller man slumped forward as the shorter man stared at the wall. Well, there went *my* promotion out the window... And I haven't even said anything about losing my communication device yet...

Sandy - and another welcome to a new writer! Glad to see you here :-)
Going to the dogs, part one..., - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 12:34:46 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE, Friday

Severus invited Gwenevere to have tea with him Wednesday afternoon and the conversation centered mainly on the potions lectures in greater detail. The tension leading up to now was greatly reduced by the recent standoff. He answered her potions questions as a mentor, rather than in a polite way, expanding her understanding beyond the surface of the subject. He was a complex and brilliant Master and she intended to make the potions area of his mind her domicile, if he allowed her.

Wednesday evening, Professor Snape was in top form delivering his lecture. He lectured for nearly two hours on the subject of compounds, both compatible and incompatible. Dangerous compounds could easily be formed when two incompatible substances were introduced and forced to interact in a Potion causing a negative, and often combustible chemical reaction.

He stressed, in his soothing velvety, baritone voice, that when two potions ingredients were, however, extremely compatible they could sometimes have a magnetic urge to "mate" as it were, and the resulting compound would be much stronger than either of the single parts alone, and that it would be a pity not to let them intermingle, amalgamate, unite, join together to savor the rapture of the chemical reaction before finally bonding together as one.

He made it a point to teach the *Collins Component Chart* and divide the components into male and female counterparts. It was a brilliant and clever analogy, and made it very easy for the whole class to remember for a future exam.

"Please hand in your research projects before you leave tonight. Class Dismissed"

After Wednesday night's class, Gwenevere and Severus leisurely walked together to the second floor, the long way. He walked her to her door and paused, wondering if he should… ask her something? But he didn't know what exactly, a nightcap perhaps?

Gwenevere sensed that he was about to ask her something but was feeling a bit flushed after the lecture for reasons best known unto themselves. Better wait for another time, she thought. She said goodnight to Professor Snape quickly and went into her own room. After she was sure he was gone, She went for a brisk walk around the pond to cool off a bit before going to bed.
lee
Sandy looks simply stunning in the blue!, - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 12:10:18 (PDT)

Three new stories. Can't wait. Welcome to the new writers.
Cindie
*rubbing hands gleefully*, - Friday, June 06, 2003 at 05:24:41 (PDT)

Yes! Yes! Yes! I'd love to read a story about Metatron!!!!!!!!!
another FOF lurker
the talent here amazes me!, - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 21:45:41 (PDT)

Greetings, talented ladies,

Longtime lurker, been out of town a few weeks (trying to catch up!) and someone posted a list of available characters. Metatron is available? For some reason, I thought he wasn't. If he is... I'd like to take a crack at him. If not, not a big deal. Don't write too fast, I'm trying to catch up! :)

Also, Rev's my nickname but Rhys is my real name- I'm not that fond of it. :(

Rev
Sorry if I've interrupted..., - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 20:05:31 (PDT)

Connemara, Ireland:

Alexander gave one last glance in the mirror to make sure that his tie was on straight before heading out the door and making sure that it was locked. He then walked over to Sandy's door and knocked thrice in quick succession. There was no response from inside. Frowning slightly, he was about to knock again when a clear soprano echoed up to his ears from the main sitting area. "Alex..."

I should've known,Alexander smiled to himself as he turned around and walked over to the other side of the hall over to the mahogany railing. He leaned down so that he could rest his elbows on it. Raising his left eyebrow, he gazed down at the blonde sitting on one of the lobby sofas, waving to him and grinning impishly. "And hello to you too!" he exclaimed.

"There's better ways to say hello than that," Sandy replied as she rose to her feet and smoothed the long skirt of her blue dress. She picked up her matching small clutch and began walking over to the staircase, a slit in the rear of the skirt allowing her to walk comfortably. Her dangling lapis and diamond drop earrings sparkled as they moved slightly back and forth in her ears.

Eyebrow still raised, Alexander moved away from the railing and walked down the hall and towards the stairs. "Indeed, there are better ways. How dreadfully absent-minded of me," he murmured. His lips curled up into a slight smile and his hazel eyes twinkled merrily as he gazed down at the petite blonde approaching the staircase.

