Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

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D.o.C.

Happy Thanksgiving fellow FoFers! I, too, am thankful for Flights of Fancy- don't know what I'd do without it!
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
And the turkey is cooking in the oven downstairs... , - Thursday, November 28, 2002 at 14:26:11 (PST)

Happy Thanksgiving everybody! To all who celebrate it (even those who don't). I hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday. I love you guys. *hugs* :-)
Alice
Double thanks to the monitor! :-), - Thursday, November 28, 2002 at 07:03:56 (PST)

Feeling thankful for this wonderful playground and all those who populate it. I love you guys. ;-)
Cindie
Thanks especially to our playground monitor!, - Thursday, November 28, 2002 at 05:14:15 (PST)

“Why don’t we stop somewhere on the way home.” Cindie made the suggestion because, although she was tired, she really wasn’t sleepy. Her nerves were bristling from the events of the trip and she knew that going straight home would only result in restive thoughts. It would be better to linger for a bit and placate the barbs.

“Do you trust me?”

His hand held out her and the question between them. Her answering hand in his. The memory was as vibrant as their first dance had been. It had been typical of their courtship, at once intense and formal.

They were walking side by side to his car and she shifted the bag she was carrying to her other arm freeing the hand which slipped into his. “I answered that question once already. I’ll let you know if my answer changes.” A smoothing stroke.

“Then I know just the spot.” They arrived at the Jaguar which was tucked into a space in the corner of the lot for the docks. Mistral went to the back and opened the boot with the key, placed the bags inside and closed the lid. His fingers splayed as he gave it a gentle push and it closed with a quiet thunk. “I’ve been thinking of taking you there.” He continued as he settled her into the car and then walked around to his door. There was a heartbeat’s pause while his hand rested upon his door handle and he looked at her. Looked and seemingly came to a decision. He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition commanding the car to start.

They drove for some while before Cindie began to recognize the neighborhood. It wasn’t until he pulled up that she noticed the sign. It seemed obvious enough now, but she was certain she’d passed it before and that it had never registered with her until this moment. “How could I have never noticed this place before?”

A spark flared in the amber of his eyes, “It isn’t the sort of place one notices.”

“Downtime,” she said almost to herself as she exited the car and headed towards the front door. “Who couldn’t use a little of that now and again?”

In his best Mistralian manner he merely arched one regal brow and replied, “Indeed,” as he held open the door for her.

Not really having any expectations she took in the dimly lit ambience. Evanescent figures from past revelries seemed to linger in the corner booths and barely lit tables but when she blinked the place appeared nearly empty. There was a bandstand with some equipment giving promise of live music at some point. The long mahogany bar polished to a high gloss was the brightest item in the place and she was less surprised than she ought to have been to see a familiar figure standing behind it. It never would have occurred to her that he would moonlight as a bartender, but it seemed right somehow; as if there simply couldn’t be anyone else behind that particular bar and that he would always be there when you needed him to be. He smiled and nodded as if in response to her thoughts and she slipped into a seat as Mistral pulled out a stool and sat next to her. “Does this mean it’s the end of the party?” Sinclair asked as he polished the already spotless bar with the folded rag in his right hand.

A moment of confusion and then Cindie replied, “Yes. We’re all back on shore and in one piece.”

“I’m glad you’re back.” Sinclair looked pleased but also concerned. As Cindie looked around again it did seem that the figures in one corner were real and familiar. “Has he explained to you how it is here?” Sinclair addressed her but inclined his head toward Mistral. In response to the shake of her head he continued, “The normal rules don’t apply.” He had lowered his voice and the words sounded suggestive, almost sinister. The nerves which had begun to sooth were abruptly brushed back on end by his words.

Mistral stepped in adroitly, “But our own codes of conduct hold sway. As always.”

Sinclair gazed towards the back of the bar and looked vaguely uncomfortable. As the bartender he heard things. Things which were not meant for his ears and which he would never repeat but which he carried the burden of knowing. The conversation between the Director and a cast member who had left to pursue other projects weighed heavy on his mind just then. It had, after all, concerned the man considered to be the avatar of the term gentleman. Further, it had concerned the maxim that very man had seemed to hold dearer than any other. Moreover, it had concerned his abandonment of that maxim while under the heady influence of a place where such maxims could be shed in the passion of a moment. Passions allowed to flourish, even briefly, without the normal strictures to reign them in could consume even the kindest and best of men.

He almost spoke, but in the end did not. For was not all well between the two whose life’s values had been put to the test by the lure of the lax environs of Downtime? Surely this man who was as much a master of himself as any man could be, would hold fast to his codes, whatever they might be. Sinclair reverted to the bartender’s stock in trade and asked crisply, “What will it be, then?”

“A bottle of Clos de Mesnil.” Mistral answered before Cindie even had time to consider. He seemed to have the agenda planned. Odd, since she was the one that suggested they stop somewhere. Odder still, she wasn’t the least bit surprised.

While Sinclair disappeared into some nether region behind the bar to fulfill the request she asked, “Do I have a script to follow?”

That sardonic smile that she thought would always make her weak kneed accompanied his reply. “My dear, I have complete faith in your ability to improvise.” His words were as a thumbnail run up her spine.

Sinclair appeared with the bottle, still unopened and ensconced in a bucket of ice, which he handed to Mistral who tucked it under one arm. With a fluid motion he picked up a clean towel off the bar and turned. Cindie plucked the two champagne flutes which Sinclair held dangling by the base of their stems from the other hand and began to move towards the back rooms. Sinclair’s eyes widened and Mistral fell into step next to her.

