I · know · what · I · am

Title: Senses
Rating: PG
Pairing: Up to you. I would love to receive feedback on whom you think this refers to.
Notes: Please, inform me of places to post this to. Without feedback my desire to write dies an ignominious death. This piece was done on the bases that I had a sudden desire - an inspiration, if you will - to write something short involving all five senses and a distinct lack of obvious first-person viewpoint although it is in fact in a first-person perspective. I'm fairly pleased with it, but I'm most likely biased. It is rather late.


He's standing on the Quidditch pitch, leaning over due to the weight of the multiple arms; hugging, patting him on the back. He's grinning like an idiot, mouth open, almost laughing with the sheer joy of success. His hair is tousled, his shirt sweaty and rumpled. His eyes are half-closed due to the wideness of his smile, and his nose is wrinkled - just a little - for the same reason. There are two trails of sweat running from his hair down his neck which disappear into the back of his shirt. His clothes are the colors of royalty, the colors of lions, the colors of power. He is heading in that direction.

He smells of many things. Grass, overwhelmingly, and the dried, oiled smell particular to riding brooms. Surprisingly he doesn't smell of sweat...is this some special skill he has, some trick of genes, or does he actually smell of it but his smell is so familiar as to have become undetectable? He leaves for a while, in which there is a complete absence of sensory perception, and when he is back he smells of plain soap and shower water and heat.

His worn-out shoes make soft tapping noises on the stone floor. His cloak rustles against itself. Something in his pocket jingles softly. Further off, voices can barely be heard. There is a clanking somewhere near the ceiling so very high above - probably an owl that's lost it's way. His laughter is low and vibrates against the neck. It sounds content. Can he always be this happy? It's rare to see him otherwise. He breathes softly, evenly, trustingly, and it sounds not like home but perhaps like comfort.

He tastes pure. His skin tastes of the same plain soap it smells of. It also tastes of lemons. Lemon suddenly seems like a pure taste. His lips taste of lemons, too, but his mouth tastes of some candy he must have been eating, of many fruits and a dark chocolate aftertaste. That aftertaste is addicting. He tastes like a drug. He tastes like a vice of purity.

Soft skin on his neck, and his arms. A bone in his hip that digs into the thigh, but is mostly ignored. Hair full of clean, wet tangles. Drips of water on the hands that were in it inch down the arm, also to be ignored. He is hot to the touch. Is this the shower? The situation? Perhaps it's just him; perhaps he operates at a higher body temperature. Perhaps he is comfort.

Perhaps there doesn't need to be an explanation.

Er...I've really no idea how to do one of these things. I always skip past them, normally. I shall ignore the "disclaimer", as I find them to be [for the most part] stupid and useless.
Title: A Matter of Choice
Rating: G? For now.
Pairing: None.
Notes: Well, When I wrote this I...well, first of all I have no beta-er, so I can't really be responsible for any errors I didn't catch...but yes, I wrote it in three-in-the-morning inspiration time, and I left myself lots of notes as to a future for this story, so perhaps someday I'll write more. I really think I should make a point of updating this journal every once in a while, if only with some sort of drabble, so here you are. Shall I cut for drabbles, or is that unnecessary? I can't seem to decide. I've just noticed my icon goes along so splendidly with this story that I'm shocked I didn't see it before. Anyway. Enjoy.

