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.