Library Lovin'
By: Litt
Dis: All characters and situations are the "rightful" property of one, Jo Rowling; of which, I'm only the humble owner of a few measly OC's and a pitiful plot.
AN: This, as most should have guessed given my adamancy against this ship, is for 'Vi who, on a number of occasions, has been oh so passionate on her quest for that long awaited scene. Which, I'll admit, is more than I'd do if I'd waited a year and a half. It should never, ever, (ever, ever, ever) be associated, mentioned in the same sentence, nor mixed in company with anything "Noodles" related as this is just a spinoff and we all know this god-awful pair is wrong and should burn, burn, burn!—But, nonetheless, I find myself retching my very soul out here for this fic and, despite the disgusting thought of it all, I'm quite proud of it.
I hope you're happy, Hypocrite!
~~
The only other occupant of the table had seemingly left; only a bag, a few scribbled notes, and a cloak remained in their spot near the middle. Figuring they'd be back, Harry sat a few seats down opposite them, mindful of Madam Pince's eyes on him.
15 inches on the scroll ordered by Proff. Binns later, the chair-opposite- Him's owner arrived. Absently, he glanced up, automatically placing a polite smile on his face, ready to nod and go back to reading Goblin Warfare. He did this without really seeing or comprehending the blur that was organizing their things before turning back to the parchment splayed on the oak desk. However, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint on the cloak as it was pulled around the owner, who was obviously ready to leave.
It was silver. Only one house had silver.
Now normally this wouldn't have caused much of a fuss, sitting at the same table with a Slytherin, but it had to be this one that chose to do it...
A green scarf. Streaked hair. The thud of heavy boots, the swish of a skirt and a leather book bag.
'Oh no...' he groaned.
Looking up, Harry realized that, indeed, it was 'My standing before him.
For a moment the girl didn't look at him; she just continued packing her things roughly in her bag as if he weren't there, single-minded in this deed it seemed. This frankly ruffled the Gryffondor a bit as he found he could do nothing of the sort in return.
Finally, once everything was packed and cloak secured around her, the Slytherin looked up for the first time and he found all he wanted to do was look away. The sudden frankness of the contact reminded him only of last year when the headmaster would not look him in the eye; the past few weeks were like that game he'd played with the old man, trying to catch his eye, but now it seemed he'd hit a stalemate. Divi hadn't given up though, but, he had to remind himself, she hadn't been playing either.
If he'd had his way in the beginning, he'd be reading up on Grimmy Snailtoe instead of having a staring contest with—with—her! He'd be free to feign obliviousness and grin savagely behind his report as she left unacknowledged. Of course he never expected her to stop to say hi, she'd always walked away in his imagination looking hurt, head held low or occasionally high in contempt in the fashion of such Slytherin Pride. But in reality, 'My wouldn't do this; but, he reasoned, since his imaginative avoidance of each other was dashed so rudely upon her arrival, it was nice to dream.
Days, weeks,--months!--spent evading her and she goes and comes to the library the same day he does. The same day! Honestly, how many other days of the week were there?
Six?
Anger, recently dormant as not to attract attention, bubbled up and he found himself gripping the leather bound book until his knuckles waxed. In a corner of his mind, he was aware of Madam Pince in the vicinity and that part at least care about what this might look like. That part, the same one that had taken on the girls' personality traits, at least cared.
'My neither noticed, nor seemingly cared she was the cause of the seething temper Harry now had, and he knew she would've done absolutely nothing about it even if she had. Sometimes he cursed this new second sense, it took some of the fun out of fantasy, out of denial; he didn't want to know what she would do and what wouldn't happen, wasn't that what imagination was for? Wasn't it enough he had to deal with it in real life?
No, Potthead, it's not. That incessant little voice answered in a casually annoyed tone. God, was he beginning to sound like her now too?
Yes, Hairy, you –
Oh, shut up! He countered.
Nonetheless, he knew this. –so what was he expecting, an apology?
Ha!
A fingernail with chipped mauve (mauve? He wondered at the change.) nail polish absently scratched the ridge of her nose. Funny how even the most innocent of gestures seemed so insolent when used at such inappropriate times.
"Long time no see." She said casually, eyes showing nothing; not even the normal flicker of humor or rare flash of anger. She didn't even have the decency to show mutual resentment...