As they glided past the stage Cindie noted the presence of some more cases. It appeared there would be music soon and she wondered who would perform for such a small crowd.

Mistral’s steps were sure as he now guided their path to the particular room he had in mind. He opened the door and flipped on a light switch. Three lamps with low wattage bulbs came on and infused the room with a mild glow. He closed the door behind them before placing the champagne on a low table gleaming with polish. The furnishings were sparse. The table, two chairs on either side of it and a love seat along one wall. All the wood shone and the quality was at odds with the fact they were in what looked from the outside to be a dive. The walls were paneled in fine oak and heavy rugs cushioned the floor. Clearly this was not a typical back room to what was just as clearly not a typical bar. Cindie added the glasses to the table next to the champagne caddy and walked around the room. There were lovely paintings on the walls - a still life of leaves and one of flowers both in warm evocative colours. As she studied one she heard the quiet pop as the wine was uncorked and the soft rush of liquid as it was poured into the two glasses. Turning, she caught him looking at her as he moved towards her, a glass in each hand.

The sound of music began to waft in but her curiosity for what was happening in this room was paramount over what was happening on stage.

Cindie
Post party post now that we're back on dry land. What time are we supposed to back at work tomorrow? *grumbling*, - Wednesday, November 27, 2002 at 18:47:12 (PST)

Barbara, Have you been weighed and found wanting? I can teach you and remedy any ...deficiencies. Fear not.

I
- Wednesday, November 27, 2002 at 16:49:17 (PST)

Mary Anne....

You're too kind :)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I'm not nearly up to Mr I's ... weight class, - Wednesday, November 27, 2002 at 12:37:00 (PST)

The Dakota, about to make port . . .

As the yacht comes in sight of the shore, the indefatigable orchestra does its duty with a lush, low-key rendering of "Harbour Lights" while the crew flick on every possible running light on board to demonstrate that the power failure/ominous development/possible crisis in the making is safely over.

Scattered cheers from the cast. Mary Anne, however, is oblivious to the proceedings as she stands near the rail-though she does not lean over it-and drinks in the beauty of those lights, their red and green and yellow and white reflections blazing back from the water, intermingled with the fire of "A million billion trillion stars." She murmurs the line to herself for the pleasure of saying it, for once not troubling to make the mental footnote of who wrote it and in which poem; the line speaks itself on this night.

There is a curious heaviness in her body, compounded of fatigue and good feeding and the euphoria of gathering with friends, airing the old jokes and catch phrases, coining new ones that will be bantered among them for years to come . . . all this, with the sweet lassitude that comes at times to a woman who knows herself cherished and returns the cherishing: a sense of being at rest in the present. The past is gone and the future does not exist, but this hour is fragrance and jewel and flame.

She is not even startled by the touch on her elbow, but turns with a smile, expecting to see Brandon.

It is Professor Snape.

Mary Anne, in her languorous mood, is equal to even this. "Professor."

He returns a quick nod, for form’s sake. "We will be landing soon, and I wished to inquire as to the disposition of your shark."

"The disposition of my shark? Pretty ugly," quips Mary Anne-and then, seeing that Snape is not amused, she quickly adds, "If you mean the disposal of the shark, I’ve arranged to have it sent to a taxidermist. It will be stuffed and mounted, and it will be a new decoration." That glint of mischief. "In the Downtime Bar. Have you ever been there, Professor?"

"I have little time for such pursuits. But I would be interested in procuring certain . . . items from the shark, if you believe it would be permitted."

Mary Anne shrugs. "Well, they’ll have to clean it out to stuff it properly, so if you went there first thing in the morning . . ." She grins at Snape. "Did you have a craving for shark fin soup? I’m told it’s a very good strengthening tonic."

"I have heard the same," replies Snape, unable to discern why the woman had been smirking in that bizarre fashion over the word strengthening. Muggles can be most unfathomable.

"But I don’t think you could get the fins," continues Mary Anne. "That would spoil the mounting."

Snape nods. "Some of the liver would be an adequate substitute."

"Hmmmm. I’ve heard of taking cod liver oil, but shark liver oil must be especially . . . potent."

Snape scowls. How does the woman manage to speak like that, as if there is laughter in every syllable she utters, waiting to break free? And what amuses her so?

"It is," he snaps. "For certain purposes."

There is a pause, as if she is waiting for him to say what those purposes are . . . and of course he cannot. They stand for a time in silence, as the yacht nears the docks.

"Look." Mary Anne sweeps her hand at the constellations of lights gleaming back from the dark water. "Isn’t it beautiful?"

Snape looks. And it is. The sight catches at his heart, summoning thoughts of the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, or evenings in the Astronomy Tower . . . And during most of the evenings when the viewing was at its finest, Severus, you were poring over your cauldron down in those dungeons, so don’t go all sentimental and nostalgic now. Remember why you are here.

At that moment, there is a blast of the ship’s horn and a cry of All ashore that’s going ashore, and Mary Anne turns away from the rail with a sigh. Not a sad sigh, from what Snape can discern. No, not sad at all-for she has caught sight of Brandon coming to join them.

A nod from Brandon. Carefully neutral, and Snape returns it in the same spirit. "Brandon."

"Snape." Brandon turns to Mary Anne and-rather pointedly, it seems to the Professor-offers her his arm. "Are you ready, Mary Anne? We have a busy day tomorrow. The Director’s called for script conferences first thing in the morning . . ."

Mary Anne gives a theatrical groan, but the prospect of an early morning on the set does not deter her from giving Snape a cheerful wave as Brandon escorts her away. And when he is certain he cannot be seen, Snape waves back, or makes the attempt at least. Rather stiff, but it is a beginning. Muggle manners have not been one of his specialties.

