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necessarian) wrote2019-01-01 09:57 pm
necessarian) wrote2019-01-01 09:57 pm
Entry tags:
2018 in writing
another year, another summary! i'm using the same template and, as always, you can find my word count + updated fandom cv here.
biggest surprise:
reading the secret history in december and being like, holy shit, i guess i'm going to devote the rest of my life to this novel now. it's the kind of book that does that to you. i knew it had a fandom, going in, so i was definitely entertaining the idea of writing fic for it while reading, and there was a certain point - which i'll talk about when i publish the fic in question - where i realised i had my first idea, and there was no going back. then i tricked myself into shipping richard/francis by writing a post-canon wish fulfillment fic where they go on a road trip and fall in love: out there, somewhere. i mean, i already shipped it, otherwise i wouldn't have conceived of the fic. but now it's ruining my life and now i have so much more secret history in general fic to write. buckle up for 2019.
fandoms written in: harry potter, merlin, the secret history, hamlet
looking back, did you expect to write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected?
looking back, did you expect to write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected?
holy shit, way more. so at the end of last year i was like, i'll set my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
getyourwordsoutgoal to 250k so i can focus on academic writing, sounds sensible, right? uh, in the end i got 450k out, mostly original fiction but still a hell of a lot more fic than i expected. (which was not much.) turns out the trick to writing a lot is setting small, eminently achievable goals. who'd-a thunk it? doing 350k in 2017 and pushing myself that way was super worth it, but i've gone ahead and pledged 250k again. i like this new method.
getyourwordsoutgoal to 250k so i can focus on academic writing, sounds sensible, right? uh, in the end i got 450k out, mostly original fiction but still a hell of a lot more fic than i expected. (which was not much.) turns out the trick to writing a lot is setting small, eminently achievable goals. who'd-a thunk it? doing 350k in 2017 and pushing myself that way was super worth it, but i've gone ahead and pledged 250k again. i like this new method.what’s your own favourite story of the year?
one of my focuses this year was only writing things that i knew i'd enjoy reading. that said, the fic dearest to my heart that i published last year is nothing much to shout about. it's the story of zacharias smith introducing the wizarding world to britpop, and it's very dear to my heart. the focus is on minor characters with very little canon content to go off, the plot is very niche and the vibes unrelatable, and i think that's why i love it. it was a gift for a friend, which i think makes it dear to me because i do love writing gift fics, but i really also treated myself with this one.
did you take any writing risks this year?
i think probably the riskiest thing i did was get good. obviously i can't talk about it here, but i'm having a short story published, and i have another one pending decision on a shortlist. i also kicked my ass back in gear and started reading consistently, which means my writing improved tenfold. when i say i got good, i mean i really let myself be critical of my own writing in a way i haven't before. that sounds morbid, but it was through that process of critique and revision that i started to rejuvenate, and began writing things i'm really, honestly proud to share with the world. some people who helped: jo and emma, both of whom have pushed me to work hard on my ideas, and a friend i won't name because we're collaborating on a lot of original stuff now, who really kicked me ass first out of my comfort zone.
do you have any fanfic or profit goals for the new year?
well i say every year that i'll write less fic and focus on my work but i think by now it's clear that's out the window; writing is the distraction i need for when work gets too much. in terms of fic, particularly, i'm sticking small with my goals. i want to write a lot of secret history fic! but speaking it into existence: the first thing i need to do is finish turning long for this world into a one-shot. i need it off my conscience and i'm not going to be able to finish it otherwise! i also have a couple of ongoing hp wips but nothing that is fully wip on ao3 so i'm taking my time with them. my focus is really on writing a whole lot of niche secret history fic for a small audience, but which will continue to thrill me, and that's what counts :')
best story of the year?
i want to list a few here, as there are few i'm particularly proud of. nothing much to shout about, as listed before. and whose army?, my anthony goldstein canon-divergent spyfic epic that i wrote for obscuro. out there, somewhere, secret history post-epilogue wish-fulfillment. and last but definitely not least, Shadowplay, the fic i wrote for the wolfstar big bang, a 30k spyfic with illustrations byphiso_kun. i'm seriously proud of all of these fics and i hope you'll find something in them to enjoy!
phiso_kun. i'm seriously proud of all of these fics and i hope you'll find something in them to enjoy!most popular story of the year?
according to ao3 stats, the story of mine that got the most kudos this year was Learning to Fly, the first year of hufflepuff draco's time at hogwarts. this came as a surprise to me, because it's genfic, and that doesn't usually do so well! i have a sneaking suspicion it must've been rec'd but i have no concrete evidence of this except for an uptick of kudos earlier in the year. well, i'm proud it was this fic, but it's not the easiest thing for me to write a sequel to at the moment, with my writing where it's at. i'd like to continue it but it'll take time unfortunately.
story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion:
i'm trying not to call my fics under-appreciated but i do like to use this question as an opportunity. since it's newly out there, read my yuletide fic!! i was thrilled to be matched on hamlet for yuletide, and i'm really proud of what i wrote. it's a little experimental: the one scene from five POVs. i hope now that it's under my username, more people will find and enjoy it!
most fun story to write:
i got madly swept up in shaderunners for about a week - i mean i still love the webcomic, but there's nothing like the freshness of a new fandom to compel you to write fic. i wrote about 7k of this fic in one day, just slamming down some baseless speculation about my favourite characters. the result was what shallow boons suffice, which turned out fantastically! carole, who got me into the webcomic, showed it to the creators (with my blessing) and they loved it. that was just the cherry on top.
story with the single sexiest moment:
personally i think it's very sexy to call your crush by your ex's name while in bed with them, and then make up for it by reverting to their nickname that they hate. anyway read my adam/gansey fic broken hearts (make it rain) ;)
most sweet story:
one of the things i did this year was double down on my resolve to avoid writing anything that could be categorised as "fluff," so i wouldn't say i have any particularly sweet stories this year. i guess Learning to Fly is pretty heartwarming, but in a "bad guy getting okay-er" sort of way. also, it's about children, so let's go with that.
