))))))))))))))))))))

)))))))TM Ut-ja
Вкусы людей весьма разнообразны, характеры капризны, природа их в высшей степени неблагодарна, суждения доходят до полной
нелепости. Поэтому несколько счастливее, по-видимому, чувствуют себя те, кто приятно и весело живет в свое удовольствие, чем те, кто терзает себя
заботами об издании чего-нибудь, могущего одним принести пользу или удовольствие, тогда как у других вызовет отвращение или неблагодарность.
Огромное большинство не знает литературы, многие презирают ее. Невежда отбрасывает как грубость все то, что не вполне невежественно; полузнайки отвергают как пошлость все то, что не изобилует стародавними словами; некоторым нравится только ветошь, большинству - только свое собственное.
Один настолько угрюм, что не допускает шуток; другой настолько неостроумен, что не переносит остроумия; некоторые настолько лишены насмешливости, что боятся всякого намека на нее, как укушенный бешеной собакой страшится воды; иные до такой степени непостоянны, что сидя одобряют одно, а стоя - другое.
Одни сидят в трактирах и судят о талантах писателей за стаканами вина, порицая с большим авторитетом все, что им угодно, и продергивая каждого за его
писание, как за волосы, а сами меж тем находятся в безопасности и, как говорится в греческой поговорке, вне обстрела. Эти молодцы настолько гладки
и выбриты со всех сторон, что у них нет и волоска, за который можно было бы ухватиться. Кроме того, есть люди настолько неблагодарные, что и после
сильного наслаждения литературным произ^ ведением они все же не питают никакой особой любви к автору. Они вполне напоминают этим тех невежливых гостей, которые, получив в изобилии богатый обед, наконец сытые уходят домой, не принеся никакой благодарности пригласившему их. Вот и затевай теперь на свой счет пиршество для людей столь нежного вкуса, столь разнообразных настроений и, кроме того, для столь памятливых и благодарных

люблю все и не в посл очередь - то что есть прост и славн get lost без накруч тарантин вариаций

ээ because i can ? в смысле потому что люблю

"So," said Hermione one morning, "I've decided not to return to school next year." And that was how Harry found out that he was going back to Hogwarts


Wait, what?" said Ron.
"For eighth year," said Hermione, blinking.
"Oh," said Ron, blinking back.

"Wait, what?" said Harry


"You think I'm charming?" said Ron with a ridiculous leer.
"I think you're quite daft," said Hermione matter-of-factly ///////////// שלושה ניחושים - אמלין ? לא אכפת ליח רק כמה שיותר

I think they need time to learn how to trust me again." //////////////// איפה יש ילדים כאלה - שכן אכפת להם מההורים ענייני אמון במשפחה ובלה-בלה-בלה

Harry stared. "Ginny, she's my best friend."
"No, Harry," Ginny snapped, "your best friend should be your girlfriend


Why would I want to go to a party for her?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Ginny. "Why would you possibly want to do something nice for a girl who lost her life fighting in your battle against Voldemort — "
"It wasn't my battle, Ginny, it was everyone's. And that's my point. It's not her birthday! She's dead!"
"That doesn't mean you can't celebrate her life!"
"I can celebrate her life better by not wallowing in grief!"
"Wallowing? It's a birthday party!"



mean, she kissed me last Christmas," he said confusedly.
"Yeah," said Neville. "She told me about that." Then his face went red. "Last year, I mean."
Harry looked at Ron, and then they both slowly looked at Neville.
"Neville," said Harry, "why would Ginny tell you?"
"What Harry's asking," said Fred cheerily, "is if you've been moving in on his not-girlfriend while he's been not-dating her."
"It wasn't like that!" Harry protested, though he suddenly had a feeling it was more or less exactly like that.




"Um, are you okay?" Ron was sort of fuzzy at the edges, just the opposite of Fred's painting. Alcohol was tricky.


"Yeah? Why wouldn't I be?" said Ron, like he couldn't imagine being anything else. He sounded so convincing it took Harry a second to remember why he was — oh, right, his brother was dead.


Harry suddenly saw Fred's face as he died, his laugh caught permanently in his throat. Instantly his head felt clear.


"You sure there's nothing you want to talk about?" he said to Ron.


"Nope," said Ron








What's wrong with you?" said Draco, stopping in front of him. Then he spotted the bottles. "Oh. You're drunk," he said. He wrinkled his nose.