"That's one thing that I'd never call you, Alexander Dane," Sandy chuckled as she stopped a few paces away from the stairs to allow him to descend. "You look great," she added in warmly, taking in his neatly pressed black suit, white shirt, deep burgundy silk tie, and matching handkerchief carefully tucked into his blazer pocket.

Alexander's smile widened. "Thank you," he said as he walked down the stairs, his left hand idly caressing the mahogany railing as he descended. "You look pretty wonderful yourself." He watched in silent amusement as a soft blush stained Sandy's cheeks and she shrugged her bare shoulders, mumbling under her breath. He came down the final stair and allowed his hand to linger on the railing for a moment before he reached out and gently lifted her chin up so that her eyes met his. "Tell me if this is better," he whispered before his lips brushed over hers.

"Much," Sandy breathed throatily when the kiss broke.

"Good."

A soft clearing of someone's throat interrupted Alexander from saying anything further. The two turned around to see a tall, dark-haired young man with laughing green eyes gazing at them. Deep dimples appeared on his cheeks when he smiled at Sandy's deep blush. "Good morning to you," the young man said in a heavy yet pleasant Irish-accented tenor. "I'm Liam O'Shea," he introduced himself.

"Good morning," Alexander replied, Sandy echoing his greeting.

"Mum said for me to remind you that if you wanted bike rental arrangements or anything else just to stop by at the desk," Liam said. An eyebrow rose as he took in the couple's attire. "I don't think that you'll be needing that today."

"That's right," Sandy said, nodding in agreement.

"That's fine. But if you do need anything, just be sure to let me know," Liam said, still smiling.

"We will," Alexander replied and glanced down at his watch. "Are you ready?" he asked. Sandy's left eyebrow rose and Alexander rolled his eyes as she started laughing. "Silly question."

"I could've given you an equally silly response if you wanted me to, 'Lex."

"Of that I'm sure of, love," Alexander retorted with a mock scowl which quickly transformed into a smile as they walked over to the sofa where Sandy had left her wrap. She picked it up and allowed Alexander to drape it around her shoulders. She then slipped her arm around his waist and they walked out the front door, laughing and talking about trivial things.

Liam O'Shea's smile faded away as he watched the two leave the lobby. He sighed heavily and turned around to go about his day's business, stopping short when he saw the same man who had been with his mother last night leaning against the check-in desk as if he owned the place. "What do you want NOW?" he snarled, his upper lip curling contemptuously.

The man shrugged his shoulders eloquently as he crossed his arms over his chest. "A simple thing, really," he said, eyes narrowing. "A search of their rooms, for a start."

"WHAT?! You'll not be..."

The man raised his hand to silence Liam from continuing further. "May I remind you, Mister O'Shea, that your mother has agreed to cooperate with us fully, no matter what we ask of you?"

"You mean *bully* us into doing what you want to do, you bloody bastard!" Liam's hands curled into fists.

"Liam, enough." Eileen walked outside the manager's office then, sighing heavily. Two men followed her out the door, both of them carrying small duffel bags. "It's not like we have a choice in the matter at any rate."

The young man's posture drooped. "I know, Mum."

The man turned around to face Eileen, but before he said anything, she snapped, "Now go upstairs and take care of your business! The sooner you get out of my sight and this establishment, the better!"

The three men exchanged glances and headed upstairs. Liam joined his mother as he watched the trio enter Alexander's room after putting latex gloves on, using a master key that Eileen had reluctantly provided them with, and shut the door behind them. "What could those two *possibly* have done to get these morons' attention?" he murmured.

"I don't know, son. I really don't, but in this day and age, you never know what could set someone's suspicions off," Eileen sighed.

"Yes, but I don't think they've *done* anything."

"Neither do I, to tell the truth, but try telling those thick-headed, paranoid boobs upstairs *that* and we'd get hauled off somewhere," Eileen observed, shaking her head. She gazed up at her son and continued with a soft, "Well, there's other things we need to attend to here. We might as well finish up and get our mind off..."

