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schadenfreude

Monday's, but it's too good a word to pass up. One of my favorite words. :-)

Ilse chewed her gum reflectively and stared out the window of the tiny sleeping compartment into the matte black nothing beyond, effortlessly blowing a quivering pink bubble between kiss-lips only to pop it with her teeth. "Ah, Belgium, how I hate thee. Flat and boring. Europe's doormat."
"I still don't get how you do that." Falda looked up from her overthumbed copy of Anais Nin.
"Easy." Ilse waved her hand dismissively. "There's gum in my purse. You want lessons?"
"Sure." Falda knelt on the floor and pushed her long blonde hair out of her face as she rummaged through the kitbag. "Peanut butter, crackers ... oooh, Sleeping Beauty, by A.N. Roquelaire? Mrow."
"That's for later." Ilse grinned wickedly.
"Gum." Falda unwrapped a handful of square pink pieces and stared at them dubiously. "God, I don't think I can fit all this in my mouth."
"You'll get used to it. Chew for a while."
"This stuff is gross." she grimaced, pouching the gum in her cheeks as she chewed. "It tastes like berry flavoured polymer. Ugh. How can you chew this all the time?"
"I dunno. I took it up to irritate the little prig my parents are trying to hook me up to."
"Heinrich?"
"Yeah. I was nine; he was ten. And a dope even then. It's a habit now."
"My jaw hurts."
"You'll get used to it. It's all in the tongue. You need more practice?" The two girls exchanged glances; an amused smile flittered between the two of them, and they fell into a silence broken only by the soft mauling of gum and the background rattle of trainties.
"All right." Ilse stretched. "That's long enough. Now stretch it out into, you know, a thin sheet thing. Over your teeth, yaknow? Or the end of your tongue. Like cellophane."
"Like this?" Falda asked muffledly, her tongue coated in a thick pink skin.
"Yah, exactly. Now ... you know, just blow through it. Puff the middle out a little with your tongue and blow."
After a moment of huffing, a pink bubble emerged between Falda's lips. Her blue eyes crossed with surprise as she tried to stare at it while it grew, and Ilse laughed. "Oooh, your bubble is sooo big."
Falda spluttered, laughing; the bubble popped over her cheeks, and the laughter turned to shrieking. "Oh, crap." Peeling pieces of gum out of her face and hair, she glared at Ilse. "It's not funny, bitch."
"It is too." Ilse laughed, rummaging under the seat for the jar of peanut butter. "It's just funny because it isn't me. I believe the word is 'schadenfreude'."

shivaree - mwpp

[shivaree] - mwpp
a bit of marauder fluff.

"I'm putting you in charge of noise," Sirius had said. "You can torment the neighbors a bit." Peter was in charge of light, and Sirius himself was in charge of making sure James didn't bloody Disapparate at the last moment, but he needn't have bothered. Prongs was not to run tonight.

After the ceremony, Peter set off fireworks that exploded into designs of questionable taste, Remus Charmed the pots to clatter near-symphonically, a wizard shivaree, but the bride and groom had gone.

"All this for me?" Sirius teased, slipping under Remus's arm to watch the display. "Moony. You shouldn't have."
[julienne] - mark/large (garden state)

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There are things Aziraphale has done that he wasn't sure were right. Giving away his flaming sword. Leaving the world in the hands of a theanthropic ten-year-old. Letting someone buy his first-edition Hemingway. Sometimes he even wonders about the Arrangement.

Well. Part of the Arrangement. The part that obliges him to carry out the occasional temptation, which he's not very good at, or to look the other way when, strictly speaking, he should intervene. That part he's unsure of.

He prefers to think of the other part as benign mutual sabotage, and wakes Crowley with scones and his favorite tea.

theanthropic. harry.

[theanthropic] - harry
this spilled out at exactly 100 words. i think i better not mess with it. and in my head, it was ron, but that's up for debate.

He's faced the dark Lord again and again, as a baby, as a child, as a sullen teenager. Every time he has lived. Every time people edge away from him just a little bit more. They begin to think him theanthropic. They forget he is just a boy. They push him ahead, they call him a demon, they call him a savior. They never call him Harry.

The merpeople push him up from the depths, Dumbledore carries him back to the castle, and that night Gryffindor Tower sinks under the weight of the one who would have called him love.

drabble: on government. remus.

[on government] - remus
of course the day i decide i want to help revive drabblesmith is the day we get a word like this.

It was strange, Remus thought, that the wizarding community could give so much towards regulating cauldrons, but nothing towards reviving themselves. The Ministry was too concerned with magical secrecy to have room for leadership, so it should have come as a surprise to no one, the charisma of Voldemort and his stratocracy of Death Eaters. There was appeal in belonging, even to something Dark. One could not rally around a Code of Secrecy any more than Quidditch could be the sum of national pride.

Powerless, Remus went about his work for the Order, a world, a government all its own.

breakup (original fic)

today's word: new york minute.

A.Word.A.Day--New York minute.

New York minute (NOO york MIN-it, NYOO -) noun

  A very short period of time; an instant.

[From the allusion to the frenzied pace of life in New York City.]

New Yorkers are stereotyped as people always in a hurry and often rude,
although there are many polite and generous New Yorkers. The term New York
Minute has been facetiously defined as the time between a New York City
traffic light turning green and the driver of the car behind you honking
his or her horn.