--
By the age of eight, she'd realized the value of true friendship, --as there was no such thing as real friendship, nothing was accountable back then, not enduring and lasting; not real,-- having no such thing to claim as her own. She had no great childhood friend to reflect back on with of nonexistent memories. They only served as a warning. A reminder.
Little scuffles over things would be forgotten once resolved and little smiles on little faces would go up again, expecting to be accepted with little resistance, unguarded. After the tenth time it seemed so childish she didn't. There was a very noticeable ravine between herself and the other kids her age by then, but the grown ups thought it to be natural shyness, therefore sticking her with them anyway. There came a time when there was no one for the little eight year old to relate to, no one who wouldn't insist on arguing over the good role in Pretend, no one to tell her that was normal and Tink was just as good as Peter. --Even if you only got the role for being the only girl or the one who barely talks.
No one to tell her she was wrong in insisting she needed to grow up, because adults don't have friends, and the ones they had were real and lasted. So she turned to other things: teachers, who were delighted at her curiosity; books; literature-turned-cinema, hoping they'd supply the companionship no one else would. That friend she longed for apparently did not exist yet, so she waited.
But teachers, while encouraging the extra trips to the library and the questions, still pushed her outside on the black top with the rest of them. Books were not as interesting to her in the beginning, and the movies weren't enough, but they became fascinating after a while. An early memory of sitting in the shade of the building, being completely enthralled in a chapter, while everyone else was playing is one she always thinks on.
One eye in the book and the other on the Playground.
She saw how fragile and fickle the relationships could be; how one might call the other a "poopoo-head" over a toy and the next day be all chummy with an eight second old ice-cream cone one had not intended on giving away as a peace offering. She saw the smiles, how strange it all seemed they'd be willing to let it happen again when they knew that the little things didn't go away: they never did. They stayed with you, in the dark places of your mind that you don't stay on while in your happy times, and they whisper of trust and bruises. Of ice cream and hot summer days. She even watched, as they all grew older, how they would talk about each other and these times suddenly became a weapon, no longer a hidden fact. It was all such a strange and mysterious ritual to her, and she found herself wanting to be part of it more and more.
And while watching, she learned all the important things the participants did not notice. From watching she saw which water fountains worked, which people were fake, which bully to avoid and how... It was all so simple she wondered why a lot more people didn't just sit back and watch; you learned a lot that way.
You loose a lot, she realizes now.
Now fifteen and a half, the habits of observing and reading have been carved, if not set, in stone and skin: so, she is on her way to the library. It is a familiar path, smooth from so many people treading the way there through the halls even though half probably weren't on their way there. The other half either frantic to get a report done, or in a hurry for a quick short cut to the Hall, or perhaps hiding as they know people would never expect them to set foot in there. It is amusing to go through the reasons why some people dread this place, so welcoming and quiet, but that never explains why.
She feels the need for a good, weekend read in.
Yes, this castle was very much her home now. She walked its halls in her dreams even before setting foot through the threshold, having had a very descriptive book on it. The fact that the magic was real and not just a story had bamboozled her at 11, when she told herself she didn't believe in unicorns anymore. Years later, she was petting one.
The magic being real, however, had also set her another inch or two apart from everyone else at school. At first it was the untied shoelaces, the gum in the principals hair, the lights going out and even rats getting out of cages. But one can only ignore flying tea cups for so long. And the owl had been all the more proof she did not belong and there was somewhere to start over, where she would not be weird.
She had friends now. She was just like everyone else, albeit slightly a bit more enthusiastic about striving, and she still had her books.
As she opened the oak doors, the echoed creak told her it was nearly empty.
Pince did not so much as look up from her desk.
Feeling it best to start looking, she made her way to the back. Someone, she noted, must have been busy. Belongings and scribbled parchment were strewn all over a table but she did not feel like prying so she made her way a little further.
A book with ruby letters on the spine, titled And the Dragons, was the first she spotted. She never liked these kinds, but then, she wasn't really looking for something she liked. She skimmed until she found something that caught her attention and this brought her view of the overall selections to a much higher standpoint.
Harry would love this. She thought. Then she frowned.
The old Harry, maybe, but it would be a hard found stack of books with such expressive words like an announcer at a Quidditch match, and paintings and nonsense facts, to get him to smile again. Sighing, she put it back. It was a habit now, too, finding things for one of her close friends unconsciously, then thinking better of it. IT was not one she wanted to break.
