For some random reason, I got bored one day and decided to see what the hell was up with the 20,000 Harry Potter fics on FF.net... One of the first ones I read was an very well-written DracoxHarry slashy fic (Your Side, Their Side, and the Truth by Mizzy) and, well... Here goes nothing.
Expect some weirdness... I usually write anime shounen ai/yaoi fics, and so I'm used to warning systems and stuff most HP readers won't get. Oh, well.
Dedicated to Mizzy, one of the best Draco/Harry slashy authors. She's really sweet. *cheers* Now go write a new part! Please? Pretty please with Draco and Harry and whipped cream on top?
Begun: November 15, 2001
"A Clockwork Neurosis"
Part One: Waste of a Mama's Boy
Posted: December 1, 2001
Ryan Harbin
[I'm a waste of a mama's boy
It's a shame they say
There's so much you know he'll never enjoy]
Angie Aparo, 'Hush'
The boy - nearing manhood, but still only hovering at the cusp of maturity - strode purposefully through the underground, trailed by a diminutive figure pushing a cart heaped with antique trunks and topped dramatically with a silent owl perched in a metal frame cage. He ignored the stares that followed his every step, as if accustomed to being watched, judged.
And perhaps he was, for it was hard to ignore such a figure, long and well-formed, wearing a perfectly fitted shirt matched with tailored pants that didn't seem to have been worn. He moved with the stiff, coached grace of aristocracy, and only breeding could produce such distinctive features, thin and aquiline, hauntingly pale. This particular boy was something, and he knew it.
Indeed, his superiority had been instilled in him at birth, his bedtime stories tales of his line's glorious past and lullabies of his own promising future. His father's first lessons had been over the virtue of pure blood, a true wizarding history that could be traced back before anyone had even heard the name 'Potter.'
He presented the perfect image of one at ease with his position in the world, at least until one bothers to look slightly past the clear gray eyes, so nicely matched with porcelain skin and ashy hair. For only then is it visible: a slight hint of... Nothing. Twin silver screens shielding a void, empty and lifeless as he said a passive goodbye to a pair obviously his parents, separating, every lean muscle tense, from his mother's clinging embrace as if every second had burned at the contact points.
For a second he lingered beside the Hogwarts Express, a slight figure dwarfed by a shiny metal monolith. The trunk, a fine burnished wood with only slight wear from years of being carted from school to home and back again, raised a half dozen inches in the air and one slender arm still in its aborted levitation spell. A momentary pause, barely noticeable in the shuffle of schoolchildren rushing by him in various states of uniform, lugging their own trunks or scolding a petulant animal. One particularly thick cluster, four identical red heads tempered with one of unruly black, seemed to command his attention. Gray eyes gleamed momentarily, a flicker of interest that struggled to gain hold for a valiant second before he jerked his gaze away, dull eyes returning to the trunk to finish the spell. Another running figure, yelling jubilantly to a crowd of friends who answered just as happily, and then he was gone, only a brief flash of black robes to mark his passing.
----
Draco Malfoy settled stiffly into his seat, practiced sneer settling into place with the slight difficulty that comes from disuse, like a puzzle piece slightly warped with age. His trunk was safely stowed away, and if anything happened to it, his father could easily replace his lost belongings.
The train began to move with a slight jerk of lost stasis and one last, piercing whistle. Crabbe and Goyle had yet to find him, likely because it had previously been Draco who had sought them out, and this year he found that he no longer cared. It was doubtful he'd need their assistance, taking refuge in the compartment furthest from the entrance, the far back corner of the last car.
A first year, picking awkwardly at his robes, stepped into the doorway, unease scrawled plainly across his round face. Draco told himself that he had never actually been that small, never appeared that out of place in the garb of a wizard. Something about the boy's even features, neat, light brown hair and dark eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but he was unable to place them without probing deeper into his recollection, an option that didn't seem to be particularly pleasing. Better to sit numbly, absorbed in his best impression of a bump on a log.
"Umm... Do you mind? I got up to go to the bathroom and when I came back these big guys were in my seat and they wouldn't leave and there's really no where else to sit so is it okay if I sit in here?" all rushed out in one breath.