"holy crap, that's wrong, even for you!” story:
this bitch of a drabble, time, as it stands, was inspired by slaughterhouse five, which i'd just finished reading when the prompt "i'm not sorry" showed up in my life. i'm very very pleased with how it turned out, for something so short, and i have been informed it's rather cruel, too, so read at your own risk.
story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:
this is 100% for sure my yuletide fic, mortuus est rex (kongen længe leve). my recipient's letter spoke about alternative character interpretations, so i had fun delving into some hamlet character psyches and thinking about how they might react differently to the same scenario. i had particular fun with claudius - i know i love writing villains, but i was surprised by how much i got into his objectionable character! i also thought more deeply about gertrude than i ever had. it was a pleasure to have an excuse to do this sort of deep character study.
most unintentionally telling story:
i don't think i wrote anything telling this year, sorry. at this point i should stop including this question, but like, i might write some fic this year in which i project my entire psyche onto francis abernathy. who knows!
hardest story to write:
i don't have one of these published this year, because all the things i've struggled to finish are still, well, unfinished, languishing in draft form. i would probably say the winner is A Colder War, which i mentioned in last year's round-up as my slow-burn big bang fic. well, that big bang didn't go ahead, and i've made many significiant changes to ACW before settling on a format and plot i'm happy with. but it's taking a long time to come together. one day i will get it out there in the world, my r/s magnum opus, but not yet.
biggest disappointment:
not a single one, fic-wise! well, maybe that i haven't been able to write as many r/s 24 hour challenge fics as i'd like. i also got really into the drabble challenges in this one drarry discord for a while, but then the discord blew up in membership and activity and i had to leave because i found it overwhelming :( i wish i had more opportunities for challengefic like these, and i'm making it a priority in the new year to actively seek them out!
reading the secret history in december and being like, holy shit, i guess i'm going to devote the rest of my life to this novel now. it's the kind of book that does that to you. i knew it had a fandom, going in, so i was definitely entertaining the idea of writing fic for it while reading, and there was a certain point - which i'll talk about when i publish the fic in question - where i realised i had my first idea, and there was no going back. then i tricked myself into shipping richard/francis by writing a post-canon wish fulfillment fic where they go on a road trip and fall in love: out there, somewhere. i mean, i already shipped it, otherwise i wouldn't have conceived of the fic. but now it's ruining my life and now i have so much more secret history in general fic to write. buckle up for 2019.
month-by-month excerpt breakdown:
JANUARY | from July, 1981
They had no time for funerals anymore. One Order member dead, others still in danger—the rest were too busy to mourn.
The graveyard in Upper Flagley was at the edge of town. Remus couldn’t walk in through the church; it was a Sunday morning and the Muggles were out in full-force, dressed in their pressed trousers and blouses, forming a neat line down the front path. A few of them turned to look at Remus as he passed. A bit of a walk further the road dwindled to open fields. Remus veered off the path and climbed over a low wall. There was a low fog, but he didn’t dare cast Lumos. He trusted in his sense of direction and dragged his muddying hemlines through dewy, greying grass.
At last the graveyard resolved itself through the cloud. The church service was in session, the faint notes of a hymn drifting through the sole open window, set high in its stone walls, and with it the only light in the graveyard. By that light Remus found five fresh graves, sitting at the furthest edge of the plot from the church. There was no evidence of deliberate order to any of the graveyard. Some of the headstones may well have been older than the church, and beside them were newer, more ostentatious monuments. For the new graves, one headstone of granite between them. Five names—the McKinnons—and above them the image of a Hippogriff picked out in porphyry. There was no epitaph. It was likely that no-one had the creativity to think of one, not these days.
Figuring he was dirty enough already, Remus sat by the central grave. He had no way of knowing who was interred where; he imagined the parents on the left, the younger siblings to the right, and Marlene in the middle. He ran his fingers over the Earth. Dry. It had rained last night, when they were killed.
The morning after a murder was always the hardest part. This was meant to be the height of summer.
Remus heard a crack, knew someone had Apparated into the graveyard, but didn’t bother to look to the source of the sound. It felt like the height of indecency to Apparate into a place of mourning. There was only one person Remus knew who fit the profile.
“Should’ve guessed I’d find you here,” Sirius said.
The graveyard in Upper Flagley was at the edge of town. Remus couldn’t walk in through the church; it was a Sunday morning and the Muggles were out in full-force, dressed in their pressed trousers and blouses, forming a neat line down the front path. A few of them turned to look at Remus as he passed. A bit of a walk further the road dwindled to open fields. Remus veered off the path and climbed over a low wall. There was a low fog, but he didn’t dare cast Lumos. He trusted in his sense of direction and dragged his muddying hemlines through dewy, greying grass.
At last the graveyard resolved itself through the cloud. The church service was in session, the faint notes of a hymn drifting through the sole open window, set high in its stone walls, and with it the only light in the graveyard. By that light Remus found five fresh graves, sitting at the furthest edge of the plot from the church. There was no evidence of deliberate order to any of the graveyard. Some of the headstones may well have been older than the church, and beside them were newer, more ostentatious monuments. For the new graves, one headstone of granite between them. Five names—the McKinnons—and above them the image of a Hippogriff picked out in porphyry. There was no epitaph. It was likely that no-one had the creativity to think of one, not these days.
Figuring he was dirty enough already, Remus sat by the central grave. He had no way of knowing who was interred where; he imagined the parents on the left, the younger siblings to the right, and Marlene in the middle. He ran his fingers over the Earth. Dry. It had rained last night, when they were killed.
The morning after a murder was always the hardest part. This was meant to be the height of summer.
Remus heard a crack, knew someone had Apparated into the graveyard, but didn’t bother to look to the source of the sound. It felt like the height of indecency to Apparate into a place of mourning. There was only one person Remus knew who fit the profile.
“Should’ve guessed I’d find you here,” Sirius said.
FEBRUARY | from kings among runaways
It was the most fun Remus had had in a long time. Ever, maybe. It ended too soon for his liking, but his bones were aching for his warm bed, so he didn’t complain. It was going to be tough to sneak back to the Hufflepuff dormitories like this. Remus had to cling to the railing to make it down from the Astronomy Tower. He was dizzy with excitement, delirious with exhaustion. He took longer than the others, and when he finished his descent, Potter and Pettigrew had already gone up ahead. Slytherin and Hufflepuff were close by; it would’ve been nice if Pettigrew had waited, but Remus supposed he was getting ahead of himself, expecting too much from his new friends.