The shark. Yes, he will go and attend to procuring some of the liver first thing in the morning-assuming The Director does not have him lined up for one the script conferences. And if he does . . .

Snape’s face hardens. He does not forget what he owes The Director. But there are potions he can concoct that do not require the use of magic, potions that can build his strength toward that time when he is ready to try and free his powers. Step by simple step . . . this is a beginning. Step by simple step-until, Voldemort, I step forward and set my boot on your neck, and grind your bones into the dust. It will happen. Count your remaining days.

Snape turns from the rail. Though he is neither robed nor cloaked, he still appears wrapped in shadows that swirl about him as he stalks away toward the gangplank to disembark with the rest of the cast . . .

MA--Happy Thanksgiving a bit early; see everyone back at the set. ;-)
Barbara--"having at it." *grin* You keep torturing Phil like that, Mister I is going to approach you about a partnership!! =8-O, - Tuesday, November 26, 2002 at 20:15:59 (PST)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

"What?" Herr Gruber was watching her with amused eyes. "Love?" she managed to ask. Her mind dissolved into one thought: Phil, why didn't you tell me first? She felt a hollow, rasping catch in her chest as she tried for air.

Why, that arrogant --! She had not, had not dared, let herself think about him in that way but now her carnal consciousness of him wrenched loose from its careful suppression and soared. Those golden-green eyes; that alert, mobile, kissable mouth with its extraordinary range of expression. . . could be hers, all hers. But how dare he ambush her in front of her friends? (homage)

A dozen strange conversations cascaded into her head, including Phil's behaviour above deck. She jerked her head away from Herr Gruber's knowing eyes. She squeezed her own eyes shut, brow furrowed in embarrassed shame. No wonder Phil was drinking, she thought.

"Ja," Herr Gruber rumbled from her side.

"What?"

"The more pain, the more scotch," Gruber replied. "When my Anna would not speak to me, it was a good idea to me to drink, too."

"Your -- Anna?" she asked.

"My late wife."

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

Phil leaned his forehead on the rail. He hadn't heard everything Gruber was saying to Barbara, but he had heard --and seen -- enough. Gruber had said something about love and Barbara's face had gone as white as a Noh actor. "Love?" she had squeaked. Phil had stared hungrily at them. Then Barbara had said something and Phil'd heard his own name. He'd seen Gruber's brusque nod and he'd known.

He'd lost her.

The thought came with a curious wave of pain and relief. He would be her good friend, in her life with Gruber. He'd sit on the fringes of her life, be introduced at house parties "This is my old friend Phil. He was married to one of my school chums." and ... pine. He'd been so wrapped up in the pleasures of pining, he'd forgotton the pains of it.

Am I being able to stand it?" he asked himself. He would suffer, he decided. He deserved it, after what he'd done to Shelly and Sandra. That had been his fault, and this was his fault, and he deserved it. He lifted his forehead from the rail and looked down at Barbara and Gruber below. She was looking up at him. His face cringed into a smile. Barbara just stared.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Ladies -- the Party's Over... I am *not* writing us into dock :)... so have at it!, - Sunday, November 24, 2002 at 15:19:09 (PST)

Elijah stood in the next room, pondering his move. His long fingers traced the feeling of his pistol as he gracefully lifted it from its holder, weighing it in his hand. He ran his fingers smoothly over its surface, then clasped his chin, his lips creasing into a smile of sadistic lust.

Yes...yes, it is time. .

He had waited so long...too long, in fact, for this moment. He must savor it. He closed his eyes in increasing ectasy as with liquid grace he turned, clasping his hands behind him. He slid into the room. Elliott and Alice had already risen.

Darn him, Elijah thought fiercly, his smile fading. Darn him. Darn him to hell.

"This discussion is over," he hissed, his fingers tightening on the gun and in one swift movement withdrew it from behind his back.

Elliott was quicker. He dived forward, colliding with him. Both were sent flying back and they slid across the floor, fists, teeth, and nails scraping and clawing.

Alice snarled, leaping into the fray, and in just a few moments Elijah was pinned by the duo. Elliott slammed the metal of the pistol against the side of his skull.

"You fool," he said quietly. He bent down, his mouth inches from his ear. "You expect me to be scared of one man? Especially a man as pathetic as you?"

Elijah made no move to reply. Elliott made a derisive noise through his nostrils and stood, hauling Elijah to his feet. He dragged his carcass across the floor without consideration, opened the door, and flung him out into the dust.

"Take your worthless master back where he came from," he spat at the group of men gathering around his brother's body. "If you show your face around here, believe me, I shall have you killed."

*****

"You should have killed him, Elliott."

Elliott grunted into the pillow, attempting to ignore his fiancee's words.

"He'll come back for you, you know he will."

"He wouldn't be that much of an idiot. I know my brother."

He turned over to face her. She was up on one elbow, glaring down at him angrily. She didn't like to be talken back to, and he knew it. One side of his mouth curled into a smile and he slinked an arm around her neck, pulling her down toward him. She abruptly put her hands against his chest. "Don't try to butter me up, you scoundrel."

"Mmm, scoundrel. I like the sound of that," he murmured in her ear, nibbling at her earlob. "Call me that more often." He yanked her down and brushed his lips against hers and he felt her body go limp.

"All right, you win," she snapped, curling up next to him as he slinked his arms around her slender form.

"I always win," he replied slyly, buring his face in her hair.

"If it wasn't for me, Quigley would have killed you."

He looked at her, exasperated. "Are you going to remind me of that all my life?"