One silver eyebrow raised, bemused. Usually, Draco would have told the first year off and made sure Crabbe and Goyle - he supposed they were they 'big guys' in question - never let the kid sit down again without some sort of threat or taunt. But something particular about today, perhaps his father's particularly volatile morning, the results of which were mottled down his ribs and back, he didn't.
"Do as you like," [1] he said, turning back to the speed-smeared landscape that blurred past like a late Monet painting. [2]
The boy breathed a sigh of relief, moving to plop down opposite Draco, collapsing happily into the worn black velvet. He settled a small bag onto the seat beside him, rummaging through it for a few loud seconds.
"Want one?" he asked, extending a hand toward his companion as if asking for alms.
Draco looked dubiously at the offering, an unopened chocolate frog. Narrowed grey eyes flicked from the boy to the candy, searching for some sign of the deception he was sure existed. No one gave Draco Malfoy anything, at least not out of the pure goodness of their hearts. It was always a bribe, or a peace offering, always self-serving. Perhaps the boy had some idea of who he was.
Skepticism still slightly distorting aristocratic features, Draco leaned forward and gingerly took the small box from the boy's fingers. He leaned back with an acknowledging nod, unable to bring himself to verbalize thanks, and opened the box with the same lethargic movements that had been plaguing him all day -
And nearly yelped in shock as the frog jumped from its container and landed square on his nose, where it paused for a sticky second under his cross-eyed gaze before attempting another jump. However, its bid for escape was halted as Draco finally regained his seeker's senses and snatched it from midair, biting its head off vengefully.
Through a mouthful of chocolate Draco noticed that his companion was laughing delightedly, a sound draco could barely reconcile with his fellow Slytherins' malicious giggles and snickers. Another first for the day: someone laughing around him for a reason other than a cleverly timed insult or well-orchestrated trip. It felt surprisingly good, and he was unaware of the answering curve in his own lips until a short chuckle forced its way through his vocal cords.
"My name's Marcus," the boy told him, dark eyes twinkling lightly. There was a moment of expectant silence, Marcus looking across the aisle at him with something startlingly close to adoration, before Draco realized he was supposed to reciprocate the action.
"Draco," he stated simply, suddenly not as proud of his famous last name as he had been a bare few months previous.
The dark-haired boy's lips pursed. "I think my sister's mentioned you," he mused, dark eyes far away fro a short time, looking through a catalogue of obscure memories. Draco was unsure of how to reply, so he kept silent until the rounded features cleared.
"I like you," Marcus announced with all the innocent acceptance of a small child, unafraid of the rejection that would haunt his later years. Draco was stunned to silence, just as astounded by his own inablity to form a coherent response as he was by the boy's frank admission. His first instinct was to snap back an insult, teach the child that one didn't like a Malfoy. One respected a Malfoy, feared a Malfoy, or even hated... But never liked.
Instead he returned the barest ghost of a smile, looking once more through the chilled glass window. London had long since faded away in a final smattering of abandoned buildings and farms, and the terrain was becoming rocky and uneven, betraying to the mountains soon to come.
Marcus watched him through evaluating dark eyes for a small eternity, and finally fell asleep, undoubtedly exhausted by the very idea that the train would soon take him to Hogwarts, the finest magic school in the world. Draco, though he didn't realize it, must have been just as fatigues, for the next thing he was aware of was the squeal of straining to slow and halt dozens of tons of metal and passengers in spite of inertia, and then the sudden rush of students gathering their belongings and crowding into the corridor.
Out the window, students were swarming, happily reuniting, and whoops of laughter resounded even through the glass panes. A large contingent of the sudden noise seemed to be centered around Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins, as usual. Feeling a bit dirty, and hoping the sorting wouldn't take too long this year, Draco was a few feet down the aisle before he remembered the sleeping boy still slumped in his seat. Under some sort of obligation he'd never felt before, he fought his way through the mass of students happy to leave the train and back to the compartment. Amazingly, the small, dark head was lolled sideways in slumber. Draco frowned, unsure of how to proceed. Waking or being woken in his house involved either house elves or a lot of slapping, a treatment which he didn't feel like inflicting one Marcus. Instead, he shook the other's shoulder lightly, and when brown eyes blinked owlishly at him, he said, "We're here. You'd best go with the other first years."
Small hands flew to a small mouth. "The sorting!"
"Right," Draco affirmed.
The boy straightened immediately, flustered hands running over his disheveled robes in a largely unsuccessful attempt to appear more presentable.