Black, though. Black was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing Remus’ left leg.
“You alright? That’s a nasty limp you’ve got there.”
“It’s fine,” Remus said. “I’m so clumsy, things like this happen all the time. It’ll come right in no time.”
“If you’re sure,” Black said. He didn’t sound sure at all, but it still came as a surprise to Remus when he said, “Want me to walk you back to your common room?”
Remus shook his head. “It’s too out of your way, and we’d be going so slow that we’d definitely get caught.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“But—thanks, Black. I appreciate it.”
“Call me Sirius.” His expression was grim. “I’m not like my family.”
Realising that he’d been tensing his shoulders, Remus allowed himself to relax. He even allowed himself to smile. “I know.”
Sirius smiled too, a different smile to the one he’d given Potter. This one was harder to read. He said, “Get back safe, Remus,” and then he was gone.
Black, though. Black was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing Remus’ left leg.
“You alright? That’s a nasty limp you’ve got there.”
“It’s fine,” Remus said. “I’m so clumsy, things like this happen all the time. It’ll come right in no time.”
“If you’re sure,” Black said. He didn’t sound sure at all, but it still came as a surprise to Remus when he said, “Want me to walk you back to your common room?”
Remus shook his head. “It’s too out of your way, and we’d be going so slow that we’d definitely get caught.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“But—thanks, Black. I appreciate it.”
“Call me Sirius.” His expression was grim. “I’m not like my family.”
Realising that he’d been tensing his shoulders, Remus allowed himself to relax. He even allowed himself to smile. “I know.”
Sirius smiled too, a different smile to the one he’d given Potter. This one was harder to read. He said, “Get back safe, Remus,” and then he was gone.
MARCH | from long for this world
Merlin clears his throat. “Arthur, am I a twink?”
It’s way too early for this. “You came here just to ask me that? I’m not going to—”
“The internet says I might be,” Merlin plows on, “but I wanted an expert opinion. Hence, you know, why I had to come to you.”
And he has no phone or email address to contact Gwaine, whose fault this is in entirety. If nothing else, this realisation wakes Arthur up to the many complexities of creating a human being, bringing someone into existence from nothing. If this were the eleventh century they wouldn’t have to do anything, just say Merlin’s a peasant from a town over and no-one would ask questions. If this were the eleventh century, Merlin wouldn't be googling god knows what and barging into Arthur’s room to check if he’s a twink—which he is, but Arthur wonders how much of that is malnourishment, and how much is down to Merlin literally being a reanimated skeleton with flesh stuck on as an afterthought.
“You’re a nightmare,” Arthur says.
Merlin snorts. It’s objectively an ugly laugh. “But am I a twink too?”
Arthur is not going to dignify him with an answer. He is not. He is also not thinking about the fact that there were hot peasants in the eleventh century, or whenever they dredged Merlin up from. Because Merlin isn’t hot. That would be ridiculous.
Well. Maybe he is, a bit, in a purely objective sense, decent-looking. Not that Arthur is… looking.
“Forget it,” Merlin says, after Arthur’s been radio silencing his way through a blue screen of death for the most awkward minute of his life. “Do you have some way I can contact Gwaine? Carrier pigeon?”
Arthur imagines sending a carrier pigeon to Gwaine with a little slip of paper rolled around its leg and a message on it in the kind of handwriting you’d see on a manuscript painstakingly illuminated by a tonsured monk, reading, “Wouldſt thou conſider me to be a twinke? Encloſe thine reſponſe forthwith – Merlin.” He’s mixing his eras—Merlin and the monks would’ve spoken Old English—but the complete lunacy of the mental image is enough to bring Arthur back to himself.
It’s way too early for this. “You came here just to ask me that? I’m not going to—”
“The internet says I might be,” Merlin plows on, “but I wanted an expert opinion. Hence, you know, why I had to come to you.”
And he has no phone or email address to contact Gwaine, whose fault this is in entirety. If nothing else, this realisation wakes Arthur up to the many complexities of creating a human being, bringing someone into existence from nothing. If this were the eleventh century they wouldn’t have to do anything, just say Merlin’s a peasant from a town over and no-one would ask questions. If this were the eleventh century, Merlin wouldn't be googling god knows what and barging into Arthur’s room to check if he’s a twink—which he is, but Arthur wonders how much of that is malnourishment, and how much is down to Merlin literally being a reanimated skeleton with flesh stuck on as an afterthought.
“You’re a nightmare,” Arthur says.
Merlin snorts. It’s objectively an ugly laugh. “But am I a twink too?”
Arthur is not going to dignify him with an answer. He is not. He is also not thinking about the fact that there were hot peasants in the eleventh century, or whenever they dredged Merlin up from. Because Merlin isn’t hot. That would be ridiculous.
Well. Maybe he is, a bit, in a purely objective sense, decent-looking. Not that Arthur is… looking.
“Forget it,” Merlin says, after Arthur’s been radio silencing his way through a blue screen of death for the most awkward minute of his life. “Do you have some way I can contact Gwaine? Carrier pigeon?”
Arthur imagines sending a carrier pigeon to Gwaine with a little slip of paper rolled around its leg and a message on it in the kind of handwriting you’d see on a manuscript painstakingly illuminated by a tonsured monk, reading, “Wouldſt thou conſider me to be a twinke? Encloſe thine reſponſe forthwith – Merlin.” He’s mixing his eras—Merlin and the monks would’ve spoken Old English—but the complete lunacy of the mental image is enough to bring Arthur back to himself.
APRIL | from Learning to Fly
It was a sunny day towards the end of winter; there was snow glistening on the lawns and a crispness to the air, but the sky was clear. It was the perfect backdrop to Draco’s dramatic escape.
The Draco Malfoy Escape Council met for one last time by the boys’ bathrooms on the sixth floor. They couldn’t actually meet in the bathrooms with Susan on the Council. Nevertheless, Draco wanted Susan to know that her position on the Council was tenuous, on account of her being a girl, so he thought that outside the bathrooms was a good location to get that message across. It was the cunning of a Slytherin, not the cowardice of a Hufflepuff, or whatever their house values were meant to be.