There had been a time when she had first arrived she hadn't dreamed of such a relationship. It started out rocky, but then Ron opened up and Harry was more than supportive of the newfounded Trio of Gryffondor. Sometimes Ron would bring in a flower from the forest and ask her to research it, in a way he thought sly, and she would. He would get disappointed when he found most represented things like poison, heart failure, or the cure for foot fungus. When this happened, not even Harry could resist laughing. Harry would not say what he thought of this strange ritual, but she knew better then to ask. And when he would bring back some little trinket from Hogsmede to her or some really 'cool' story or phrase she would laugh. There were groans, yes, when she brought them books on things she knew they'd like, but it was all in tradition.
Now, however, things were different. Things had changed in a way that most things do, only there were little bits and pieces that made it harder to swallow and digest, and yet it was reflex. It burned to see Harry like this sometimes, it was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth and sometimes she'd scream or cry while Ron just sat there, not knowing what to do with either of them. When Harry yelled back, after she had been so calm, neither knew why he was so angry. That house had been rotting and they rotted too.
It ate at their ties until all that connected them were memories and the fact they still knew each others names. But they still talked, they still ate together in their own section of the table while everyone else chatted around them, they still defended each other in the halls. They still smiled, though it was rare because it hurt, and she now knew why people did it; why they held on when so many things were tearing at them, all those awful words you want to believe aren't really for you. It must be different while you are experiencing it, friendship.
And now that it was hers, nothing would stop her from being the best friend she could be. Even if Harry snapped nearly every time someone comforted him, or ignored them, or walked around like some very dark ghost, she would still be there when he ranted. Still be there to talk sense into him, that even if he's got a lot on his plate, things happen, and it's the riding it out that counts,--no matter where you end up. And even if Ron was no better at cheering him up then she was, she could count on him at least to listen to her. To assure her she was not insane in thinking the things she did, assuring her it was good what they were doing for the three of them. Even if he ended up getting yelled at more then she did, living in the same room and all, and being in that awkward male relationship.
As she made her way through the aisles, she saw something that changed her mind. She felt eight again. Something that caused her to turn back, drop her book on the table with the books and parchment—parchment with handwriting she recognized now—and run to the common room without a book for comfort.
She had to do something, be it nothing at all, to save this before it broke because she swore she'd never let anything come between them.
--
"Get lost boys"
Dis: All characters and situations are the "rightful" property of one, Jo Rowling; of which, I'm only the humble owner of a few measly OC's and a pitiful plot.
AN: This, as most should have guessed given my adamancy against this ship, is for 'Vi who, on a number of occasions, has been oh so passionate on her quest for that long awaited scene. Which, I'll admit, is more than I'd do if I'd waited a year and a half. It should never, ever, (ever, ever, ever) be associated, mentioned in the same sentence, nor mixed in company with anything "Noodles" related as this is just a spinoff and we all know this god-awful pair is wrong and should burn, burn, burn!—But, nonetheless, I find myself retching my very soul out here for this fic and, despite the disgusting thought of it all, I'm quite proud of it.
I hope you're happy, Hypocrite!
~~
The only other occupant of the table had seemingly left; only a bag, a few scribbled notes, and a cloak remained in their spot near the middle. Figuring they'd be back, Harry sat a few seats down opposite them, mindful of Madam Pince's eyes on him.
15 inches on the scroll ordered by Proff. Binns later, the chair-opposite- Him's owner arrived. Absently, he glanced up, automatically placing a polite smile on his face, ready to nod and go back to reading Goblin Warfare. He did this without really seeing or comprehending the blur that was organizing their things before turning back to the parchment splayed on the oak desk. However, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint on the cloak as it was pulled around the owner, who was obviously ready to leave.
It was silver. Only one house had silver.
Now normally this wouldn't have caused much of a fuss, sitting at the same table with a Slytherin, but it had to be this one that chose to do it...
A green scarf. Streaked hair. The thud of heavy boots, the swish of a skirt and a leather book bag.
'Oh no...' he groaned.
Looking up, Harry realized that, indeed, it was 'My standing before him.
For a moment the girl didn't look at him; she just continued packing her things roughly in her bag as if he weren't there, single-minded in this deed it seemed. This frankly ruffled the Gryffondor a bit as he found he could do nothing of the sort in return.
Finally, once everything was packed and cloak secured around her, the Slytherin looked up for the first time and he found all he wanted to do was look away. The sudden frankness of the contact reminded him only of last year when the headmaster would not look him in the eye; the past few weeks were like that game he'd played with the old man, trying to catch his eye, but now it seemed he'd hit a stalemate. Divi hadn't given up though, but, he had to remind himself, she hadn't been playing either.