"You'd better go," Draco reminded him, gesturing out the window, where Hagrid was separating the first years from the returning students in the flickering lantern-light.
Marcus squeaked, darting into the nearly empty corridor. For another time that day, Draco found himself smiling almost wistfully at his antics.
Taking a last compulsory look through the claustrophobic space, he noticed Marcus' bag, sitting limp and lonely on his abandoned seat. He had more than half a mind to leave it there, but he picked it up anyway. Marcus would be gone already, led by Hagrid across the lake, being as astounded by his first view of the towering, foreboding Hogwarts as Draco himself had been.
Watching the bag swing from his one-handed grip with some distaste, he stalked from the train, determined not to appear that he was carrying a woman's handbag. After a scarce few seconds in the open evening air, Crabbe and Goyle fell neatly in step behind him, twin shields he should have felt safe around. Instead, it gave him the impression of being stifled, blocked from the world.
"What's that you got?" one of them asked, practically leering.
"Some first year's," he replied, falling easily back into his familiar contemptuous drawl.
"Let's have a look," suggested the other, meaty hands grabbing.
"You won't touch it," Draco spat, eyes flooding with a deep hostility usually reserved for Harry Potter.
A frown clouded Goyle's stony features. His mouth opened, but any reply was cut short by a shriek, loud and shrill, tensing the muscles of Draco's shoulders uncomfortably.
"That belongs to Marcus!"
He was confronted by five feet and five inches of angry Gryffindor, identified after a brief scrabble through his mind as Lavender Brown. Suddenly it was obvious why Marcus had stirred faint recollections.
"What is it, Brown?" he asked with the air someone whose infinite patience was finally being strained.
"That's my brother's!" she yelled, and he noticed that she wasn't alone. Apparently, it was a Gryffindor get-together, and she was reinforced by all of her fifth-year housemates. The amny parts of wary, hateful eyes fanned the flame of his sudden anger.
"Is it?" he asked mockingly, curling it around one finger and twirling gently. "Your brother's purse? So's he a total pansy, or just a bit of a crossdresser?"
A sudden pang of guilt stabbed through him, and he was sure the results flitted across his face, as well, for Lavender's mouth, half open to begin some undoubtedly lame retort, dropped open, and was replaced by a look of confused concern.
"Are you -" she began tentatively.
"- Sick of you all?" he interrupted. "Entirely. Here - I have better things to do than go through your brother's damn purse."
He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked away, aware that his actions were closer to flight than a triumphant departure wreathed in a blaze of glory. He didn't look at either Crabbe or Goyle, for he knew the bewilderment on their faces, as it mirrored his own roiling torment. He couldn't begin to work through the Gryffindors' reactions, though, and found himself suddenly, disturbingly interested in how his archenemy had taken his uncharacteristic parting before a conflict could break out. it had become his obsession of the past few years, goading and prodding exactly the right people or memories that could get the biggest rise out of Harry Potter. Yet he had no idea how their green-eyed savior would take this latest turn of Draco's character.
Thus, the entirety of the sorting was spent struggling desperately to keep his eyes from Potter's profile, turned aptly toward the new students, entirely absorbed in their placement. He barely tasted his hastily consumed food, though the first night back was usually one for slowly enjoying pumpkin juice and treacle pudding the likes of which he couldn't get even at home. He left the Great Hall as abruptly as he'd left Lavender Brown earlier that night, lost and feeling wretchedly like he'd betrayed himself, his father, and everything the Malfoy name has ever stood for.
And yet, though he sat until dawn streaked the sky orange and pink, he could not figure out the source of the gnawing pain whose tendrils seemed to stab right into the center of his soul.
*blink*
This was difficult to write. I kept switching tenses in that first little part. *dies* And I hate the last part. Dunno if I'll continue this, Maybe it'll become a vignette. 'Specially since I just got an absolutely wicked idea that'll have to be messed with ASAP.
Notes:
[1] I can totally see Draco going "Sukini shirou" with... hmmm... Maybe he's an Ogata Megumi kinda guy. And Harry could be Ueda Yuuji or Hoshi Souichirou and I can see Ron with Seki Tomokazu... Or mayhaps Sakaguchi Daisuke.*wonder wonder*
[2] You know, once he was going blind. No crap about Monet being a muggle painter and stuff... I know it doesn't exactly work, but I think it's an apt metaphor. So there. .