“I’m sure you’re both looking forward to this as much as I am,” he said. Susan shook her head a little too convincingly, and Zacharias shrugged. Draco continued: “Today will go down in Hogwarts history. They’ll ask questions about me on tests.”
“Will I get bonus marks for talking about what a windbag you are?” Zacharias said.
“You will instantly fail,” Draco said. “Now, are you ready to duel anyone who gets in my way?”
Fortunately for Zacharias and Susan, who did not seem all too keen on the duelling, nobody was around as they made their way to the Astronomy Tower. The path was clear up ahead, just like the journey from wherever Hogwarts might be to Malfoy Manor, which Draco had spent last night roughly plotting onto a map.
They reached the Astronomy Tower staircase. “Should we leave you here?” Zacharias asked.
“Better not,” Draco said. “If someone tries to stop me while I’m up in the Tower, I’ll need you two to duel them.”
But as soon as Draco looked ahead, there was no-one but him. This was it. He’d made it. He strode triumphantly up the staircase and flung open the door. The sun was blisteringly bright. For a moment, Draco couldn’t see anything at all. When his eyes adjusted, his vision was filled with brilliant blue, and a tall shadow blocking a stripe of sky right in front of him.
The shadow resolved itself into a form Draco had only seen from a distance—Professor Dumbledore.
The Draco Malfoy Escape Council met for one last time by the boys’ bathrooms on the sixth floor. They couldn’t actually meet in the bathrooms with Susan on the Council. Nevertheless, Draco wanted Susan to know that her position on the Council was tenuous, on account of her being a girl, so he thought that outside the bathrooms was a good location to get that message across. It was the cunning of a Slytherin, not the cowardice of a Hufflepuff, or whatever their house values were meant to be.
“I’m sure you’re both looking forward to this as much as I am,” he said. Susan shook her head a little too convincingly, and Zacharias shrugged. Draco continued: “Today will go down in Hogwarts history. They’ll ask questions about me on tests.”
“Will I get bonus marks for talking about what a windbag you are?” Zacharias said.
“You will instantly fail,” Draco said. “Now, are you ready to duel anyone who gets in my way?”
Fortunately for Zacharias and Susan, who did not seem all too keen on the duelling, nobody was around as they made their way to the Astronomy Tower. The path was clear up ahead, just like the journey from wherever Hogwarts might be to Malfoy Manor, which Draco had spent last night roughly plotting onto a map.
They reached the Astronomy Tower staircase. “Should we leave you here?” Zacharias asked.
“Better not,” Draco said. “If someone tries to stop me while I’m up in the Tower, I’ll need you two to duel them.”
But as soon as Draco looked ahead, there was no-one but him. This was it. He’d made it. He strode triumphantly up the staircase and flung open the door. The sun was blisteringly bright. For a moment, Draco couldn’t see anything at all. When his eyes adjusted, his vision was filled with brilliant blue, and a tall shadow blocking a stripe of sky right in front of him.
The shadow resolved itself into a form Draco had only seen from a distance—Professor Dumbledore.
MAY | from every streetlight a reminder
The sky is midnight navy and no stars, too many city lights for them to see stars. The street blinks in white gold and red and red to green at the crossing, colours blurring together like spells flying through the air. At the green light Padma closes her eyes. There had been another green light, four months ago, hurled from the wand of a masked Death Eater and narrowly passing by Padma’s shoulder as she ducked out of its path and lived, lived.
“Are you coming?” Pansy still has her hand and pulls her across the road. Padma doesn’t imagine she would’ve made it otherwise. The light blinks red.
They stop at a 24-hour corner shop and buy water and iced coffee to keep them awake and sober them up. Pansy also gets an ice cream, which she licks at a torturously slow pace, for no apparent reason other than to leave Padma immensely frustrated. When it’s the two of them walking behind the others, Padma takes the ice cream by the stick right out of Pansy’s hands and takes a bite out of it, holding Pansy’s gaze the entire time. Pansy goes as red as the streetlights.
They go back to Anthony’s flat—it’s closest—and open all the windows, cool night air and music humming low from the radio. Padma excuses herself to the bathroom and Pansy knows to follow. She presses Padma back against the glitter-strewn sink and they kiss until their lipstick is the same colour.
“Are you coming back?” Padma asks Pansy. The sink is digging into the small of her back; Pansy’s fingers are drawing circles on her shoulders.
Pansy shrugs. “If they’ll have me.”
Padma doesn’t sympathise with the plight of someone who knows she’s going to be excommunicated for all the right reasons, but she’s also willing to give second chances.
“Put on your warpaint and face it.”
“Are you coming?” Pansy still has her hand and pulls her across the road. Padma doesn’t imagine she would’ve made it otherwise. The light blinks red.
They stop at a 24-hour corner shop and buy water and iced coffee to keep them awake and sober them up. Pansy also gets an ice cream, which she licks at a torturously slow pace, for no apparent reason other than to leave Padma immensely frustrated. When it’s the two of them walking behind the others, Padma takes the ice cream by the stick right out of Pansy’s hands and takes a bite out of it, holding Pansy’s gaze the entire time. Pansy goes as red as the streetlights.
They go back to Anthony’s flat—it’s closest—and open all the windows, cool night air and music humming low from the radio. Padma excuses herself to the bathroom and Pansy knows to follow. She presses Padma back against the glitter-strewn sink and they kiss until their lipstick is the same colour.
“Are you coming back?” Padma asks Pansy. The sink is digging into the small of her back; Pansy’s fingers are drawing circles on her shoulders.
Pansy shrugs. “If they’ll have me.”
Padma doesn’t sympathise with the plight of someone who knows she’s going to be excommunicated for all the right reasons, but she’s also willing to give second chances.
“Put on your warpaint and face it.”
JUNE | from nothing much to shout about
Michael began, “We are not—”
“We’re starting a band,” Zach said, very loudly. “Michael on guitar and me on bass.”
“He doesn’t even own a bass,” Michael said. “It’s a pipe dream.”
Justin, undeterred, clasped his hands together in delight. “Oh, a band! How delightful! Can I join? Not to boast, but I play a little recreational guitar myself. And if you need a singer, I was a boy soprano in the chapel choir before I came to Hogwarts.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Zach said. He could sing decently, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it while concentrating on the bass as well. And he didn’t want to give Michael the satisfaction of being their frontman. “Welcome aboard.”