She glanced up at him, flashing a devilish grin. "Yes."

Elliott snorted out his nose, then proceeded to run his fingers deftly through her hair, and continued to long after she was asleep minutes later.

*****

The rider pulled his horse to a stop, massaging his bloodied lip with the white cuff of his sleeve. "We wait until morning," he instructed his men. He glanced down at the ranch from the top of the hill and tipped his hat. "Thank you, my brother. You have provided me with just what I required."
Alice
He holds quite a grudge, doesn't he? :-) , - Friday, November 22, 2002 at 15:59:27 (PST)

Jamie shifted in his seat, also shifting his glance. The ever-large yacht below was becoming more distant with every beat of the blades, by every passing second. No longer could he peer down from above at the crew and FoF members milling about. No longer could he distinguish the chairs from the stairs. No longer did he feel secure. His stomach was doing cartwheels.

He grabbed the armrests of his chair in an unnerving mannerism, his throat running dry. It was a fact that was crystal clear as a mountain spring, and as cold too: he had never flown before. Not in an airplane, not in a helicopter. The only thing he knew about flying was from frequent news and articles in the paper- the most recent crashes. It was enough to make any man nervous, even a ghostly one.

Jamie forced himself to peel himself away from the window, and turn his attention towards Diane. Still a bit blue-colored, she was, and not half awake either. He stroked her cheek with a gentle touch, and almost smiled. It was a time when his fingers ached to play, and when screams echoed in his eardrums for not having his cello there, by his side. He could always play out any emotion, any feeling, any dispute or rage… but he felt lost without its strings, and confused without its sound. It was as if someone had shut him in a damp, moldy cupboard. But he did not will himself to think as such- better to think of Diane, to help her, to pray.

To pray. She was in a serious condition, the nurse had later claimed, but nothing was life threatening. Why should he worry so, and think such negative thoughts? Perhaps it was because that is EXACTLY what the doctor had told him, right before his surgery. "It’s going to be alright, Jamie. It’ll all be over before you know."

And it had been over before he knew. One minute he was laying on an operation table, and the next he was nothing more than a dry wisp in the air. He shuddered at the remembrance. It had been some time, since he died. You’d think that he’d just accept the fact that he was how he was- yet somehow, he could not bear it.

Sound and communication alike was almost next to impossible in the helicopter. The beating of the fan-like blades churned so loudly that any other murmur was soon condemned to quietness until further notice. It would awake any sleeping woman and silence any bold, gibberish man. It could paralyze an infant and scare the wits out of any soul. And it did not help when the helicopter began to swerve, diving in and out of thick, dense clouds, colored that of black, heavy with loaded rain. Jamie compared it to riding a roller coaster ride. Though he had never been on one of those either, he was sure that this is much like how one would have felt.

*****

Back on the yacht, a man, adorned in black from head to toe, entered the scene. If not for his honey hair (much like most of these men around) he could have been mistaken for a cousin of Snape’s, except for the western style cowboy hat that was tipped low to shade his eyes, and cover them almost completely.

He walked to where the current center of attention was flowing, and noted that it contained a dispute on some sort of director, and chocolate. He licked his lips viciously and lunged towards the mousse mouse, and snatched the last one. He dug in his spoon, brought it up to his mouth, and swallowed. He relished the sweet taste trickling down into his body, and had the entire desert gone in seconds.

But revenge is still sweeter.

He traced over towards a table, flopped into a chair, and ordered a beer. Everyone seemed too occupied to answer his question, and he felt comfortable with the fact that he may have already been to acknowledge the answer. So he waited, fingers laced over each other, and propped his head upon his knuckles. In the shadows he waited, a little while longer. His ears were pricked for any sound, for any mention of her name. His eyes were dodging and lodging in all corners, all areas. If someone would damned show up and start the conversation… well, I’ll do the rest…
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
CQ CQ! This is KD7THM, calling all stations! (I passed my radio license!!!!!) (Ok, shutting up now... :) , - Friday, November 22, 2002 at 14:23:10 (PST)

On the yacht:

"That should do it, Mister Snape."

For once, Snape is too distracted to snap "Professor!" as he examines his neatly bandaged hand, then looks up at the ship’s doctor-a brown-haired man with spectacles and cheerful smile. Young. Far too young and flighty to be a doctor, I should think, and not very reassuring to the patients . . .

And another side of him answers, Don’t be a fool, Severus, and thank the man. A fine one you are to be thinking of gravity and dignity at a time like this; it’s not as if you put on such an impressive show. That’s why you’re here now.

For he had not, as he had first thought, simply dropped the crystal dish of chocolate mousse. No. When he had heard Dane say those words that sounded so like . . .

Snape shakes his head. Any ignorant first-year at Hogwarts would have known better, but his hand had involuntarily tightened around the dish in a crushing grip.

First, the silent stares from the group as the rest of the bowl had slipped from his hand . . . and then, they had all come in a body to attend to him. To question him: "Professor, what happened? Are you all right?" To exclaim over his cut hand. To wipe it down with one of the napkins, dipped in a glass of ice water, and summon the ship’s physician . . .

Snape is suddenly overpowered by a wave of homesickness. He would ordinarily scorn such a foolish emotion, but what he would give just now for a glimpse of Poppy Pomfrey and the Hogwarts Infirmary. Not that he would normally trouble the busy Madam Pomfrey with such a trivial matter as this; he could fix it with a pass of his wand and hardly pause in his work. Still, it would be a comfort to know she was there, with that blend of exasperation for uncooperative patients and protective affection that she could lavish on them even while exclaiming over their foolishness.