Expect some weirdness... I usually write anime shounen ai/yaoi fics, and so I'm used to warning systems and stuff most HP readers won't get. Oh, well.
Dedicated to Mizzy, one of the best Draco/Harry slashy authors. She's really sweet. *cheers* Now go write a new part! Please? Pretty please with Draco and Harry and whipped cream on top?
Begun: November 15, 2001
"A Clockwork Neurosis"
Part One: Waste of a Mama's Boy
Posted: December 1, 2001
Ryan Harbin
[I'm a waste of a mama's boy
It's a shame they say
There's so much you know he'll never enjoy]
Angie Aparo, 'Hush'
The boy - nearing manhood, but still only hovering at the cusp of maturity - strode purposefully through the underground, trailed by a diminutive figure pushing a cart heaped with antique trunks and topped dramatically with a silent owl perched in a metal frame cage. He ignored the stares that followed his every step, as if accustomed to being watched, judged.
And perhaps he was, for it was hard to ignore such a figure, long and well-formed, wearing a perfectly fitted shirt matched with tailored pants that didn't seem to have been worn. He moved with the stiff, coached grace of aristocracy, and only breeding could produce such distinctive features, thin and aquiline, hauntingly pale. This particular boy was something, and he knew it.
Indeed, his superiority had been instilled in him at birth, his bedtime stories tales of his line's glorious past and lullabies of his own promising future. His father's first lessons had been over the virtue of pure blood, a true wizarding history that could be traced back before anyone had even heard the name 'Potter.'
He presented the perfect image of one at ease with his position in the world, at least until one bothers to look slightly past the clear gray eyes, so nicely matched with porcelain skin and ashy hair. For only then is it visible: a slight hint of... Nothing. Twin silver screens shielding a void, empty and lifeless as he said a passive goodbye to a pair obviously his parents, separating, every lean muscle tense, from his mother's clinging embrace as if every second had burned at the contact points.
For a second he lingered beside the Hogwarts Express, a slight figure dwarfed by a shiny metal monolith. The trunk, a fine burnished wood with only slight wear from years of being carted from school to home and back again, raised a half dozen inches in the air and one slender arm still in its aborted levitation spell. A momentary pause, barely noticeable in the shuffle of schoolchildren rushing by him in various states of uniform, lugging their own trunks or scolding a petulant animal. One particularly thick cluster, four identical red heads tempered with one of unruly black, seemed to command his attention. Gray eyes gleamed momentarily, a flicker of interest that struggled to gain hold for a valiant second before he jerked his gaze away, dull eyes returning to the trunk to finish the spell. Another running figure, yelling jubilantly to a crowd of friends who answered just as happily, and then he was gone, only a brief flash of black robes to mark his passing.
----
Draco Malfoy settled stiffly into his seat, practiced sneer settling into place with the slight difficulty that comes from disuse, like a puzzle piece slightly warped with age. His trunk was safely stowed away, and if anything happened to it, his father could easily replace his lost belongings.
The train began to move with a slight jerk of lost stasis and one last, piercing whistle. Crabbe and Goyle had yet to find him, likely because it had previously been Draco who had sought them out, and this year he found that he no longer cared. It was doubtful he'd need their assistance, taking refuge in the compartment furthest from the entrance, the far back corner of the last car.
A first year, picking awkwardly at his robes, stepped into the doorway, unease scrawled plainly across his round face. Draco told himself that he had never actually been that small, never appeared that out of place in the garb of a wizard. Something about the boy's even features, neat, light brown hair and dark eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but he was unable to place them without probing deeper into his recollection, an option that didn't seem to be particularly pleasing. Better to sit numbly, absorbed in his best impression of a bump on a log.
"Umm... Do you mind? I got up to go to the bathroom and when I came back these big guys were in my seat and they wouldn't leave and there's really no where else to sit so is it okay if I sit in here?" all rushed out in one breath.
One silver eyebrow raised, bemused. Usually, Draco would have told the first year off and made sure Crabbe and Goyle - he supposed they were they 'big guys' in question - never let the kid sit down again without some sort of threat or taunt. But something particular about today, perhaps his father's particularly volatile morning, the results of which were mottled down his ribs and back, he didn't.