“Do you have a name?” Justin asked.
“No,” Michael said, “because we’re not a band. Full stop. End of story. Zach doesn’t even have a bass.”
“Maybe we’ll start a band of our own. What say you, Zacharias?”
“I’m absolutely giddy for it,” Zach said.
“I’m leaving,” Michael said. “Good luck with your two-person band with no instruments. Smith, you have my number—call me when you’re drinking.”
Once they’d parted ways with Michael, Zach made eye contact with Justin’s massive suitcase. “Is it really only booze in there?”
“Oh, mostly,” Justin said. “A shirt or two. I suppose that if I run out of clothes I can just buy more.”
Zach stared at him.
“I’m kidding, of course! I keep a full wardrobe at the Chelsea house.”
“In many ways, that’s worse,” Zach said. Sometimes he forgot quite how rich Justin was. He fancied that the purebloods of Wiltshire had nothing on the Finch-Fletchleys, also of Wiltshire.
Justin was unperturbed. “Now, speaking of buying things, Michael mentioned you don’t have a bass.”
“We’re starting a band,” Zach said, very loudly. “Michael on guitar and me on bass.”
“He doesn’t even own a bass,” Michael said. “It’s a pipe dream.”
Justin, undeterred, clasped his hands together in delight. “Oh, a band! How delightful! Can I join? Not to boast, but I play a little recreational guitar myself. And if you need a singer, I was a boy soprano in the chapel choir before I came to Hogwarts.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Zach said. He could sing decently, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it while concentrating on the bass as well. And he didn’t want to give Michael the satisfaction of being their frontman. “Welcome aboard.”
“Do you have a name?” Justin asked.
“No,” Michael said, “because we’re not a band. Full stop. End of story. Zach doesn’t even have a bass.”
“Maybe we’ll start a band of our own. What say you, Zacharias?”
“I’m absolutely giddy for it,” Zach said.
“I’m leaving,” Michael said. “Good luck with your two-person band with no instruments. Smith, you have my number—call me when you’re drinking.”
Once they’d parted ways with Michael, Zach made eye contact with Justin’s massive suitcase. “Is it really only booze in there?”
“Oh, mostly,” Justin said. “A shirt or two. I suppose that if I run out of clothes I can just buy more.”
Zach stared at him.
“I’m kidding, of course! I keep a full wardrobe at the Chelsea house.”
“In many ways, that’s worse,” Zach said. Sometimes he forgot quite how rich Justin was. He fancied that the purebloods of Wiltshire had nothing on the Finch-Fletchleys, also of Wiltshire.
Justin was unperturbed. “Now, speaking of buying things, Michael mentioned you don’t have a bass.”
JULY | from broken hearts (make it rain)
Adam’s PhD was in physics, and Gansey didn’t think he’d ever met someone who so suited his discipline.
They made a habit of meeting in the coffee shop on campus whenever they could. Gansey felt like a man starved, who had crawled through the desert and finally come to an oasis, and now he didn’t want to leave. Even when Adam talked in a language Gansey didn’t understand in the least, Gansey could listen to the sound of his voice for hours on end.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked Adam to explain his PhD in such great detail.
“—because the thing about the space-time tensor is that—you’re not paying attention, are you?”
“Hm?” Gansey was stirring his coffee absently. Those were the first words he’d understood since galaxy. “Oh, I’m keeping up just fine. It’s all very interesting.”
“It’s okay,” Adam said, “you can admit you don’t get it. Most days I don’t get it either. I just do the math.”
That was so blatantly a falsehood that Gansey was almost offended, but he knew Adam never lied about his own ability to deliberately undersell himself. Adam genuinely never estimated himself highly enough. Luckily he had Gansey to do that for him again, as had always done.
“I’m listening,” Gansey said. “Keep going.”
Hesitantly, Adam did. “Well, as I was saying, you can formulate the space-time tensor in a number of different ways, depending on the cosmology you want it to describe. So one of the things I’m doing is running simulations that compare those different formulations.”
“See, I understood that,” Gansey said. “You put math into a computer and it tells you what space looks like. So where do the galaxies come into it again?”
“Back to the start,” Adam said, shaking his head, but smiling.
Gansey’s PhD was in history. It couldn’t be in anything else, despite the courses in language and anthropology he’d experimented with as an undergrad. Specifically, it was in early Medieval Welsh history—Gansey had a lot to say on the subject of dead kings. He was, after all, one himself. But history would always be an awkward fit on Gansey; he dived too deep, specialised too intently, to be able to truly appreciate a broader context.
Adam, on the other hand, was a perfect fit for physics. He was a being of immaculate geometry, as uncanny as a simulation and as obscure as the galaxies he studied, whose light reached Earth billions of years before the concept of history had even existed.
Or perhaps Gansey would think Adam was perfect, whatever he did.
They made a habit of meeting in the coffee shop on campus whenever they could. Gansey felt like a man starved, who had crawled through the desert and finally come to an oasis, and now he didn’t want to leave. Even when Adam talked in a language Gansey didn’t understand in the least, Gansey could listen to the sound of his voice for hours on end.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked Adam to explain his PhD in such great detail.
“—because the thing about the space-time tensor is that—you’re not paying attention, are you?”
“Hm?” Gansey was stirring his coffee absently. Those were the first words he’d understood since galaxy. “Oh, I’m keeping up just fine. It’s all very interesting.”
“It’s okay,” Adam said, “you can admit you don’t get it. Most days I don’t get it either. I just do the math.”
That was so blatantly a falsehood that Gansey was almost offended, but he knew Adam never lied about his own ability to deliberately undersell himself. Adam genuinely never estimated himself highly enough. Luckily he had Gansey to do that for him again, as had always done.
“I’m listening,” Gansey said. “Keep going.”
Hesitantly, Adam did. “Well, as I was saying, you can formulate the space-time tensor in a number of different ways, depending on the cosmology you want it to describe. So one of the things I’m doing is running simulations that compare those different formulations.”
“See, I understood that,” Gansey said. “You put math into a computer and it tells you what space looks like. So where do the galaxies come into it again?”