"Okay. I'll see you later then. The guests in Room 6 wanted to take a walking tour, and if I don't hurry, I'll be late," Liam said. He leaned down to give his mother a quick peck on the cheek. She returned it affectionately and watched as her son strode out the door. She looked upstairs one last time, cursed viciously under her breath, and walked back into her office as the phone rang.

Sandy
Welcome to the Realm, Jackie - and welcome *back*, Diane :-), - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 10:47:38 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE Thursday

Gwenevere was sipping tea in the bath when Sir Nicholas popped in for his morning chat.

Good Morning how are you today Gwenevere Dear?" He said effervescently.

"Fine, Thank You Sir Nicholas. How are you?"

"Couldn't be better, there is love in the air you know?"

"Oh?" "Do tell," She said. She didn't know many teachers at Hogwarts yet so she was happy to have someone to chat with, even if he was…well you know. Dead.

"Well it's you and Professor Snake of course, but you had better be careful, there is a nasty curse going round I hear, on my side of things… Oh my, look at the time! I must be on my way now. Good day to you."

"Curse? Sir Nicholas!" She said, but Sir Nick was gone.

"What kind of a chat mate are you!"

Gwenevere stayed in-house the rest of the day and without difficulty finished her project for Professor Snape's class. The current potions class wasn't the only thing she was working on though, she was actually preparing for her Potions Master training, which made sense to do because she had more time now than when she would start teaching her finance class this fall. If indeed Severus did agree to take on as an apprentice, and the Potions Board approved her apprenticeship, she wanted to be prepared and not waste anyone's time- neither hers nor his. She knew that Professor Snape was aware of this, because he provided her with books and outside-class discussions, which extended far beyond the night course material.

After dinner Gwenevere and Boots went for a walk around the large pond near the castle. It was beautiful with the trees in bloom and the over abundance of flowers. Boots practiced pouncing as they walked. She wished Severus were here with them.

From his window, Professor Snape gazed melancholy at them as they walked.

lee
Magda, you know George as well as AR does. My highest accolades to you, he is just so real. Personally, I'd like to see *nothing* on Hans!LOL Any and all new writers welcome from lee., - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 06:07:42 (PDT)

I'll see Hans'navy blue speedo (wish) and raise you fremitus in the bathtub.
Cindie
Upping the ante. , - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 05:46:14 (PDT)

Hans is currently claimed by Renie, and is "in use" in the thread concerning The Interrogator's trial (which will be taken up again before long). Don't worry; you'll be seeing more of Hans soon. 8-)

MA
So, Hans liebling, just how *much* more of you will we be seeing, hmmmmm? (Remembering the navy-blue Speedo . . .), - Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 05:04:33 (PDT)

Yes, I want to see something on Hans.
* or get off the pot
- Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 04:58:22 (PDT)

can the lease on the character expire if the story is left inactive
hope waits
- Thursday, June 05, 2003 at 02:19:25 (PDT)

I am a big Dark Harbor fan!! I can hardly wait for your story Jackie!! Write on!!!
FoF Lurker
- Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 18:42:48 (PDT)

Dear Fellow FOFers,

For quite some time now I've been "lurking" a bit, trying to find a way to get back into FOF. I had been disgusted with my first storyline, and, naturally, hacked my character. (lol) However, now I'd like to pretend that those posts where invisable (hah!) because I have found a friend of mine, who goes by the name of Dani, who is willing to write a new combined FOF story with me. I am still keeping my claim of Jamie. :) So... keep on the lookout folks, we're going to start with a bang!

Sincerely,

Diane (with a "Hello!" from Dani)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Feels great to be back! Our first post should be soon., - Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 17:51:34 (PDT)

That was easy! :) Now I will get cracking!
Jackie
- Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 15:06:09 (PDT)

Jackie, I think you just claimed them. Now start writing! :) And welcome to the Realm!
a FOF fan
addicted to FOF, - Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 15:02:02 (PDT)

Hi. I have lurked here for a while and would love to try my hand at some Alan Rickman-inspired fan fiction! How does one claim a character? I am interested in Elyot Chase and David Weinberg. I have a decent (I think!) idea for a story. Any information you can give me would be greatly appreciated!! Jackie
Jackie from San Jose
Do I have to post my email?? I get a lot of spam!, - Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 14:53:59 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

Since the evening meal was hours away and it would take Leofric some time to finish his questioning of Locksley's retainers, I found myself without much to do once I'd finished examining the documents in my clerks' office. The long afternoon stretched out before me, completely free of meaningful occupation of any kind. It was a time to enjoy myself.