"Do as you like," [1] he said, turning back to the speed-smeared landscape that blurred past like a late Monet painting. [2]
The boy breathed a sigh of relief, moving to plop down opposite Draco, collapsing happily into the worn black velvet. He settled a small bag onto the seat beside him, rummaging through it for a few loud seconds.
"Want one?" he asked, extending a hand toward his companion as if asking for alms.
Draco looked dubiously at the offering, an unopened chocolate frog. Narrowed grey eyes flicked from the boy to the candy, searching for some sign of the deception he was sure existed. No one gave Draco Malfoy anything, at least not out of the pure goodness of their hearts. It was always a bribe, or a peace offering, always self-serving. Perhaps the boy had some idea of who he was.
Skepticism still slightly distorting aristocratic features, Draco leaned forward and gingerly took the small box from the boy's fingers. He leaned back with an acknowledging nod, unable to bring himself to verbalize thanks, and opened the box with the same lethargic movements that had been plaguing him all day -
And nearly yelped in shock as the frog jumped from its container and landed square on his nose, where it paused for a sticky second under his cross-eyed gaze before attempting another jump. However, its bid for escape was halted as Draco finally regained his seeker's senses and snatched it from midair, biting its head off vengefully.
Through a mouthful of chocolate Draco noticed that his companion was laughing delightedly, a sound draco could barely reconcile with his fellow Slytherins' malicious giggles and snickers. Another first for the day: someone laughing around him for a reason other than a cleverly timed insult or well-orchestrated trip. It felt surprisingly good, and he was unaware of the answering curve in his own lips until a short chuckle forced its way through his vocal cords.
"My name's Marcus," the boy told him, dark eyes twinkling lightly. There was a moment of expectant silence, Marcus looking across the aisle at him with something startlingly close to adoration, before Draco realized he was supposed to reciprocate the action.
"Draco," he stated simply, suddenly not as proud of his famous last name as he had been a bare few months previous.
The dark-haired boy's lips pursed. "I think my sister's mentioned you," he mused, dark eyes far away fro a short time, looking through a catalogue of obscure memories. Draco was unsure of how to reply, so he kept silent until the rounded features cleared.
"I like you," Marcus announced with all the innocent acceptance of a small child, unafraid of the rejection that would haunt his later years. Draco was stunned to silence, just as astounded by his own inablity to form a coherent response as he was by the boy's frank admission. His first instinct was to snap back an insult, teach the child that one didn't like a Malfoy. One respected a Malfoy, feared a Malfoy, or even hated... But never liked.
Instead he returned the barest ghost of a smile, looking once more through the chilled glass window. London had long since faded away in a final smattering of abandoned buildings and farms, and the terrain was becoming rocky and uneven, betraying to the mountains soon to come.
Marcus watched him through evaluating dark eyes for a small eternity, and finally fell asleep, undoubtedly exhausted by the very idea that the train would soon take him to Hogwarts, the finest magic school in the world. Draco, though he didn't realize it, must have been just as fatigues, for the next thing he was aware of was the squeal of straining to slow and halt dozens of tons of metal and passengers in spite of inertia, and then the sudden rush of students gathering their belongings and crowding into the corridor.
Out the window, students were swarming, happily reuniting, and whoops of laughter resounded even through the glass panes. A large contingent of the sudden noise seemed to be centered around Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins, as usual. Feeling a bit dirty, and hoping the sorting wouldn't take too long this year, Draco was a few feet down the aisle before he remembered the sleeping boy still slumped in his seat. Under some sort of obligation he'd never felt before, he fought his way through the mass of students happy to leave the train and back to the compartment. Amazingly, the small, dark head was lolled sideways in slumber. Draco frowned, unsure of how to proceed. Waking or being woken in his house involved either house elves or a lot of slapping, a treatment which he didn't feel like inflicting one Marcus. Instead, he shook the other's shoulder lightly, and when brown eyes blinked owlishly at him, he said, "We're here. You'd best go with the other first years."
Small hands flew to a small mouth. "The sorting!"
"Right," Draco affirmed.
The boy straightened immediately, flustered hands running over his disheveled robes in a largely unsuccessful attempt to appear more presentable.
"You'd better go," Draco reminded him, gesturing out the window, where Hagrid was separating the first years from the returning students in the flickering lantern-light.