“Back to the start,” Adam said, shaking his head, but smiling.
Gansey’s PhD was in history. It couldn’t be in anything else, despite the courses in language and anthropology he’d experimented with as an undergrad. Specifically, it was in early Medieval Welsh history—Gansey had a lot to say on the subject of dead kings. He was, after all, one himself. But history would always be an awkward fit on Gansey; he dived too deep, specialised too intently, to be able to truly appreciate a broader context.
Adam, on the other hand, was a perfect fit for physics. He was a being of immaculate geometry, as uncanny as a simulation and as obscure as the galaxies he studied, whose light reached Earth billions of years before the concept of history had even existed.
Or perhaps Gansey would think Adam was perfect, whatever he did.
AUGUST | from Shadowplay
West of the Iron Curtain was just the same as the East; the streets this late at night were cloaked in the same dim glow and the sounds were the same, scuffling strays, distant cars, the odd gunshot to keep everyone on their toes. The light of a full moon—last night, waning gibbous now through a gauzy screen of cloud—didn’t care where in the world it found you. The bars of the cage which protected the outside world from the wayward wolf were solid as ever.
The only difference, Remus reflected, was which cadre of tyrants had drilled their flagpoles into the concrete. Although he supposed it didn’t matter as much now that the Wall lay in ruins.
He had woken early that morning in a cage in West Berlin. Not one of the public cages, thank Merlin, but a private cage at the home of a fellow agent who Remus had never met. Certainly, though, the agent was well-off enough that they could have such an expansive attic in the middle of such a highly-strung city. There had been other oddities in the attic, marble busts atop antique cabinets and cardboard boxes packed tight with empty frames and blank canvases. Remus’ immediate superiors had deemed it unsuitable for him to undergo the transformation in his own home, a bedsit in East Berlin for some years now, when he was due in West Berlin the following evening. Although he resented the imposition on his autonomy, they provided him with Wolfsbane as one of the perks of the job, so he could hardly dissent.
Remus’ rendez-vous was a short walk from the affluent townhouse, down an alleyway between blocks of flats with no front doors, only garbage cans and stale smoke in the air. It could’ve been anywhere in Remus’ neighbourhood, but it was tinged with surreality. This was more surreal than waking up in an attic with a sculpted bust of a handsome young man eyeing him louchely. Less that the KGB would consider partnering with the CIA in the shadow of the Curtain, more that James—
James was alive. Lily was alive.
Sirius was, unfortunately, alive.
“You’re late.” Sirius was half out of shadow, half lit up streetlight-yellow. His accent was verging on transatlantic after years of misuse. “Do the clocks run differently under communism?”
“I’m out of touch with the propaganda,” Remus said. “You tell me.”
“I guess you were playing tourist.”
The tourist, yes—the tourist in the corner of the cafe reading over case files. How did Sirius know he’d been in West Berlin all day? Unless…
“It was your house.”
Sirius shrugged. “They asked me to put up one of the KGB’s wolves for the night. What does it say that I didn’t ask questions? I only found out it was you I’d be meeting when they carried you in, sedated.”
“To think we’ve been so close by each other and we didn’t know it.”
Years of windows of opportunity. Special branch had the Trace on all of their agents, so Remus didn’t dare Apparate if he could help it. If he’d known it was walking distance, he would’ve killed Sirius Black as soon as he had the chance.
The only difference, Remus reflected, was which cadre of tyrants had drilled their flagpoles into the concrete. Although he supposed it didn’t matter as much now that the Wall lay in ruins.
He had woken early that morning in a cage in West Berlin. Not one of the public cages, thank Merlin, but a private cage at the home of a fellow agent who Remus had never met. Certainly, though, the agent was well-off enough that they could have such an expansive attic in the middle of such a highly-strung city. There had been other oddities in the attic, marble busts atop antique cabinets and cardboard boxes packed tight with empty frames and blank canvases. Remus’ immediate superiors had deemed it unsuitable for him to undergo the transformation in his own home, a bedsit in East Berlin for some years now, when he was due in West Berlin the following evening. Although he resented the imposition on his autonomy, they provided him with Wolfsbane as one of the perks of the job, so he could hardly dissent.
Remus’ rendez-vous was a short walk from the affluent townhouse, down an alleyway between blocks of flats with no front doors, only garbage cans and stale smoke in the air. It could’ve been anywhere in Remus’ neighbourhood, but it was tinged with surreality. This was more surreal than waking up in an attic with a sculpted bust of a handsome young man eyeing him louchely. Less that the KGB would consider partnering with the CIA in the shadow of the Curtain, more that James—
James was alive. Lily was alive.
Sirius was, unfortunately, alive.
“You’re late.” Sirius was half out of shadow, half lit up streetlight-yellow. His accent was verging on transatlantic after years of misuse. “Do the clocks run differently under communism?”
“I’m out of touch with the propaganda,” Remus said. “You tell me.”
“I guess you were playing tourist.”
The tourist, yes—the tourist in the corner of the cafe reading over case files. How did Sirius know he’d been in West Berlin all day? Unless…
“It was your house.”
Sirius shrugged. “They asked me to put up one of the KGB’s wolves for the night. What does it say that I didn’t ask questions? I only found out it was you I’d be meeting when they carried you in, sedated.”
“To think we’ve been so close by each other and we didn’t know it.”
Years of windows of opportunity. Special branch had the Trace on all of their agents, so Remus didn’t dare Apparate if he could help it. If he’d known it was walking distance, he would’ve killed Sirius Black as soon as he had the chance.
SEPTEMBER | from breathing, indiscreet
He was shivering. This was, objectively, the worst sort of job. Late night as the weather was turning, late September. Outside a manor in the heartland of rural wealth, unplottable, only overturned because there were blood traitors on their side. Sirius and his good memory. They were spies; there were spies on both sides. Sirius was the best sort of spy, the kind any spymaster would fawn over, because he didn’t need to be a double agent. He was a sleeper. He had spent his childhood planted in the rotten soil and when they pulled him out he was full of information and idealism.
Remus was the other kind of spy. Brought up sheltered from it all, and dropped back into it. The kind of spy you want as far away from you as possible. So he liked this sort of job. Purebloods, fox hunts. Being stuck up a tree beat Greyback’s gang any day. Any night.