The big difference between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter was that Harry had choices.
Maybe it was the smell of the butterbeer or the sight of Potter laughing happily in The Three Broomsticks that triggered this errant thought. Thankfully, he hadn't spoken it aloud, but it was his prevalent one at the moment. He had to keep reminding himself why he had come to be there even though Potter and his friends were having so much fun nearby. Something happens to your thought process when you're doing something you hate but have no choice about doing. This a totally different experience than doing something you hate but chose to do, or something you didn't choose but don't care about. The past 16 years of Draco's life had been spent doing things he hated and had no choice but to do. His memory was full of uncomfortable, it-brings-honor-to-the-Malfoy-name tasks he had been given - tasks done for his father, for his father's "friends", for his (eventual) "Lord". He had been taught how to talk, how to act, who to hate, and who to be. After a certain point, his father had just assumed that Draco's easy acquiescence stemmed from his agreement with his father in all things, and Draco had never cared enough to tell him otherwise. His life had been comfortable and good and he had been powerful, with his father as an ever-present threat to whomever he had a problem with. As all that slid out of his grasp, though, Draco wished he had choices - any, at all.

You know, these people, these - ugh - muggle people, writing their little stories all over the place have quite a number of interesting ideas about the relationship[s] I am in. It has recently come to my attention that the majority of them are absolutely wrong about almost every aspect of my life. If they're doing this on purpose, fine, I hope they enjoy themselves, but I've compiled a bit of a list, see, for those of them too stupid to figure out how things actually work on their own [despite having quite enough evidence to figure it out, but what can you expect from these insects? No wizarding blood at all, it's disgusting.] The list is as follows:

Number One: I am not a fairy. I have not and will never suddenly become a girl, figuratively or literally. If you love me so very much - and there is quite a lot to love about me, I've always thought - then why would you ever try to take away the base of my personality just to make your sick fantasies [which I notice you lot enjoy to a degree that is truly shocking] easier to imagine? For goodness' sake, don't be any more stupid than you were obviously born.

Number Two: Assuming for a moment I was in a relationship with Potter, we would - if I am forced to be honest - probably be fairly even in er..."top" and "bottom"...whatever. Oh god, that idea is disgusting. I think I might need to take a shower as soon as this is over. This does however tie in to number one, aka "I am not a girl". Pet names in this supposed relationship are of course out of the question.

Number Three: It would take me a lot more than good [or even incredible] sex to decide that Hell, my parents were wrong all these years, and GOSH don't I actually love those half-breed monstrosities like Potter's friend Granger! It would also take a period of no less than a month, and that's including some very far-out possible circumstances.

Number Four: I find both Weasley and Granger to be beneath my concern. First of all, Weasley is a blood traitor and Granger is a mudblood. This, however, is apparently not enough to stop you from imagining ways for me to become their best friend, so I'm going to make it clear that I probably care about and think as highly of them as Potter thinks of my mates Crabbe and Goyle. You see? Complete lack of acknowledgement at all, besides disgust for them based on what they are and who they've chosen to hang out with. Remarkably similar, actually, now that I really think about it.

Number Five: I have absolutely no plans to join the Order of the Phoenix. I am first of all far too young to make that decision, and I am not Professor Snape. I say this because so many of these ignorant fools seem to believe that because he joined, I would too.

Number Six: You don't know my marks in school. You just don't. I have taken great pains to keep the details of this from anyone but people who actually have any reason to know. You can make them up a bit, but let me just leave you with the thought - difficult though it might be for you to understand - that if my marks were either abysmal or incredible, you would surely have heard it from me.

Number Seven: I am not Snape. Take the idea presented in number five and expand.

Number Eight: I am not Potter. If you write me as though I am Potter, I will without hesitation try out a dark curse on you. I'm learning rather a lot of them, so believe me when I say I would love to test some on a nice, worthless muggle. It's who they were meant for, actually, so I would actually feel rather like I accomplished something. Lovely feeling, you know.

Number Nine: Despite what your media would have you think, with that horrid film series, I am not worthless, useless, spineless, easily scared, or even more easily beaten by something almost completely non-threatening. You can try and talk back all you like, mentioning the Shack incident, but I would love for you to stand next to the most haunted place in England and be - as far as every hint showed - haunted, and not react. Obviously, as soon as I realized it was Potter's huge head, I went straight back to inform Snape, I didn't run off weeping in fear like an idiot girl.

Will add on more ideas as I think of them.