Marcus squeaked, darting into the nearly empty corridor. For another time that day, Draco found himself smiling almost wistfully at his antics.
Taking a last compulsory look through the claustrophobic space, he noticed Marcus' bag, sitting limp and lonely on his abandoned seat. He had more than half a mind to leave it there, but he picked it up anyway. Marcus would be gone already, led by Hagrid across the lake, being as astounded by his first view of the towering, foreboding Hogwarts as Draco himself had been.
Watching the bag swing from his one-handed grip with some distaste, he stalked from the train, determined not to appear that he was carrying a woman's handbag. After a scarce few seconds in the open evening air, Crabbe and Goyle fell neatly in step behind him, twin shields he should have felt safe around. Instead, it gave him the impression of being stifled, blocked from the world.
"What's that you got?" one of them asked, practically leering.
"Some first year's," he replied, falling easily back into his familiar contemptuous drawl.
"Let's have a look," suggested the other, meaty hands grabbing.
"You won't touch it," Draco spat, eyes flooding with a deep hostility usually reserved for Harry Potter.
A frown clouded Goyle's stony features. His mouth opened, but any reply was cut short by a shriek, loud and shrill, tensing the muscles of Draco's shoulders uncomfortably.
"That belongs to Marcus!"
He was confronted by five feet and five inches of angry Gryffindor, identified after a brief scrabble through his mind as Lavender Brown. Suddenly it was obvious why Marcus had stirred faint recollections.
"What is it, Brown?" he asked with the air someone whose infinite patience was finally being strained.
"That's my brother's!" she yelled, and he noticed that she wasn't alone. Apparently, it was a Gryffindor get-together, and she was reinforced by all of her fifth-year housemates. The amny parts of wary, hateful eyes fanned the flame of his sudden anger.
"Is it?" he asked mockingly, curling it around one finger and twirling gently. "Your brother's purse? So's he a total pansy, or just a bit of a crossdresser?"
A sudden pang of guilt stabbed through him, and he was sure the results flitted across his face, as well, for Lavender's mouth, half open to begin some undoubtedly lame retort, dropped open, and was replaced by a look of confused concern.
"Are you -" she began tentatively.
"- Sick of you all?" he interrupted. "Entirely. Here - I have better things to do than go through your brother's damn purse."
He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked away, aware that his actions were closer to flight than a triumphant departure wreathed in a blaze of glory. He didn't look at either Crabbe or Goyle, for he knew the bewilderment on their faces, as it mirrored his own roiling torment. He couldn't begin to work through the Gryffindors' reactions, though, and found himself suddenly, disturbingly interested in how his archenemy had taken his uncharacteristic parting before a conflict could break out. it had become his obsession of the past few years, goading and prodding exactly the right people or memories that could get the biggest rise out of Harry Potter. Yet he had no idea how their green-eyed savior would take this latest turn of Draco's character.
Thus, the entirety of the sorting was spent struggling desperately to keep his eyes from Potter's profile, turned aptly toward the new students, entirely absorbed in their placement. He barely tasted his hastily consumed food, though the first night back was usually one for slowly enjoying pumpkin juice and treacle pudding the likes of which he couldn't get even at home. He left the Great Hall as abruptly as he'd left Lavender Brown earlier that night, lost and feeling wretchedly like he'd betrayed himself, his father, and everything the Malfoy name has ever stood for.
And yet, though he sat until dawn streaked the sky orange and pink, he could not figure out the source of the gnawing pain whose tendrils seemed to stab right into the center of his soul.
*blink*
This was difficult to write. I kept switching tenses in that first little part. *dies* And I hate the last part. Dunno if I'll continue this, Maybe it'll become a vignette. 'Specially since I just got an absolutely wicked idea that'll have to be messed with ASAP.
Notes:
[1] I can totally see Draco going "Sukini shirou" with... hmmm... Maybe he's an Ogata Megumi kinda guy. And Harry could be Ueda Yuuji or Hoshi Souichirou and I can see Ron with Seki Tomokazu... Or mayhaps Sakaguchi Daisuke.*wonder wonder*
[2] You know, once he was going blind. No crap about Monet being a muggle painter and stuff... I know it doesn't exactly work, but I think it's an apt metaphor. So there. .