Finally, Snape remembers his manners, such as they are. "Thank you." Stiffly. "I trust I may go now."

"Of course. We’ll be docking soon and you might want to have someone look at that tomorrow, when you take the bandages off, but keep it clean and it should be fine."

Keep it clean, indeed, fumes Snape as he stalks away, knowing that he is not really angry at the physician and angrier still that he cannot get at the true target of his anger. Keep it clean-an appropriate warning to a Master of Potions. But I am not a Master of Potions, now. Voldemort has seen to that.

And as if his idiocy in the dining room had not been enough . . .

Snape pauses in his furious walk. It had really not been so unpleasant as all that, aside from cutting himself on the broken dish. That crowd of concerned men and women about him . . . he can remember other occasions when he had been the centre of attention in a far more cruel gathering, writhing under the Cruciatus Curse as Voldemort had punished him for some perceived shortcoming, jeered at by his fellow Death Eaters . . .

His lip curls. Any man who had survived the bone-cracking agony of Crucio should not have been troubled by a lacerated hand, but he is forced to admit that he had quailed inwardly when they summoned the ship’s physician. Great Merlin, no, he had thought. Muggle medicine . . . He had imagined being cut and sewn like garments. (homage) And though the treatment had not been pleasant by any means-it had been his first experience with iodine, and he is not eager to repeat it-it had not been a tenth so bad as he had imagined. He can practically hear Voldemort’s scorn: Severus, Severus. I have made you a Muggle in body and soon you will be one in spirit as well!

Snape clenches his fists. Bad idea, as he sucks in his breath at the smart of his cut hand, and relaxes his fingers.

They shall make port soon. This is almost the end of his first major social occasion with Muggles, and on the whole, he had enjoyed it more than he expected and learned some valuable lessons as well. But more than anything, it has redoubled his determination. Voldemort, I shall find you and I shall regain my powers. And after what you shall suffer, even a painful death will be welcome. This, I swear to you.

MA--"cutting and sewing people like garments . . ." Dr. Leonard McCoy, of course. 8-)
- Friday, November 22, 2002 at 06:27:03 (PST)

The yacht, dining room:

Holding the dish as though he is afraid it might explode in his face, Professor Snape samples another bite of chocolate mousse. He had been relieved that Mary Anne did not stay to watch him eat it. Relieved-and vaguely disappointed. After a pleased smile at his acceptance of the treat, she had wandered away to chat with other cast members, leaving him to his enjoyment. Only now does he realize how that enjoyment might be increased by her company. The woman is quite clearly a chocolate enthusiast; she may even stand at the level of connoisseur.

Or is it that he simply requires a distraction, that he may enjoy himself without guilt? So few of his pleasures have been innocent ones. And chocolate, linked in his mind with Dementors, had hardly seemed worth savouring for its own merits.

However, those merits are proving harder and harder to resist. During that first bite, the Master of Potions had been in the ascendant, his keen senses of taste and smell detecting each component of the sample. That had been how he thought of it, yes, as his mind returned its analysis: this blend and origin of chocolate, this many eggs, that particular level of aromatic esters . . . until that second bite, when the critical faculty had been overwhelmed. Judgment rendered: This is exquisite.

Though he could have done without the chocolate mouse. The candy eyes have a disconcertingly beady glitter, and the spun-sugar whiskers . . . A scruple of powdered rat whisker in a Plaguestopper Pastille is all very well and necessary. But this is not the place.

A wave of laughter catches Snape’s attention. Mary Anne is talking with Sandy, with several others grouped about them. Dane. And Brandon, of course; he is never far from Mary Anne, it seems. Cindie. The one called Mistral . . .That could be the name of a wizarding family. I wonder if there is any magical blood in his ancestry? He has the look about him.

"-knew you’d be in trouble with The Director the minute you said it!" Sandy is laughing, and so is Mary Anne.

"Well, it wasn’t the first time I’d been in trouble with him," she replies, glancing about to make sure he is not within earshot. "But that time I really thought he meant it. He chased me all over the set-all the way through Costume and Props. I knocked over a stand of foils and you never heard such a racket. By the time he caught up with me in Hair and Make-up, I just wanted to disappear!"

Sandy flourishes an invisible wand at Mary Anne, crying, "A-la-peanut-butter-sandwiches!"

"I remember that!" exclaims Mary Anne. "It was The Amazing Mumford, wasn’t it? On Sesame Street!"

"Muppets," hisses Dane, to bursts of laughter and a scattering of meeps! which he waves off like a cloud of gnats as he struggles to suppress his own grin. "It’s no wonder I prefer a simple Abra Cadabra--"

CRASH!

To Snape’s extreme embarrassment, a silence falls over the laughing group and all their eyes turn toward him, as the dish of chocolate mousse slips from his suddenly nerveless fingers and smashes on the floor.

MA--no, Mistral, never. Well . . . hardly ever. ;-)
After *Chamber of Secrets* this weekend, I just had to do a Snape post., - Tuesday, November 19, 2002 at 19:16:50 (PST)

Mary Anne, With those cheekbones? Hardly likely.

Mistral
Will you never learn?, - Monday, November 18, 2002 at 15:30:47 (PST)

Hmmmmmm--the appealing look seems to have worked. Now if I can just keep a low profile . . .

MA
Be vewwy vewwy quiet--I'm evading Diwectors! ;-), - Monday, November 18, 2002 at 07:43:02 (PST)

*gulp* Oh, nooooooo . . .

*appealing look that would melt a heart of cast rhodinium*

MA
I was right--it just got worse!, - Friday, November 15, 2002 at 22:10:48 (PST)

*A voice. Quiet but firm.* Alan, why don't you allow me to discuss this matter with Miss Mary Anne.