Right. I would go down to the dungeon and torture a few outlaws before dinner.

I did so very much enjoy the perks of being sheriff.

With a push, I propelled myself out of my chair and through the doorway, taking the steps two at a time, excitement tingling along my nerves. There were so few opportunities anymore to indulge myself. For a moment a wave of nostalgia for the old days wafted over me: dreaming up plans to take over the kingdom, coercing the peasants into handing over every halfpenny they possessed, multiple wenches every hour of the night (and day). Ah, the good old days. The memories almost brought tears to my eyes.

The great wooden door of the dungeon loomed ahead, its wooden slats secured with iron bars thicker than a man's thumb. I pounded three times, in the old way. Silence followed, then the sound of metal grating against metal. The door swung open slowly and I stepped into the room.

The fetid atmosphere slapped me immediately, forcing me to breathe through my mouth in shallow gasps. Braziers filled with glowing coals scattered around haphazardly penetrated the murky gloom and gave the place the semblance of a cave. One of the guards shuffled trollishly past a line of men chained to the wall. I counted eight men, a goodly haul of prisoners.

All activity had ceased with my entrance and all eyes watched me advance across the room. I took my time, strolling past them once and then twice without saying a word. Fearful anticipation is an integral part of the torturing process. Those prisoners with vivid imaginations generally suffer the most.

None of them looked like they possessed anything particularly vivid at the moment, of course. Weeks, if not months, of living in the forest and a few hours here had ensured that they were a beaten-down, filthy group. None of them looked familiar, which didn't surprise me. Probably came from another shire altogether. Poachers were a nomadic sort and -

I stopped in my tracks. The man at the end of the line reminded me of someone. He kept his head turned away and tried to hide himself behind another man. As I stared, he glanced up once and quickly looked away again. Could it really be? Had Leofric been so fortunate as to find - Will Scarlet himself?

With a jerk of my head, I signaled the dungeon master. Two guards hauled the outlaw to his feet and forced his head up. I peered closely. Sullen pout, deep-sunk eyes, dirty blond hair - it was indeed Will Scarlet.

Magda
A bit short and a day late but be patient; yes, Lee?, - Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 09:24:37 (PDT)

True Love's Curse. Wednesday.

Tuesday morning after the interrogation, Gwenevere awoke after a great nights sleep. She couldn't wait to get on the track today. She put on her black Lycra spandex sports top and knee length tights. Her hair was in a French braid. She left earlier than usual. After her fantastic run, Boots got up from the sidelines and followed her for the cool -down phase. On the way back, on the second floor, she saw Professor Snape standing outside of his door in the corridor ahead. Boots gave him a wide berth as he hissed and ran to his own door with his tail held high. Boots held eternal grudges.

Gwenevere walked up closely, closing the gap between them. She wanted to get right in his personal space today. They were nearly eye-to-eye. She wasn't sure how he would be today, but the duel last night had an unusual effect on her, he drew the line in the sand and she intended to cross it. She was glistening like a fit filly just off the track. Gwenevere was pumped with adrenalin.

"Hello Severus." She said in her usual manor.

Snape didn't hide the fact that he couldn't keep his eyes from examining her every infinitesimal detail. He watched as a drop of perspiration trickled provocatively down her neck and down between her breasts. He knew he couldn't stand much more of the sexual tension that existed between them, but neither of them was willing to be the first to admit what was happening. They were both equally strong willed and stubborn.

"Do you know how to use the Collins Component Chart?" He asked her pensively, his eyes continuing with their delightful dalliance in appreciation of the female work of art.

"Yes, since I was ten years old."

"Meet me in the lab on Saturday morning. You're going to be my assistant in inventory." He stood unwavering, as if made of marble or bronze.

She turned to walk back to her door without verbally responding to his…statement.

"Oh…and Gwenevere?" She turned a profile to him.

"Yes Severus?"

"You may wear that muggle clothing on Saturday if you wish." He was wearing the classic devilish Snape grin.