If he'd had his way in the beginning, he'd be reading up on Grimmy Snailtoe instead of having a staring contest with—with—her! He'd be free to feign obliviousness and grin savagely behind his report as she left unacknowledged. Of course he never expected her to stop to say hi, she'd always walked away in his imagination looking hurt, head held low or occasionally high in contempt in the fashion of such Slytherin Pride. But in reality, 'My wouldn't do this; but, he reasoned, since his imaginative avoidance of each other was dashed so rudely upon her arrival, it was nice to dream.
Days, weeks,--months!--spent evading her and she goes and comes to the library the same day he does. The same day! Honestly, how many other days of the week were there?
Six?
Anger, recently dormant as not to attract attention, bubbled up and he found himself gripping the leather bound book until his knuckles waxed. In a corner of his mind, he was aware of Madam Pince in the vicinity and that part at least care about what this might look like. That part, the same one that had taken on the girls' personality traits, at least cared.
'My neither noticed, nor seemingly cared she was the cause of the seething temper Harry now had, and he knew she would've done absolutely nothing about it even if she had. Sometimes he cursed this new second sense, it took some of the fun out of fantasy, out of denial; he didn't want to know what she would do and what wouldn't happen, wasn't that what imagination was for? Wasn't it enough he had to deal with it in real life?
No, Potthead, it's not. That incessant little voice answered in a casually annoyed tone. God, was he beginning to sound like her now too?
Yes, Hairy, you –
Oh, shut up! He countered.
Nonetheless, he knew this. –so what was he expecting, an apology?
Ha!
A fingernail with chipped mauve (mauve? He wondered at the change.) nail polish absently scratched the ridge of her nose. Funny how even the most innocent of gestures seemed so insolent when used at such inappropriate times.
"Long time no see." She said casually, eyes showing nothing; not even the normal flicker of humor or rare flash of anger. She didn't even have the decency to show mutual resentment...
--
By the age of eight, she'd realized the value of true friendship, --as there was no such thing as real friendship, nothing was accountable back then, not enduring and lasting; not real,-- having no such thing to claim as her own. She had no great childhood friend to reflect back on with of nonexistent memories. They only served as a warning. A reminder.
Little scuffles over things would be forgotten once resolved and little smiles on little faces would go up again, expecting to be accepted with little resistance, unguarded. After the tenth time it seemed so childish she didn't. There was a very noticeable ravine between herself and the other kids her age by then, but the grown ups thought it to be natural shyness, therefore sticking her with them anyway. There came a time when there was no one for the little eight year old to relate to, no one who wouldn't insist on arguing over the good role in Pretend, no one to tell her that was normal and Tink was just as good as Peter. --Even if you only got the role for being the only girl or the one who barely talks.
No one to tell her she was wrong in insisting she needed to grow up, because adults don't have friends, and the ones they had were real and lasted. So she turned to other things: teachers, who were delighted at her curiosity; books; literature-turned-cinema, hoping they'd supply the companionship no one else would. That friend she longed for apparently did not exist yet, so she waited.
But teachers, while encouraging the extra trips to the library and the questions, still pushed her outside on the black top with the rest of them. Books were not as interesting to her in the beginning, and the movies weren't enough, but they became fascinating after a while. An early memory of sitting in the shade of the building, being completely enthralled in a chapter, while everyone else was playing is one she always thinks on.
One eye in the book and the other on the Playground.
She saw how fragile and fickle the relationships could be; how one might call the other a "poopoo-head" over a toy and the next day be all chummy with an eight second old ice-cream cone one had not intended on giving away as a peace offering. She saw the smiles, how strange it all seemed they'd be willing to let it happen again when they knew that the little things didn't go away: they never did. They stayed with you, in the dark places of your mind that you don't stay on while in your happy times, and they whisper of trust and bruises. Of ice cream and hot summer days. She even watched, as they all grew older, how they would talk about each other and these times suddenly became a weapon, no longer a hidden fact. It was all such a strange and mysterious ritual to her, and she found herself wanting to be part of it more and more.
And while watching, she learned all the important things the participants did not notice. From watching she saw which water fountains worked, which people were fake, which bully to avoid and how... It was all so simple she wondered why a lot more people didn't just sit back and watch; you learned a lot that way.
