...I'm baaaaaccckkkk... sort of. I'm going to take this space up to tell you all... I heart you! And I'm a stupid, silly, heartless abandoner... (just pretend, if it's not, that abandoner is a word).
I up and abandoned all you beautiful people and didn't bother to visit. Well, I've been thinking on this lately and... I'm really sorry. I was looking over my livejournal (since I've posted new icons), and I saw that Badger and Alicia and Zannie had left comments on various days and felt so horrible for just leaving.
I want to apologize for this. I love you all... well, that I know, there are certainly new members! (I'm glad to see this board isn't dead! I left it in good hands. ) I'm sorry I up and left. It was horrid of me.
But from now on, I'm going to check back as often as I can, though I can't garurentee... dammit, I can't spell that word... that it'll be every day or anything. I also can't say that I'll be active in a billion and a half posts, but I'll be here when I can be.
The board looks fantastic. It's gone through changes, for certain, but it's looking and doing wonderfully!
But here's something else, to boot!
Author: Rowena/Lindsay/Messr Fuzzbutt
Title: Accio Notebook
Summary: Ginny cannot sleep. She finds herself longing for something new.
Sometimes, usually late at night, she will get these creative yearnings, in which all she wants to do is draw something, write something, sing something- it doesn’t matter what, her soul wants out, and she wants to let it out.
It is after midnight, this night, when she finds herself awake and restless. She sits on her bed, turns on a bedside lamp, and pulls out her notebook, quill and ink.
She dips her quill into the ink and sets it down on the paper. She blinks. She does not know what to write. She does not know what to draw. It is too late at night to sing. She does not know what to do, and she feels the restless part of her twist and turn in agony at being trapped. She cannot think in the confined area of her four-poster.
She quietly slips out from her bed and strides across the dormitory, careful not to wake the others, who are sleeping soundly in their four-poster beds. She pads softly down the stairs and into the common room, which is dark but for a fire burning in the fireplace.
She longs to let out her soul- longs to fly. She longs for adventure. She longs for something new, something splendid. She knows that it is out there, and she tries to think of where, or who, it has manifested itself in.
She thinks of the dark-haired boy. He has the most amazing green eyes, and a peculiar lightning-bolt shaped scar upon his forehead. He will be her inspiration tonight. He will be her muse. “Accio notebook, ink and quill,” she whispers suddenly, waving a short wooden rod around. It is just moments later when the summoned objects arrive.
She once again opens the notebook. She dips her quill into the ink bottle. She sets the quill tip upon the paper. This time she writes. She knows what to write. Her hand flows across the paper gracefully as the words literally pour from the quill she holds.
He watches her from the staircase leading to the opposite dormitories. He often watches her, as she often comes down to the common room late at night. He loves the way the fire reflects from her hair, fire-like on its own. He is the dark-haired boy, but she does not know of his nightly vigils. He sometimes stands and watches for hours, and still she does not notice him, so lost is she in her world of paper and ink, so lost is she in her soul.
Tonight is different. Tonight, her inspiration is him. Tonight she falters in her writing, lost on what next to put upon the paper. She turns back to look toward the place where he sleeps, hoping that, perhaps, she may gain some sort of knowledge as to what next to write.
She sees him and gasps in surprise. His eyes widen. He does not mean to be caught watching her.
“What are you doing?” she whispers. The room is silent. He can hear her.
“Couldn’t sleep. What are you doing?” he asks.
“Writing, if you couldn’t tell,” she replies. She gives him a slight smirk.
“What are you writing?” he inquires.
“Words,” is her response. She does not wish him to see her words. They are her soul, and she does not wish him to see that yet.
“May I read them?” he dares ask.
She shakes her head quickly. “No,” she states, “no, you may not read them.”
“Why not?” he asks cockily. He does not expect a true answer.
“This is my soul,” she says, “and you aren’t ready to know it.”
He feels slightly offended. “I’m sure I can handle it,” he says.
“You aren’t ready to know it,” she repeats, “and neither am I ready for you to know it.”
He nods his head. “Will I ever get to know it?”
“Perhaps,” she states. She does not wish him to know her soul. She does not think he ever will.
Weeks pass, and he still watches her. He has begun to wear an invisibility clock. She does not see him, but he sometimes wonders if she can somehow sense him. She will turn curiously once and a while, and stare right at his location. She often shakes her head, as if she believes she is imagining things, and continues writing.
He desperately wants to read what she writes. Perhaps he could take a peek? She would never know the difference.
He steps behind her and reads over her shoulder. It is not hard. She is sitting, legs curled beneath herself, on the couch, and he is standing behind her. He is too enthralled in in his attempt to read that he does not watch the volume of his breathing. He is breathing loudly enough that she knows that someone is behind her. He does not notice her turn and reach her hand out until she touches him. He is shocked, and only just looks down in time to see her hand grab the cloak and pull. He is caught.
She is angry. She does not wish him to read her words. She does not have much trust in such things, and he has made it worse. She does not want anyone to know her soul. She thought that she could trust him to leave her soul be.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I was trying to read what you were writing,” he admits, sheepishly.
“Why? I told you not to,” she says angrily.