She turned and smiled. *Heeees Baaaack.* She thought. Snape watched her as she walked away to her door. Sir Nicholas was hovering close by.

"Shouldn't you be haunting Gryffindor nearly headless nick?" Snape suggested.

"Right you are Professor Snake, but first I must have a nice little chat with your girlfriend." Sir Nicholas tipped his head and fled.
"Lucky stiff!" Snape bitterly muttered under his breath.
lee <itsrainingitspouringtheoldmanissnoringfoofoo>
- Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 06:47:59 (PDT)

In the spirit of truth freedom and the fantasy way here are the available characters on FOF.

Dark Harbour (1999)

as DAVID WEINBERG David W was claimed, but is now available

Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (2002)

as MARC ANTONY Antony has been mentioned but not claimed. Private Lives (2002)

as ELYOT CHASE Elyot has been mentioned but not claimed.

The Barchester Chronicles (TV miniseries) (1984)

as OBADIAH SLOPE Slope has been mentioned but not claimed

Fallen Angels (TV series, one episode) (1993)

as DWIGHT BILLINGS Dwight was claimed, but is now available

Mesmer (1994)

as DR MESMER Mesmer has been mentioned but not claimed

Rasputin (TV) (1996) as RASPUTIN ("Raz")

Rasputin was claimed, but is now available

Dogma (1999)

as the METATRON Metatron was claimed but is now available

Judas Kiss (1998)

as DAVID FREIDMAN David F was claimed, but is now available

The Search For John Gissing (2001) as JOHN GISSING

If I am wrong update your who is who page
- Wednesday, June 04, 2003 at 06:42:33 (PDT)

True Love's Curse: Snape vs Collins. Tuesday

THE INTERRIGATER Class that night was a rare adventure. It started when Snape slammed open the door and stomped into the room. He was also late. He marked the attendance and in doing so split the end of his quill, pudding ink all over the parchment. Snape's lecture was of course brilliant as usual, but he got off to a rather bad start when he accidentally tread on Boot's tail. The startled cat let out a blood- curdling yell before hiding under the desk with a spit and a hiss. That did wonders for Snape's rancor I can assure you. After that, nobody seemed to know the answers to his twisted and vindictive questions because his queries were all relating to future assignments, as he well knew. He called on the students in turn, and was ruthless when they failed to properly answer the question. Snape proceeded to dismantle each student unmercifully, using a calm, sadistically, methodical stream of Machiavellian insults that made "Chef!" Look like "Mr. Rogers." It was painful to witness. Gwenevere calmly wondered when his malevolent interrogation would swing her way.

"Collins!" he said. Gwenevere felt one of her braws heighten. Their eyes locked, hers were as black as his tonight.

She was not the least bit intimidated by HIM. She had extensive experience in the witness cage for Gringotts. She had been cross-examined by the most ruthless barristers and councellors in the shark- infested waters of the financial world, all trying in vain to shake her confidence or catch her off guard, intimate whilst interrogate.

"In your opinion, tell me -what is the most important accomplishment thus far in the realm of potion making?" He tried to stare her down, but to no avail. Staring HIM down was child's play for her.
He became like the interrogator.
Gwenevere knew exactly what she was going to say but chose to pause for dramatic effect, all the while holding his black icy stare with ease. Finally, she calmly answered.

"In my opinion, Professor Snape, Organization. A good example is the Components Charting system that is still in use today. This discovery organized the field of potions' components allowing innovations to be properly documented thus banishing the use of helter skelter scraps of paper hidden away in dusty old formula books. Before that, people were dying because they either got the wrong potion altogether or missed using a much better one because they hadn't known it existed. Today the correct potion is brewed and tested before being administered and many people have been saved because of it. Gwenevere refused to back down.

After a moment they both looked away concurrently and Snape impatiently offered, "Yes. I agree." Snape had no doubt she would answer the question because he had prior knowledge of her work studies, but where was all of the tension stemming from? Why did he insist she prove herself? Was she the vindicator?

Class was nearly over and when he announced dismissal, Gwenevere calmly stood and walked out of the dungeon silently and alone. Except for Boots who pinned his ears and hissed at Snape before loping to catch up.