You loose a lot, she realizes now.
Now fifteen and a half, the habits of observing and reading have been carved, if not set, in stone and skin: so, she is on her way to the library. It is a familiar path, smooth from so many people treading the way there through the halls even though half probably weren't on their way there. The other half either frantic to get a report done, or in a hurry for a quick short cut to the Hall, or perhaps hiding as they know people would never expect them to set foot in there. It is amusing to go through the reasons why some people dread this place, so welcoming and quiet, but that never explains why.
She feels the need for a good, weekend read in.
Yes, this castle was very much her home now. She walked its halls in her dreams even before setting foot through the threshold, having had a very descriptive book on it. The fact that the magic was real and not just a story had bamboozled her at 11, when she told herself she didn't believe in unicorns anymore. Years later, she was petting one.
The magic being real, however, had also set her another inch or two apart from everyone else at school. At first it was the untied shoelaces, the gum in the principals hair, the lights going out and even rats getting out of cages. But one can only ignore flying tea cups for so long. And the owl had been all the more proof she did not belong and there was somewhere to start over, where she would not be weird.
She had friends now. She was just like everyone else, albeit slightly a bit more enthusiastic about striving, and she still had her books.
As she opened the oak doors, the echoed creak told her it was nearly empty.
Pince did not so much as look up from her desk.
Feeling it best to start looking, she made her way to the back. Someone, she noted, must have been busy. Belongings and scribbled parchment were strewn all over a table but she did not feel like prying so she made her way a little further.
A book with ruby letters on the spine, titled And the Dragons, was the first she spotted. She never liked these kinds, but then, she wasn't really looking for something she liked. She skimmed until she found something that caught her attention and this brought her view of the overall selections to a much higher standpoint.
Harry would love this. She thought. Then she frowned.
The old Harry, maybe, but it would be a hard found stack of books with such expressive words like an announcer at a Quidditch match, and paintings and nonsense facts, to get him to smile again. Sighing, she put it back. It was a habit now, too, finding things for one of her close friends unconsciously, then thinking better of it. IT was not one she wanted to break.
There had been a time when she had first arrived she hadn't dreamed of such a relationship. It started out rocky, but then Ron opened up and Harry was more than supportive of the newfounded Trio of Gryffondor. Sometimes Ron would bring in a flower from the forest and ask her to research it, in a way he thought sly, and she would. He would get disappointed when he found most represented things like poison, heart failure, or the cure for foot fungus. When this happened, not even Harry could resist laughing. Harry would not say what he thought of this strange ritual, but she knew better then to ask. And when he would bring back some little trinket from Hogsmede to her or some really 'cool' story or phrase she would laugh. There were groans, yes, when she brought them books on things she knew they'd like, but it was all in tradition.
Now, however, things were different. Things had changed in a way that most things do, only there were little bits and pieces that made it harder to swallow and digest, and yet it was reflex. It burned to see Harry like this sometimes, it was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth and sometimes she'd scream or cry while Ron just sat there, not knowing what to do with either of them. When Harry yelled back, after she had been so calm, neither knew why he was so angry. That house had been rotting and they rotted too.
It ate at their ties until all that connected them were memories and the fact they still knew each others names. But they still talked, they still ate together in their own section of the table while everyone else chatted around them, they still defended each other in the halls. They still smiled, though it was rare because it hurt, and she now knew why people did it; why they held on when so many things were tearing at them, all those awful words you want to believe aren't really for you. It must be different while you are experiencing it, friendship.
And now that it was hers, nothing would stop her from being the best friend she could be. Even if Harry snapped nearly every time someone comforted him, or ignored them, or walked around like some very dark ghost, she would still be there when he ranted. Still be there to talk sense into him, that even if he's got a lot on his plate, things happen, and it's the riding it out that counts,--no matter where you end up. And even if Ron was no better at cheering him up then she was, she could count on him at least to listen to her. To assure her she was not insane in thinking the things she did, assuring her it was good what they were doing for the three of them. Even if he ended up getting yelled at more then she did, living in the same room and all, and being in that awkward male relationship.
As she made her way through the aisles, she saw something that changed her mind. She felt eight again. Something that caused her to turn back, drop her book on the table with the books and parchment—parchment with handwriting she recognized now—and run to the common room without a book for comfort.
She had to do something, be it nothing at all, to save this before it broke because she swore she'd never let anything come between them.
--
"Get lost boys"