"No," said Harry. "I was drunk. Then I sobered up long enough to make an idiot of myself. And now I am actively getting drunk again."


"You mean the great Harry Potter indulges in drunken revelry?" said Malfoy. "Shocking."


"No," said Harry. "I had a reason."


"Do tell," said Malfoy, folding his hands in his robes and looking smug.


"Well," said Harry, "at first it was because my girlfriend just dumped me. Or... something. Then it was because one of my friends is dead, and my other friend is going off his rocker because of it, and I can't do anything to help him."


"Well," said Draco, "my girlfriend hasn't spoken to me since she led my entire house out the front door of the castle and then never came back, one of my friends was killed at Hogwarts and is now hiding somewhere where I'll never be able to find him and he'll be some sort of miserable troll for the rest of his death-time, and my other friend is also going off his rocker, only I can't do anything to help him because he's doing it in Azkaban."


Harry wordlessly passed him a bottle of Firewhisky.


Draco took it and slumped down the wall beside him. He glared at Harry, but it was probably more for old times' sake than for anything else, Harry figured — his way of saying 'bottoms up,' maybe.


He took a swig. Harry did too.


"D'you just make that into a contest?" Harry asked after a moment.


"No," said Draco. He took another drink. "Maybe."


"Call it a tie," said Harry.


They drank again. The floor was starting to swim less, which could have meant that he was sobering up, or maybe just that he was concentrating harder.












Harry Potter

18 yrs old, Auror-in-training, hero & all-around decent chap ///////////////////////////это то что на русск идет как - звенящ капелью норма - ну примерно также как неизбывн вечн женствен-ть - кот в немецк идет как самкость





Won't you need help?"

Malfoy went rigid all over, the way he had when they'd been drinking the other night. "I'm good at charms," is all he said. //////////////////////////a я -то думала он поднимает на штык в пылу спора люб подначку - а на сам деле наверняка это чертово - "дебил" для него та сам красн тряпка, несчаст мозоль








Well, well," said Malfoy. "If one didn't know any better, one would think you trying to assimilate me, Potter."


"It's not that," said Harry. "I just." He stopped and tried to remember how Hermione had put it.


"You?" said Malfoy patiently.


"Um," said Harry





Our house is gone," said Malfoy, his voice going up sharply in pitch. "There's no one here except for me and you. If you don't come back I'll — it'll just be me."


"But I'm just a painting," said Crabbe.


"You're not," said Malfoy








Uh," said Harry, feeling the tips of his ears burning. "I don't think he'd like that much."


Parvati shrugged. "You've done it before," she said. "Didn't think it was that big a deal."


"It isn't," Harry said, too quickly. She was right. He'd talked to Malfoy before in public. At dinner, even. It wasn't a big deal.


But he'd had a purpose then. Now it would be like — like he just wanted to say hi. Like they were friends.


"Well, whatever," said Parvati. "But your ex has been trying to figure out who you've been staring at for the last ten minutes. If I were you I'd talk to him just so you don't give her the wrong idea."


Harry stilled and deliberately didn't look over at Ginny. "Thanks," he said.


She shrugged again. "Unless it's the right idea."


"Sorry?" said Harry, but she'd returned to reading her book











Beside him, Malfoy wasn't even trying not to snicker. Harry kicked him under the table.















"And any girl you use it on would hex you into a million pieces," said Harry.


"Forget using it on a girl," said Ron dreamily. "I'd use it on Malfoy. Could you imagine?" Harry did, and laughed.


"No worries, mate," he said. "I've got Malfoy covered." Ron gave him a look, but said nothing.


The day his order arrived, Harry got Fred to show him how to combine the new mail-order exclusive Arachknit with a hover charm — which he then launched on Draco Malfoy, who shrieked like a little girl in the middle of Potions.


This ultimately proved unfortunate, as Harry was laughing too much to call the spider off. After Malfoy flung it away, it sailed gracefully around the room and dropped at last on Parvati's head. It tried to eat her, wool pincers scrabbling furiously. She rolled her eyes, scraped it off with her wand, and dropped it into her cauldron.


The cauldron began to belch billowing chunks of soot and smoke out into the classroom. "Oh, dear," said Slughorn, and something like a screeching mass exodus took place.


What was left of the doomed tarantula lurched out of the cauldron, borne aloft on a lava-lit plume of fire, and landed directly on top of Slughorn's patiently brewing Incendius potion.