Tonight had been a turning point…but turning into what exactly?

lee
well, damn,blast I didn't consider Cindie would not be home did I?, - Tuesday, June 03, 2003 at 08:17:09 (PDT)

The aftermath of the Museum Debacle:

"Damn and blast!" He gave her door a final thump with his fist before stalking back down the corridor and outside to his car. The trail of soggy footprints left no doubt as to the identity of the caller.

The car door slammed shut with unneeded force. The car started with a serene ease quite at odds with the driver's state of mind. It was bad enough that she'd walked out on him but she should have had the decency to go straight home. Not that he was worried.

The light turned red and he put his foot on the brake with a squelch. What was the woman playing at? He'd done his best to put a good face on things and keep the press on the wrong scent. What more could she want? As he started up again he saw a couple walking up the street and did a double take at the woman's purple rain coat. Where had she gone? He had supposed Chandos had taken her home but nobody at the museum seemed to have seen anything. Everyone had been too busy staring at the spectacle, which he reminded himself, she had created, to notice her departure. What had possessed her to push Jessica into the fountain? His mouth twitched as he recalled the sight. Not that he hadn't wanted to do something similar for years. But what had possessed her? Another thought came to him, what had provoked her?

*******

"Thank you Chandos." Cindie was laying on her favourite corduroy couch at her neighbors, pondering going across the hall to her flat. But comfortable bland brown haven was just too nice to leave just yet. She'd heard the pounding on her door. It wasn't that the walls were thin in the building, but Mistral had been most persistent in determining she was not at home. She was grateful that it apparently hadn't occurred to him to seek her over here. If he had, she wouldn't have been able to keep from going to the door. And she didn't really want to see him.

"Sure you won't have another?" Chandos smiled as he gathered the detritus of their impromptu meal on the tray.

"I'm sure. One omelet and orange juice is my limit. I've got to walk home you know." Her smile was wan but she did her best. One hand dangled down and absently petted Rafter, as reluctant to leave the comfort of a friend as the softly worn fabric. "Sure you don't want a hand with the washing up?"

"I'm sure. Besides, you have an early day tomorrow."

"Don't remind me. I don't ever want to set foot on that set again."

"You don't mean that." His voice wafted in from the kitchen.

"I do." She sat up and grabbed up a pillow which she clutched to her chest. "Mostly, I do." Chandos came out holding two mugs and handed her one. She sniffed, peppermint tea. "Part of me does, anyway."

"If you expect me to berate you for getting involved with a co-worker you've come to the wrong store."

"Thank you. No, I don't want you to berate me. The Director will do that himself if he gets wind of things." She put down the teacup and buried her face in the pillow, "Ugh, the Director… everybody… I'm never going back there…" The words were muffled in the corduroy but the sentiment emerged undeterred.

"You've said that already and we've determined that you don't really mean it." He placidly sipped his tea and waited. After a long pause in which she seemed to have annexed the pillow to her face, he ventured, "what exactly happened, anyway?"

She emerged from the pillow with a real smile tugging at her lips. "I booted that Devil Creature into the water fountain."

"I thought the laws of physics might have had a little helper. Any particular reason?"

"Ah, there you have me. I know what reason I could tell you to garner sympathy, but I'm not sure it's the real reason."

"You have some thinking to do."

"And some talking. Did I mention that I'm never going back to work?"

"Shall I get you a blanket to go with that pillow you've adopted and you can just move in here? Eventually they'll start ringing your flat."

"No, and I'm going." She stood, relinquishing the pillow to the sofa, and gave Rafter one last pat. "I may come over here again for fur therapy."

"Rafter and I are always ready to oblige. Well, at least Rafter is, but I'm good for a cup of tea. And my furniture is at your disposal."

"Good night, Chandos."

He walked her to the door and kissed her forehead goodnight. "Do you want me to give you a wake up call?"

"No, I'm never going to work again so you won't need to."

"Goodnight." He gave her a gentle push towards her own doorway and watched while she opened the door to her flat and made sure it was closed before closing his own door.