The scouting party were right below them now. Impossible to say who they were; black hoods and masks to hide their face, anonymous white fingers around wands that could’ve been any twig off the forest floor. Every now and then one of the dogs will bark and the party will pause. They’ll sniff around a tree and then move onto another. None of them have thought to look up yet.
“How much longer?”
“Shh.” Remus still did not look at Sirius. “Close your eyes. Imagine you’re anywhere else but here.”
“Hogwarts,” Sirius said, the single word like a breath of relief escaping him to fog up the night air. “Autumn was the best season to be at Hogwarts. Castle was cold but not too chilly yet. Sausage casserole every night. Too early in the year for anyone to bother much if you went skulking around.”
“You only remember it so romantic because it was early in the year. Home was a fresh memory. You’d rather be anywhere else after summer. The year hadn’t had time to go to shit yet, in autumn.”
“I thought the point of imagining I was somewhere better was to forget all that,” Sirius said. He nudged Remus; inadvisable, but neither of them fell. “Or am I playing this game wrong?”
“I was talking about myself.”
“You were talking about both of us.”
Remus sighed. “Yeah. I was.”
OCTOBER | from and whose army?Remus was the other kind of spy. Brought up sheltered from it all, and dropped back into it. The kind of spy you want as far away from you as possible. So he liked this sort of job. Purebloods, fox hunts. Being stuck up a tree beat Greyback’s gang any day. Any night.
The scouting party were right below them now. Impossible to say who they were; black hoods and masks to hide their face, anonymous white fingers around wands that could’ve been any twig off the forest floor. Every now and then one of the dogs will bark and the party will pause. They’ll sniff around a tree and then move onto another. None of them have thought to look up yet.
“How much longer?”
“Shh.” Remus still did not look at Sirius. “Close your eyes. Imagine you’re anywhere else but here.”
“Hogwarts,” Sirius said, the single word like a breath of relief escaping him to fog up the night air. “Autumn was the best season to be at Hogwarts. Castle was cold but not too chilly yet. Sausage casserole every night. Too early in the year for anyone to bother much if you went skulking around.”
“You only remember it so romantic because it was early in the year. Home was a fresh memory. You’d rather be anywhere else after summer. The year hadn’t had time to go to shit yet, in autumn.”
“I thought the point of imagining I was somewhere better was to forget all that,” Sirius said. He nudged Remus; inadvisable, but neither of them fell. “Or am I playing this game wrong?”
“I was talking about myself.”
“You were talking about both of us.”
Remus sighed. “Yeah. I was.”
Before the war started, there were warning signs. There were attacks all around magical Britain. There were attacks at Hogwarts. Letters had been sent home to parents assuring them that the attacks were being investigated, and that it would not happen again. The letters always ended with, There is nowhere safer than Hogwarts.
“There’s nowhere safer than Hogwarts,” Justin explained as they walked. Their entrance to the sprawling grounds was through an underground passage that ran from the Hog’s Head to the Forbidden Forest. “Unplottable, invisible to Muggles. Full of ingredients and books and students to radicalise.”
Anthony waited for Justin to crack a smile, or any indication that he was joking. It did not come.
“We’ve built a home in the Forbidden Forest,” he continued. “We have a small intake of students every year: Muggleborns. We even sneak up to the castle to borrow the Sorting Hat for them. The Ministry really shot themselves in the foot, restricting the trace by lineage. We have some bright minds in our R&D division. It was Padma who worked out how to get the trace running on our end.”
“Padma,” Anthony said, breathless and not from the walking. “I haven’t seen Padma since our last patrol together on the Hogwarts Express.”
Justin sighed. “It’s thanks to Padma we have a school at all. A lot of us are teachers now, or researchers. Michael does a lot of Arithmancy, like you I suppose. And then a lot of us are on the front lines. We have people in the Ministry. People in the Muggle government—well, just me, but you know. We’re everywhere. We even have someone in the—I’ll have to fill you in on the Order of the Phoenix.”
Anthony nodded along like he didn’t already know this. There was some new information in there. Teachers, researchers. Aubrey had mentioned the problem of the overlooked Muggleborn children; now Anthony knew exactly where they were going. And there were names. Padma, Michael. Would Anthony see them when they arrived? And who else?
The tunnel tapered to its end. There was no light from the chute up to the surface; they were in the Forbidden Forest, beneath a thick canopy. The tunnel came out in an area that looked like it could have been any forest anywhere in Scotland. It was the same in every direction.
“This way,” Justin said.
They walked for ten minutes more. Anthony had never conceived of how large the Forbidden Forest was. This grandeur made sense. The DA were certainly well-hidden.
At last they came to a clearing in the forest. There was a garden of fruit, vegetables, and potion ingredients, and there were teenagers kneeling about the place with trowels. Eight years, Anthony thought. Eight generations of witches and wizards who’d never made it to Hogwarts; the closest they got was a forest that was off-limits to regular students. How many of them were still here? He’d wager all of them. Children drafted into a war in a world they hadn’t known existed. The sight of them laughing and gardening made his heart ache.
Behind the garden was a house. No, to call it a house was an understatement. It was a wooden structure built around the trees with not a care in the world for architectural convention. Rooms were stacked precariously atop one another, some windows open and others very deliberately shut. The front door looked to be made of one giant panel of wood, and it had a Hogwarts crest crudely carved at the centre. In place of the Latin motto were the words: Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting.
“There’s nowhere safer than Hogwarts,” Justin explained as they walked. Their entrance to the sprawling grounds was through an underground passage that ran from the Hog’s Head to the Forbidden Forest. “Unplottable, invisible to Muggles. Full of ingredients and books and students to radicalise.”
Anthony waited for Justin to crack a smile, or any indication that he was joking. It did not come.
“We’ve built a home in the Forbidden Forest,” he continued. “We have a small intake of students every year: Muggleborns. We even sneak up to the castle to borrow the Sorting Hat for them. The Ministry really shot themselves in the foot, restricting the trace by lineage. We have some bright minds in our R&D division. It was Padma who worked out how to get the trace running on our end.”