Whereupon the room promptly exploded.





Harry reminded himself that he'd sort-of killed Voldemort and received an Order of Merlin, and he and Ron had their own Chocolate Frog cards, and therefore they were not likely to get expelled during their last year at Hogwarts.

"Er," he said. "It's like this, Professor."
McGonagall gave him a look he knew from long experience, and he closed his mouth.




Harry didn't know quite what it meant about himself that he noticed the difference between polished and unpolished Malfoys.






I hope you don't mind," said Luna. "I gave it a few extra touches."


She had painted a beautiful four-poster bed, elegant in every way, except for the giant lavender starbursts all over the canopy. Oh, and the fact that it was on the ceiling.


"We can just — uh, turn it right-side up," said Harry. "I'm sure it will be fine."


Malfoy sent him a look of incredulity over Luna's head. Harry tried to telegraph, 'It's just Luna, you know, that girl your dad tortured for a few months,' and probably failed. Luna looked at Malfoy. "You should make one for the dragon, too," she said. "I would have drawn mine out of grass, but I wasn't sure the frame would fit an Antipodean Opaleye."


Malfoy said, "That's okay, I drew mine out of lollipops," and then turned his back on her, muttering things. Harry tried not to laugh and probably failed at that too.










You have to paint it first," said Luna. "Most people use chromative oil paint. I prefer watercolours, myself, but that works better for painting ghosts."


She swiped her brush into the jar she had brought, and painted Harry's bed a bright purple. Each brush stroke seemed to quiver as it met the canvas, and the more she painted, the more Harry's bed began to gain shape. By the time she was finished, it had a mattress, and a headboard, two giant pillows, and four stout legs.


Soblessa beamed at them and sank onto it. "It feels like goose feathers!"


"Great," said Malfoy, coming up behind them. "Now we just have to do that six thousand more times."


"Six thousand, one hundred and fifty-five," Harry corrected. "Plus one for the dragon."


"Or you could just do this," said Luna, and with a wave of her wand, she copied Harry's giant purple bed onto three more canvases.


Harry and Malfoy exchanged glances.


"Brilliant, Luna," said Harry, and saw with satisfaction that Malfoy agreed.






You can't name your owl 'Owl,' Potter, don't be ridiculous."


Harry and Draco were walking back from the Quidditch shed. The first snow of the year had fallen the previous evening, and while it was only barely enough to shade the ground, it made Harry feel alive. Term would be over in just a few weeks; he'd see Hermione — finally, he'd see Hermione, and maybe she could talk some sense into Ron, and the three of them could be themselves again.


It was almost Christmas. He was thinking of getting Draco a gift just to watch his nose crinkle in pretend disgust.



















Atop the whole resided the bright orange blob of what would have been its flaming red Weasley hair.


"He didn't," said Harry in slow dawning horror, to no one in particular. "Tell me he didn't."


"He was a madman!" said one of the portraits. "A madman with a paintbrush!"


"We begged him to stop," said another.


"Fred was so angry, but he wouldn't listen!"


"He kept saying, 'This will make everything better! Now you won't have to be alone!'"


"It was horrible!"


Harry stepped forward and stared. The figure stared back with his terrible circles for eyes, and waved a paint globule in greeting.


Over his shoulder, he heard Draco say brightly to Crabbe, "Now, see? Wasn't this worth sticking around for?" and Harry leaned against Fred's frame and laughed because there was nothing else to do.




There was one thing left Harry could do.
He owled Hermione.





You're eating my lunch," said Harry. "Is that part of the privilege?"


"No," said Draco, muffled through all the peas. "That's just because you like me."


Harry smiled before he could help it. Draco's mouth went lopsided when he saw it, and Harry's smile got bigger.
























mne nravitsja ili skoree menja podsadili na Drako - detku tot zhe Trade i Florahart estesv i nevin jegocent /i razum-sja Abaddon/

//Fuck you," Draco snarls when they're through the door, and just keeps repeating himself, over and over again. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you."

Harry steps around him because he's no threat, and meets Draco's words with a backhand across his face that makes Draco's ears ring, his eyes see stars and the copper tang of blood seep into his mouth from a cut lip.

"Tried that, didn't we?" and he gazes around the circle of Aurors like he expects one of them to make a smart remark, like they're his enemy here and not Draco. "Wasn't too successful."