Cindie
Lee, of course he followed her! May I add that I'm most impressed at your ability to make large print and that I think everyone here as italicized the GB at least once. I think the concept of fur therapy was stolen from Therese.
Oh, and I do apologize for Mistral's language, he's a wee bit vexed at the moment. , - Monday, June 02, 2003 at 18:24:37 (PDT)

Looks like DoC gave FoF a spit-polish!
Looks Good
- Monday, June 02, 2003 at 15:24:39 (PDT)

Thanks Acc, yes, Will CIndy be followed?(YES?) Will Dev see Therese? Brandon "Missed" MA. What did the dog see in the bushes???? Magda?
lee
anticipation abounds, - Monday, June 02, 2003 at 14:53:46 (PDT)

yeah
ACC
- Monday, June 02, 2003 at 13:06:01 (PDT)

No, CC, it's not. I will post tomorrow; I was away for the weekend. Sorry to all.
Magda
- Monday, June 02, 2003 at 11:51:20 (PDT)

Magda, it's Monday. Is the Georgian calender different? Lee, enjoying your story, and also wondering about Cindy and Patrick. Surely he will follow her, won't he?
A Concerned Citizen
- Monday, June 02, 2003 at 11:40:02 (PDT)

After teaching a double potions class to third years, Snape collected two books from his office and forged ahead in the direction of the library, his robes billowing behind him in a desperate attempt to keep up. He was in rare form today. One of his students singed off his eyebrows and the front of his hair because he wasn't paying attention during lab.
"Middleton, you shall remain that way until my evening class brews the animal fur restoration potion on Friday. I'm positive it will work on you," Snape said furiously.

He entered the library and handed the books to Madam Pince, his jaw muscles tightening as a direct result of the earlier eyebrow incident.
"Professor Snape?" Madam Pince said tentatively, as if contemplating a stroll on the old eggshells.
"Yes! What is it! I haven't got all day to spend here!"
He snapped, eyes the color of a black abyss. Madam Pince proceeded slowly, not wishing to redirect any of Snape's rage on her.
"Are you also here to sign this book out for Professor Collins? Sir?"
Her hand trembled slightly as she laid the book on the countertop. Snape trained his laser beam eyes on the book and then on her, a puzzled look forming on his face.
"Um…Professor Collins was here earlier today and attempted to check the book out. It's a PM5 so I explained to her that you would need to sign for it. Ah… Sir."
"Very well! He snapped, then relaxing slightly at the mention of Gwenevere's name. He signed Professor Severus Snape to the register next to the book's title. The 'S'es looked like recoiled poisonous snakes ready to strike. He turned, robes flaring, and left the library in the same furor as which he came, nearly trampling Colin Greevy in the doorway.

At almost 4:00 there was a knock on Gwenevere's door. 'Oh wonderful, that must be Dobby, I need a cup of tea right now' she thought. She opened the door and said
"A tiempo" "Dobby!" Snape stood there for a moment, taking instant inventory of her tight jeans and white shirt.
"Gracias, creo que si. He said, the hint of a Mona Lisa smile on his lips.
"Severus…Do come in."
She felt a tingle rise up her spine as she let him in and crossed her arms suddenly. Snape surveyed the living room and said with mock sarcasm:
"I see peeves has made his way back here today." He noticed her white gloves crossed over her arms.
"To what are you giving the white-glove treatment?" The Mona Lisa turned devilish.
"I was just working on my research," She said, wishing Dobby would bring the bloody tea!
"I have your Mid Evil Potions book from the library."
He held the book out so she would need to uncross her arms. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. 'Oh, thank you Dobby' she thought to herself as she turned to answer the door.
"Just set it on the floor would you Severus?"
She called as she untied the knot her hair was in, and arranged it appropriately. She greeted Dobby in Spanish and took the tray from him. Dobby cocked his head and saw Snape in the living room so he snapped his fingers and produced an extra cup and the sugar bowl for Gwenevere.
She carried the tray into the living room and set it down. Snape poured the tea whilst Gwenevere cleared the sofa and chair of parchment. His attention was oddly drawn to her belt as flickers of distracting memory fragments caused him to over-fill the cup. "Damn!" he said as he seized his wand and instantly cleared up the spilled tea.
"I see you are having a bad day today?" Gwenevere asked him.
She was thinking she wanted to give him a much-needed hug…or maybe a deep-tissue massage.
"Oh, you have no idea." He sighed. Professor Snape tried to relax as they sipped tea, but he didn't stay long as he had "another batch of idiots to teach" as he put it.
lee
I liked title idea, Ella. Let's see how it looks. :-)Turn off italics, turn off italics..., - Monday, June 02, 2003 at 06:28:07 (PDT)