“Padma,” Anthony said, breathless and not from the walking. “I haven’t seen Padma since our last patrol together on the Hogwarts Express.”
Justin sighed. “It’s thanks to Padma we have a school at all. A lot of us are teachers now, or researchers. Michael does a lot of Arithmancy, like you I suppose. And then a lot of us are on the front lines. We have people in the Ministry. People in the Muggle government—well, just me, but you know. We’re everywhere. We even have someone in the—I’ll have to fill you in on the Order of the Phoenix.”
Anthony nodded along like he didn’t already know this. There was some new information in there. Teachers, researchers. Aubrey had mentioned the problem of the overlooked Muggleborn children; now Anthony knew exactly where they were going. And there were names. Padma, Michael. Would Anthony see them when they arrived? And who else?
The tunnel tapered to its end. There was no light from the chute up to the surface; they were in the Forbidden Forest, beneath a thick canopy. The tunnel came out in an area that looked like it could have been any forest anywhere in Scotland. It was the same in every direction.
“This way,” Justin said.
They walked for ten minutes more. Anthony had never conceived of how large the Forbidden Forest was. This grandeur made sense. The DA were certainly well-hidden.
At last they came to a clearing in the forest. There was a garden of fruit, vegetables, and potion ingredients, and there were teenagers kneeling about the place with trowels. Eight years, Anthony thought. Eight generations of witches and wizards who’d never made it to Hogwarts; the closest they got was a forest that was off-limits to regular students. How many of them were still here? He’d wager all of them. Children drafted into a war in a world they hadn’t known existed. The sight of them laughing and gardening made his heart ache.
Behind the garden was a house. No, to call it a house was an understatement. It was a wooden structure built around the trees with not a care in the world for architectural convention. Rooms were stacked precariously atop one another, some windows open and others very deliberately shut. The front door looked to be made of one giant panel of wood, and it had a Hogwarts crest crudely carved at the centre. In place of the Latin motto were the words: Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting.
NOVEMBER | apparently i really wrote zero words of fic in november. i guess you could call it... no fic november... :^)
DECEMBER | from out there, somewhere
There was a lot on my mind. Most of it was to do with Francis. Francis’ lips, his hands, the way his face looked when he dropped his affected manner and smiled. And then there was me: the fool who’d upended his life without considering the gravity of what I was doing. We had always been close but now I really wondered what he saw in me, if anything. He didn’t want to be with me but he let me kiss him. I didn’t even know why I wanted to kiss him. It was a happy impulse under certain circumstances, shadowed by the war I was waging with myself. I was not straight. I was having trouble accepting that.
I got out of the shower and changed into my bedclothes while Francis dozed. I felt shy around him; even though his eyes were shut, he was facing my way as I changed. The lights were all on, and that hadn’t seemed to disturb him, so I turned on the TV to distract myself—there was no way I was getting to sleep. I muted the sound; it was programmed to a teleshopping channel when I turned it on and, though I could not be bothered to change it, I could not afford what they were selling. Anyway, the announcers on these infomercials were always so shrill. The lack of volume was no great loss.
I sat on the bed nearest the door and propped myself up on the stiff pillows. They were selling watches, a brand I’d never heard of. Watches for him and her, promised the text at the bottom of the screen. The first one had a square face and a thick, gold-coloured metal strap. The dial was saturated with information. I imagined the announcer, an ageless man in a timeless suit, explaining all its functions in an enthusiastic but not abrasive tone. He had a sleazy smile. The next watch he showed had plastic casing—for the man with an active lifestyle, I imagined him saying. Or one caught in the rain for four days straight.
Francis’ watch was on his right wrist. It would’ve been on his left, but I suppose it chafed against the bandages and his scars. It was a classic sort of watch, plain face and black leather band, second hand ticking gently in the quiet. Both of his hands were resting in front of him on the bed, his watch face-down. I hadn’t had a chance to change his bandages.
I got out of the shower and changed into my bedclothes while Francis dozed. I felt shy around him; even though his eyes were shut, he was facing my way as I changed. The lights were all on, and that hadn’t seemed to disturb him, so I turned on the TV to distract myself—there was no way I was getting to sleep. I muted the sound; it was programmed to a teleshopping channel when I turned it on and, though I could not be bothered to change it, I could not afford what they were selling. Anyway, the announcers on these infomercials were always so shrill. The lack of volume was no great loss.
I sat on the bed nearest the door and propped myself up on the stiff pillows. They were selling watches, a brand I’d never heard of. Watches for him and her, promised the text at the bottom of the screen. The first one had a square face and a thick, gold-coloured metal strap. The dial was saturated with information. I imagined the announcer, an ageless man in a timeless suit, explaining all its functions in an enthusiastic but not abrasive tone. He had a sleazy smile. The next watch he showed had plastic casing—for the man with an active lifestyle, I imagined him saying. Or one caught in the rain for four days straight.
Francis’ watch was on his right wrist. It would’ve been on his left, but I suppose it chafed against the bandages and his scars. It was a classic sort of watch, plain face and black leather band, second hand ticking gently in the quiet. Both of his hands were resting in front of him on the bed, his watch face-down. I hadn’t had a chance to change his bandages.
I looked back at the TV. The man had moved onto women’s watches. Delicate and elegant! said the bottom of the screen. Only $79.99!
I switched it off and got up. The lightswitch was by the door, and I went there now. Our window overlooked the highway and, a second after I flicked the switch, the beams of light from a passing car swooped across the room through the sheer curtains, illuminating my path to the bed by the windows. I knelt by Francis and unfastened his watch, slipping it from his wrist and placing it on the bedside table.
He stirred, opening one eye. “Richard?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Move,” I said, and he shuffled aside so I could climb in beside him.
It was the best I’d slept in years.
I switched it off and got up. The lightswitch was by the door, and I went there now. Our window overlooked the highway and, a second after I flicked the switch, the beams of light from a passing car swooped across the room through the sheer curtains, illuminating my path to the bed by the windows. I knelt by Francis and unfastened his watch, slipping it from his wrist and placing it on the bedside table.
He stirred, opening one eye. “Richard?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Move,” I said, and he shuffled aside so I could climb in beside him.
It was the best I’d slept in years.
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and i'm excited to be back, thank you for running it again!!