Location: Hermione's creative mind. Residence.
Date: Sept. 1, 2000
Status/Warning: Complete/Terribly-written Fiction
Summary: A page out of a W.I.P.
Completion: Complete, and yet not.
a/n: I'm not back. Work has me double-shifting a lot, and yesterday I worked a twelve hour day, so I'm burnt out as far as RP goes, but here's something to tide you over.
There are things even her boyfriend doesn't know.
Of course he knows about the trunk at the foot of the bed, ancient, covered in runes, protective magic, bumper stickers. What he doesn't know is what it contains. He's seen it, peripherally. Most people have, as Hermione points her wand business-like at three locks in silent succession, reaching in to re-emerge with a very select bundle of papers. It's a non-verbal spell, one of the more powerful ones. Everything about the protection on the chest radiates power.
He's tried Alohomora.
In Hermione's defense, she has reasons for spell-protected secrecy. She's not one for it normally, never a gossip but always too-trusting of people's discretion. All the better she didn't know about Percy and Cho until just recently -- the news could have broken to the wrong people (A mother-like, Weasley-shaped sort of people) in the flurry to congratulate and demand invitations.
The contents of the chest shouldn't have the same gravity, of course, but their importance is not to be overlooked.
There are lists, bundles upon bundles of them, many completed, many half-marked, half-written. There are logs, too. Daily diaries, planners, Hogwarts most memorable homework assignments. But the most important things are at the bottom, rolled together and tied thickly with a leather strap, fraying at the edges from use.
And they read like this:
Written by: Hermione Granger.
Alanna's immaculate handwriting
dusty parchment. It felt delicate between her fingers, promising to fall apart
at the wrong breath or false scibble of the quill. [smallish inkblot]
She sat perched on the edge of her seat like a waiting owl, nose pressed
close to the parchment but eyes never seeming to sit still. They searched the library,
pausing to study each face in passing.
Alanna (never Ally) was waiting for something.
A sudden tap on the shoulder made her
dark stain spreading like sickness over the paper she'd only moments ago put
finishing touches on. She bolted upright, all in the same motion shoving away from the desk
-- which only seemed to anguish the spill further, puddles of ink
spreading like something out of a nightmare, almost distracting from the hand on her shoulder.
* [*Footnote: "Re-evaluate. Am I rambling?"]
"Desincaustro." Another hand appeared from around her shoulder, holding a
sculpted mahogany wand of phoenix feather and dragonsbane
paper, magically re-appearing in the inkwell.
Patricia looked up, into the golden eyes of her assailant, and though she hadn't believed
it possible for her heart to beat faster,
here it was.
He was a tall man, beautifully sculpted in every way, with hair the color of
night and eyes the color of honey. When he spoke, she could swear she
heard the angels sing
"Alanna," he said in a smooth, silk-laden voice that matched the soft
masculinity of his eyes.
And although he was moving his mouth, Alanna was having trouble understanding
"Alanna, you don't have to stay all night."
Unless you want to, Alanna added silently, hopefully remembering how long it had
been since the last time she'd 'spent the night' anywhere other than at home with
god of a man.
But then Alanna came to her senses, her quick wit saving her
when her tongue wouldn't.
keep running without me as its chief archivist," she said in a pleasant voice, smiling
mostly because his hand was still on her shoulder.
Gareth's smile was dazzling in return. "I imagine," he began, "that you
can't have much of a social life when you're cooped up in here. Give me a call when
you get off, yeah?"
Alanna smiled back.* [Footnote: Should I have them smiling so much? Re-evaluate.]
"I will, most definitely."
Alanna sighed, looking down at her now-clean parchment, perfectly written
if not for the small blot of ink in the bottom left corner.
Gareth was amazing -- everything every girl could want in a
man. Out of everyone's league, hers least of all.
Alanna considered herself dreadfully unattractive, her long hair falling to
she usually kept it pinned up when working in the stacks.
Her eyes were a bit pale, matching the sunless pallor of her skin from working long
However, despite what Gareth Flagstaff and the rest of the library
thought, Alanna was not the typical book witch.
This was why she'd turned him down.
It was why she couldn't keep a boyfriend or a flatmate.
By night, Alanna Soulforge was a Ministry spy.
~end ch. 1