Suzanne, I've sent an e-mail. I'm a bit confused on a couple of points and need clarification. Thanks :-)
Ella
- Sunday, June 01, 2003 at 18:12:07 (PDT)

Oh, dear. Come on, people, let's not argue. If you have a problem, please e-mail me. And Ella, I am planning on editing the top of the FOF page concerning the virtual parties (I have received a lot of e-mail about this subject and feel it is the best solution). But I first wanted your input about a few points, which I e-mailed you about. Didn't you get my message? If not, please e-mail me at Suz@mail.usa.com ASAP. Thank you.

Suzanne <Suz@mail.usa.com>
Don't worry, Lee, your story is great!, - Sunday, June 01, 2003 at 17:48:41 (PDT)

Oh, and to Barbara the Wallpaperer--saw your message that your sister has returned safely. Thank God! One of the best pieces of news I've heard in a while. 8-D

MA (again)
Now, back to serving Brandon his coffee . . . one lump or two, Christopher? ;-), - Sunday, June 01, 2003 at 17:28:41 (PDT)

Hmmmm, contact lenses... perhaps this is a message for Dev so he can lose the glasses and thus avoid unpleasant flashbacks for Therese.
Cindie
Or maybe for Lukas so he can find his way back to us? , - Sunday, June 01, 2003 at 06:46:56 (PDT)

"Hello Gwenevere, I'm Sir. Nicholas, the Gryffindor ghost! How are you today?"

Gwenevere flinched and looked in the direction of the double basins where sat an eccentric looking 'be-ruffed' man.
"Um…who are you again?"
She asked, warily crossing her arms over her chest under the suds.
"You can call me Sir. Nicholas. I've just popped in for a chat, and to welcome you to Hogwarts."
Gwenevere sank lower into the tub, her eyes darting about the room.
"It's very nice to meet you Sir Nicholas, but I'm not sure this is the very best time for your visit."
"I beg your pardon,Well, I'll just be on my way then. Good Day!"
"Unusual place, this Hogwarts." She said under her breath.

After her bath Gwenevere quickly got dressed in jeans, a white oxford shirt, and short black boots. The black belt she wore was taken from one of the braided reins she used for riding when she was a girl. She planned to work on her research project all day. Any and all 'flutterbys' she felt for Severus would just have to wait.

Gwenevere had an amazing capacity for compartmentalizing her mind. She was able to focus on her work, no matter how distracting the distraction. It was this ability that allowed her to accomplish her formidable goals.
After lunch, Gwenevere put on robes over her clothes for a quick jaunt to the library to return some books and check out some new ones. After a chat with Madam Pince, she searched potions book titles in the restricted section, and carefully chose three books.
"I'm sorry Dear, but this one is a PM5 I'm afraid. I'll just keep it here until Professor Snape signs it out for you."
"Yes, thank you Madam Pince. Ill let Professor Snape know it's here."

Whilst walking back to the second floor, she decided she would let Severus know about the PM5 book waiting at the library later if she happened to run into him. Severus reminded her of her Grandfather; a contemplative man who required a lot of privacy, especially when there was an issue that needed to be sorted out. She sensed that Professor Snape was extremely demanding and the kind of wizard who was easily annoyed by trivial interruptions and it was best not to bother him with one. Gwenevere had the finesse to successfully cope with highly intelligent, sometimes difficult wizards.

Gwenevere decided she would work in her living room because her office was too small for the kind of space that her study session would require. She surrounded herself with books, quills, ink, acid -free bookmarks, and a pair of archival research gloves. Parchment was stacked in piles everywhere, but she knew where everything was.
lee
No, Gwenevere doesn't need them. We have spam spam spam spam, spam spam spam spam..., - Sunday, June 01, 2003 at 04:51:00 (PDT)

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