“I couldn’t help myself,” he states. “I see you write, every night, but I don’t know what it is that you write.”
“You have some idea now, I’d assume,” she says coldly, clutching the notebook in her arms. She does not want him to have more than ‘some idea.’
“I didn’t read it,” he answers truthfully. “I couldn’t. You caught me.”
“Why were you trying to read it?” she asks again.
“I was curious,” he states.
“I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. He turns to leave. “G’night,” he says.
She does not reply as he walks to his dormitory. She is still upset with him. When she is satisfied that she is gone, she sighs. “Why do you torment me so?” she wonders aloud. She does not understand how it is he can do such things to infuriate her, and yet she still cannot give up her feelings for him. She has tried, but she has never been able to stop liking him. She does not understand that her feelings have been beyond liking for weeks. She does not understand, yet, that she loves him.
He is confused and unsure. He is not able to comprehend these new feelings, these new wants. He needs only look at her to feel his world right itself. He does not believe that these feelings are anything more than friendship. She is his best friend’s younger sister. He does not think he has feelings for her. He is wrong.
He feels lost when she is not there. When they visit Hogsmeade village, he is always wondering where she is. He is ever uncertain as to her safety, and he is never unconcerned. He does not live in a safe world. He is as dangerous as the danger outside of their haven at school, for he is what the danger is after. He and all those close to him.
He is afraid that if he becomes close with her, that she will be taken. He does not wish harm upon her, and this is enough for him to keep his distance, except in secret.
She has yet to speak to him again since the incident with the notebook, and he is worried that he has ruined the small bit of friendship that they had. He believes himself to be quite the idiot. He is, in some ways, right.
He is lost. He has not spoken with her and he does not like feeling this way. He sometimes cannot sleep at night, but he does not venture into the common room. If she is there, she will not want him to be, and if she is not there, he will not want to be.
But he has waited long enough. He wishes to speak with her again. He wishes to apologize for his curious stupidity.
It is after midnight, and he steps into the common room. She is not there. He is disappointed. When he reaches his dormitory again, he pulls out a map. The map tells him where she is. She is on the roof of Gryffindor tower.
It does not take him long to find the door leading to the roof. He is nervous, however. The roof, though quite large, is tilted, and cone-shaped. It is not a steep roof, but he is nervous nonetheless. She is sitting with her back to him, closer to the edge. “What are you doing?” he asks her. It seems to be a frequent question between the two.
“Flying,” she says. She does not need to turn around to see who it is. She knows his voice. She had made up her mind to stop speaking to him, but she does not remember that, and she cannot help it.
“Flying?” he asks. He is confused. He does not understand her metaphor.
“I’m writing,” she says, using terms he will understand.
“You write a lot,” he notes.
“Yes,” she agrees.
“Why do you write?” he asks.
“It’s what keeps me whole,” she says. “I write to escape.”
“Escape what?” he questions.
“Reality,” she says. “In writing I can make up anything I want. In writing, I can make it so that there are no Dark Lords, no papers to write on stupid subjects, no silly boys.”
“Silly boys?” he asks. He is confused by his curiosity. He cannot figure out why it is that he cares.
“Yes, silly boys,” is all she responds.
“Oh,” he says, somewhat lamely.
There are a few moments’ silence. “Why did you come up here?” she then asks.
“You’re up here,” he says.
“I wanted to apologize.” He looks down at his hands. “It was wrong of me to try and look at your writing. I won’t do it again. I‘m not sure why I did it in the first place.”
Now she remembers her vow to not speak with him. She inwardly curses herself. “It was wrong,” she agrees.
He does not say anything. He feels that she is still mad at him, and wants to leave. “I understand if you’re still mad at me,” he states.
“I’m not,” she says. She surprises herself. She does not know why she has said that. She is still angry with him, she thinks.
He lets out a relieved sigh. “Good,” he says. “I don‘t know what I‘d do if you were.”
She chuckles slightly. It is hard for her to stay angry with him.
He grins. He is a lot happier, now that he has apologized and she has accepted his apology. It is in this moment that he realizes that he fancies her. He is a bit shocked at his sudden epiphany.
He is suddenly nervous around her. He clears his throat. “It’s late,” he says. “I’m going to go. You should get some sleep, too.” He stands up. “G’night.”
“Goodnight,” she replies, waving her hand absentmindedly as she continues to write. When he is gone, she sighs.
He has not been able to talk to her without blushing, lately.
She is confused as to why he has been acting strangely. She wants to ask him about it. She pulls out a piece of parchment, ink and a quill.
Harry, she writes,
We need to talk. Meet me in the common room at midnight.
It is a short letter, to the point. She does not sign it. She knows he will come.
When he receives the letter, he is unsurprised. He knows who it is from, although he does not know how he knows.
At midnight, he is there to meet her in the common room. She is already there, sitting on the couch. He sits down next to her.
“You’ve been acting strangely,” she tells him.
“I have?” he asks. He knows what she is talking about.
“Yes. You’ve been acting nervous and avoiding me,” she states.
He does not reply.
“Why?” she asks.
He can no longer help it. He kisses her.
She kisses back. She decides, afterwards, that he will someday get to read her notebook.