Christopher Brandon
- Friday, November 15, 2002 at 15:44:10 (PST)

*mischievous twinkle* Discipline, in your office? Sir, I had no idea . . .

MA
I'm making things worse for myself, right?, - Thursday, November 14, 2002 at 20:16:34 (PST)

Mary Anne. My office, this instant.

The Director
Striving to maintain discipline. . . , - Thursday, November 14, 2002 at 18:32:36 (PST)

Here's the URL anyway . . .

http://images.amazon.com/images/P/0821774883.01.LZZZZZZZ.jpg

MA
Did The Director hear me just then? I hope not! =8-O, - Thursday, November 14, 2002 at 17:35:18 (PST)

Now why didn't the link work?! *mumble grumble*

MA
&*!*#(%$^!!!!, - Thursday, November 14, 2002 at 17:32:02 (PST)

I came across this while I was getting ready to do a book order at the library today, and it reminded me of another Masked Gentleman of our acquaintance. Thought I'd share.

MA
Back to Egdon Heath, anyone?, - Thursday, November 14, 2002 at 17:31:06 (PST)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

Anton found Barbara mid-deck and starboard. She was tossing little pieces of lettuce into the water, to the raucous delight of a flock of seagulls pacing the slow-moving Dakota.

"I apologize for being unable to pay you the attention you deserve, today," he said.

She turned her head to look at him. Anton saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and tired. She shrugged. "That's quite all right," she replied, quietly. Too quietly. "There are more important things in this world than my ego."

"Barbara..."

She continued on, as if he hadn't spoken. Her voice was light, wondering. "You know, " she said, "I used to be quite expert at swallowing myself, during my marriage. It appears I've lost my taste for it." (homage) She tossed the remainder of the lettuce into the water and turned around, leaning back on the railing, elbows bracing her up.

Genug. Enough. Anton turned his silvered head and watched her face. He said, casually, "Renie told me of her conversation with you."

"Did she." It was not a question.

"And she told me of her conversation with Mr. Allen."

Barbara's face tightened with the words Mr. Allen. "Did she," Barbara said, her voice colorless.

"You should have pity for him."

"He makes more than enough pity for himself," she replied tartly. "He doesn't require any extra from me." A twist of her head twitched her braid off her shoulder and down her back.

"Why do you say that?"

"Did you hear what he said?" Her head lowered mulishly and she inhaled, on the cusp of a railing diatribe. Anton felt the dry amusement well in him -- he remembered the signs from Hans' mother. His Anna had done as such. He turned and leaned one arm on the railing, observing Barbara as he spoke. Her head swiveled and her eyes met his. "A man in love says many strange things."

He was close enough to see her pupils dialate.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Never mind...., - Wednesday, November 13, 2002 at 17:59:15 (PST)

Does anyone know if Hans' mother's name has been listed anywhere?

Writing madly, I remain,
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Wednesday, November 13, 2002 at 17:55:19 (PST)

Oh Lord! Why did I type SALMON? of all the scatterbrained things...!
Alice
*shakes head in exasperation*, - Wednesday, November 13, 2002 at 15:14:58 (PST)

Chinese fighting muffins?? *cracks up* sounds a lot like my sister's muffins on a good day!! :-) heheh
Alice
MA--do the salmon fish dance around singing "Intelligence"? :-), - Wednesday, November 13, 2002 at 15:12:54 (PST)

*cracking up* Chinese fighting muffins?! 8-D I keep imagining them like Siamese Fighting Fish--that is, they'll turn on each other if they have to share territory!

MA
Picturing a muffin with large, sharp teeth . . ., - Tuesday, November 12, 2002 at 05:12:45 (PST)

Chinese fighting muffins?! The Empress had better not allow any unauthorized bakery into HIS cell. Somehow I *can* picture Claudia turning muffins into a lethal weapon...maybe she could keep one tucked into her thigh highs?
Cindie
- Monday, November 11, 2002 at 15:55:26 (PST)

Another day of life immitating FOF... Remember Kate's scones?

The boys asked me all enthusiastically if I could make them some more muffins. Not one for baking often, I said I supposed so, were they good? "Good? They were great! They were soooo hard we used them for Chinese fighting muffins!"

Um, yeah, thanks Luke!
Claudia
- Monday, November 11, 2002 at 12:21:34 (PST)

Cindie and Mistral sat now at a small table enjoying their mousse mice which Mary Anne had delivered and speculating on the potential creations they could undertake for their next chocolateering endeavours. They hadn’t done anything this year as the catering was handled strictly by the ship’s compliment. It seemed that the security detail wanted to oversee everything and that included the preparation of the food. It was to be hoped that the food hadn’t been tampered with as the engines seemingly had been.

The Grubers had meticulously constructed from the parts available the transmitter which was used to summon the rescue operations. It almost seemed as if the helicopter and the rescue ship had been hovering just outside of their range of hearing, so quick was their response to the Captain’s call. Anton now went in search of Barbara. They had some time yet before their current pace would return them to the docks and he thought to spend it with her since he had been so preoccupied with the work he and Hans had undertaken. She had seemed …distracted. Perhaps she would wish to discuss whatever troubled her.

Captain Naismith’s scowl had now simmered down to a quiet glower as he was assured his ship would be towed back to port and the safety of all guests and crew was secured. The fact that one of the guests had gone missing on his watch concerned him deeply. He also contemplated that life as a Captain of a cargo vessel might be a good deal quieter.

Valmont stared at the empty space from whence the Heli-Vac had first receded and then disappeared. Diane might be a tall woman but she had looked so small and frail when they had found her. It had been a close run thing, too close. It had been his pleasure to carry her to the infirmary and he had stayed as long as the medical staff had allowed him. No surprise when he’d been asked to leave. His reputation assured that he would not be permitted to linger near the unconscious form of any sweet young thing. It hadn’t been his name that she had murmured as she began to regain her senses. It was never his name. He dismissed the thought with a shrug of his elegant shoulders and made his way to the lower deck and the charming ensign who had made it clear she would favour him with her appreciation. At least she was impressed with his valiant efforts to save his erstwhile cast-mate.

From her place a the table Cindie could see Mary Anne offer the last mousse mouse on the tray to Professor Snape. He looked at her austerely but whatever Mary Anne said seemed to have some effect as she saw that, grim faced as ever, he deigned to pluck up the crystal bowl and bring it to his nose. He sniffed, looking as if he expected the aroma to be of the creature and not the confection. He must have found it more pleasing than he expected for he picked up the dessert spoon and nicked off a bit of the mousse and raised it to his lips.

Cindie
It's unanimouse, this is good mousse. , - Saturday, November 09, 2002 at 12:09:26 (PST)

"Mousse Wars - Episode Two - the Attack of the Spoons..."

LOVE it, Sandy! *giggle* :-)
Alice
Haven't seen the Madonna video but I've heard about it. It doesn't really seem to have anything to do with James Bond, does it??, - Thursday, November 07, 2002 at 14:44:31 (PST)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

Alexander sighed as The Dakota was turned about and began its slow way back to shore once the medical helicopter left, transporting Diane and Jamie to the hospital. He and Sandy leaned against the railing and watched as the waves crashed over the ship's bow in silence. The band started playing as the others milled about the deck, discussing the past few hours' unusual events.

"Well, I've got to admit that this has been one of the more *interesting* parties I've ever attended," Sandy murmured finally.

Alexander's lips curled up in amusement. "I can honestly say that there's never a dull moment around here," he agreed, turning his head to gaze down at her. His brow furrowed when he saw that she was shivering a bit. "Why didn't you say that you were cold?" he asked softly.

"It's just a little breezy out here, that's all. Nothing to get worried about," Sandy protested.

Alexander shook his head and slipped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him. "Come on. I hear..."

"A huge cup of coffee calling my name?" Sandy looked up at him hopefully.

Alexander chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he took her hand in his. "Absolutely - and I could use something to warm my stomach too," he admitted as they turned away from the railing and began walking towards the dining room.

Just as they were approaching the threshold to their destination, the two happened to walk by Annie, who cooed, "Hello, you two!" She waved and passed by them, laughing merrily as Alexander sputtered and Sandy shook her head in amused exasperation and blushed furiously.

"I swear!" Alexander growled as they stepped over the threshold and headed towards the table that held the coffee urns.

"Love...."

"Mmmmm?"

"Meep."

There was a small pause before, "Have I told you lately just how *cute* you are?"

Sandy gasped sharply and her head shot up at that. Her eyes glittered stormily and her cheeks flushed scarlet. Alexander wondered if he pushed it a little too far when her face softened. Her lips curled up in a sheepish smile and she chuckled. "Touché, Alex."

Alexander inclined his head slightly and he returned the smile. "I do try."

"And you succeed admirably," Sandy replied, reaching out for a cup, placed it underneath the urn's spigot and moved the lever forward. She sighed blissfully as the fragrant, hot beverage began filling the cup and watched as a curl of steam drifted upward. Alexander shook his head and smiled as he also filled a cup and placed it on a saucer after adding some cream to lighten the coffee.

"Do you want something to eat?" Alexander asked as they moved away and began walking towards the tables.

Sandy wrinkled her nose slightly. "Maybe just a *little* something..."

Alexander's eyebrow rose. "Chocolate?"

"Exactly!" Sandy beamed. She indicated the direction where Mary Anne and The Director were standing. "Uh oh. How much do you want to bet that he's chewed her out for having some of that mousse?"

"I don't need to bet one lousy penny. The look on his face alone is the proof in the pudding," Alexander replied archly.

Sandy groaned and then began laughing softly, Alexander joining in. "Mousse Wars - Episode Two - the Attack of the Spoons," she said with a giggle.

Alexander snorted and shook his head as he watched Mary Anne gracefully sweep by the Director with the tray that held the last cup of mousse in her hands and present it to - What was his name again? Oh yes. Snape - some type of chemistry professor - I think, he remembered - with a flourish. "How about a piece of that chocolate cake? Chris said it was delicious," he suggested when he saw the look on the Director's face.

Sandy nodded in agreement. "Right. Cake sounds wonderful." The two walked over to the opposite side of the dessert buffet line, took some cake and headed for a table that was relatively close to the exit.

Sandy
The Madonna video is for the new James Bond flick - "Die Another Day.", - Thursday, November 07, 2002 at 14:11:57 (PST)

For a little while, yes. The server was under maintenance.
D.o.C.

Are the archives down? I couldn't access them today.

Fond memories of the mousse mouse and the fun we had in NY... AR needs to do more stage work. ;-)
Cindie
Will there be duelling spoons between Snape and the Director over the last mouse? Expelliarimouse!, - Wednesday, November 06, 2002 at 12:27:59 (PST)

On the yacht-the dining room:

Slowly, Mary Anne sidles up to the dessert cart and takes a look around. Left . . . good. Right . . . good. Scattered groups chatting about the rescue helicopter. A dramatic end to the evening. But here, at the buffet . . .

To call upon an appropriate nautical cliché, the coast is clear, and Mary Anne edges toward a large silver tray with cups of chocolate mousse.

Each cup is decorated with . . . a chocolate mouse, complete with spun sugar whiskers and candy eyes. Mousse mice. How cute!

Licking her lips, Mary Anne reaches for the tray.

"Mary Anne!"

Mary Anne whirls to face . . . The Director. Of course.

"Where did you come from?" she exclaims.

"Never mind that. Just what do you think you were about to do with all that chocolate?"

"Why . . . eat it, of course," retorts Mary Anne. "That is generally what one does with chocolate." A sly grin. "Though I’m told that Claudia and Ed have found some other uses-"

"Never mind that." A classic Directorial pose, arms crossed over his chest, stern look, the works. "You can’t possibly eat all of that. You’ll be sick as a cat before morning."

Longingly, Mary Anne stares at the tray. He’s right, of course, but she isn’t about to admit it. "What if I just eat some of it, then?"

"One. Someone else might like a bit of it too, you know. In fact, why don’t you pick one and then see who would like the rest? It would be awfully sweet of you, Mary Anne."

"Awfully," she grimaces, fighting the temptation to stick her tongue out at The Director, or to laugh, or to call him a scurvy knave, or all three at once. She selects a cup and savours it, chocolate mouse and all, before The Director’s watchful gaze, though he wrinkles up his nose as she bites into the sugary whiskers and crunches them up.

"Mousse mice," he growls. "How quaint. Unless they’re supposed to be the rats deserting a sinking ship!"

"It could have been worse," replies Mary Anne. "It could have been a chocolate moose!"

After daintily blotting her lips with a napkin, Mary Anne lifts the tray and circles the dining room. Her offer of the remaining chocolate mousse, complete with chocolate mice, meets with enthusiastic approval and as she turns back toward The Director, there is only one cup remaining on the tray.

The Director beams as she draws near, and his mouth opens to thank her for the offer . . .

. . . which does not materialize. Mary Anne waltzes past him with the tray and heads straight for the man who stands alone in the farthest shadowed corner of the room, all but unnoticeable there in his forbidding black.

With her sweetest smile in place, Mary Anne holds out the tray.

"Chocolate mousse, Professor?"

MA--this post is for Cindie and Therese, remembering the chocolate mousse (with a chocolate mouse) at The Hourglass in NY. 8-)
Clods--haven't seen that video, but yes, MA, has most definitely fenced with Brandon. *grin* , - Tuesday, November 05, 2002 at 05:55:41 (PST)

Has anyone seen a recent Madonna video? I don't know what it was, as I only saw part of it, but it reminded me a lot of FOF. Fencing: which reminded me of was it MA fencing against Brandon? But she was fencing against herself in a sort of Luke Skywalker battling against himself as in the "tree" during his training way.

And the video also took place in an interrogation room, with a large oneway mirror, which reminded me of the room the Interrogator must be in in the dungeons, plus several other interrogation rooms in the story. And she smashed it the mirror to reveal the watchers on the otherside.

Not one to watch if you don't like blood though.
Claudia <claudia@paradise.net.nz>
- Monday, November 04, 2002 at 16:14:38 (PST)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Evening of Day Seven of the Investigation

"Captain Naismith!" The Coast Guard officer bellowed, saluting the captain of The Dakota with grave courtesy.

"Lieutenant!" Naismith returned the salute, shouting to be heard over the medical evacuation helicopter hovering over the ship.

"Permission to take in tow, Captain!"

"Granted, Lieutenant, with thanks!"

"Our pleasure, Captain!" The lieutenant nodded. "We're just pleased that no one was injured!"

"Actually, Lieutenant, we have an exposure case in Infirmary right now. The ship's nurse is taking care of her -- she's not in any immediate danger, I'm told," Bothari cut in as she slid down the ladder.

Naismith turned to face her. "I was assured it was just dehydration," he said.

"Nossir," she replied. "Should we Heli-Vac her?"

The lieutenant was already speaking into his radio. The thump-thump-thump of the chopper grew louder than sound, until it was felt more than heard. Spotlights danced around as the helicopter hovered above the ship. Shadows swung crazily as two figures, a man and a woman, rappelled out of the 'copter to the deck. A backboard slid down a line between them. They landed, looked over at the lieutenant, who gestured to Naismith. Naismith, in turn, gestured to Bothari. She motioned the two medics to follow her and pounded up the deck and climbed the ladder to the Infirmary.

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

Jamie was following the two medics on the way back, gesticulating wildly and frantically. Diane didn't look too pleased to be strapped down on the backboard as the thundering chopper blades whipped Jamie's hair around his face. She gripped his hand and the medics tried to pull them apart.

After some shouting, unheard over the thump-thump-thump of the Heli-Vac, Jamie was strapped into a lift chair and he and Diane rose into the sky together, into the belly of the spotlight-laden chopper. The two medics were ratched up after, and the helicopter beat its way into the darkness, taking the light with it.

The lights of the Coast Guard ship were all the remained, in the water as their engine stirred and began to pull The Dakota home.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And so we turn to home..., - Sunday, November 03, 2002 at 20:48:21 (PST)

Thanks for the great site! Just note to let you all know that there is a new Snape site in the ether: http://www.angelfire.com/wizard/severus-secrets/index.htm If any of the visitors here like Mr. Rickman as Snape, they may wish to check out this new site. It has only two stories so far, but you may be inspired to send your own! Sincerely, Angela
Angela Gabriel <webmistressangela@lycos.com>
- Saturday, November 02, 2002 at 17:55:11 (PST)

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