..........................Nobody speaks, though, and Draco feels a sudden surge of pride that he can still rile Potter after all this time, that he can get Potter's blood pounding in a way he never could much at school, and all because of love. There's a not very gentle push at the small of his back, and Draco almost stumbles while the Aurors break formation and start striding off in file, with their prisoner and trophy in the middle.

He's being lead away to the slaughter, to a small dim cell and a glass of hemlock, as all great men are, and Draco recognises his greatness because they want him dead and he finally is a threat. That is the way his father died; this is the way he will die. The book in Potter's pocket is his confession, although he doesn't regard it as such, and when asked to recant, he will refuse, proud and stiff and smug because Draco Malfoy has betrayed every cause, forsaken every belief, broken every trust ever placed in him save this one. He broke Harry's heart, and his own in the process; fled the final battle because he didn't want to die, but now he shall stay true to this last great hope, because even Draco has to believe in something, and these beliefs give him power, and Draco has never wanted to be too weak to accept power, and it is far easier to stay true when you are the only one left./////////
dazhe portret Dr tot chto pomn - tot gde obraz Dr nakladyv na scenku iz "sekr ischezn sada" - tazhe samaja grimasa - nahm i zloj i neschastn i vse proch/ nadmen i nepr bolezn zaostrennost/ odnovremenno - tonen'k ruchki nozhki i cvetu

nu i chto - razve moja privjazan k odnomu opredel fandomn tipu meshala naslazhd vsemi prochimi ~ne tvoimi` fikami - da ni razu

לא משנה האם דומה לאווטר או לא – זה נפלא גם כך

Theft of Assets, Destruction of Property
http://helenish.talkoncorners.net/theft.html

Gradually, Draco stops worrying about it as much; he doesn't have anything his father needs anymore.




Did I force you?" Neville says tonelessly.

"Force me to clean the shed?"

"Did I rape you?" Neville says, his face tight and grim. Yes, Draco should say, but I know you didn't mean to. Yes, but I forgive you.

"No," Draco whispers. He's prepared for anger, but Neville's shoulders just drop a little.

"I didn't think I had," he says, relief leaking into his voice. "But I thought maybe I wasn't remembering it right."

"But—"

"I could never even believe that you let me—when you—" Neville shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Draco says. "I know what I said, but I—it never occurred to me that you—that I—I know you would never do that."

"I wouldn't?" Neville says, and looks at up at Draco, his eyes dark and hot and frustrated.

"No," Draco says. "I—you couldn't."

"Why's that?" His voice is caustic. "Because Gryffindors never—"

"Because I want you to," Draco says.

Neville makes a choking sound and Draco turns and starts sorting out the nearest box mindlessly









Making up stupid stories and the best way to braise veal has nothing to do with my career," Neville says, voice climbing precipitously, "you are so fucking—" Draco, in spite of himself, takes a step back and feels his shoulders hunch; Neville had a little too much to drink, not his fault, drinks pressed on him by the Ministry liaison and the Dean of Students. Neville breaks off, staring at him.

"I'm not going to hit you," he says. "Is that what you really think of me?"

"No," Draco says. "Of course not," but his voice, his hands, are shaking, and Neville turns around and slams out of the house without another word.









He always stays in Draco's bed if they have sex there and thanks him for meals and kisses him when they fuck and always makes sure he comes first; there may as well be a tattoo on his forehead that reads "Gran Longbottom raised me right."









Right, then," Weasley says, rubbing his hands together once Draco puts the ladyfingers in the oven. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have an extra one of those sack lunches around the place, just going to waste?"

"I have beef stew, rolls, roasted asparagus and a trifle," Draco says. Weasley's eyes widen and he looks so eager that Draco says, "You may stay for lunch."

Weasley drops around a few more times while Neville's away, always suspiciously near mealtimes. He is loud and messy and clatters his knife and fork together, but he's an entertaining conversationalist and gives Draco some very useful critique about his cranberry bread, and then, when Draco asks, the rest of the meal, and, later that week, the some of the pastries Draco's been trying to perfect.

"Neville just says they're fine," Draco says. They're sitting across from each other in the kitchen and Draco is taking notes.

"They are fine," Weasley says. "Very good, even. But I think this one is better—what's different about it?"

"I added some cardamom," Draco says.

"Don't even know what that is," Weasley says. "But it's good."










Weasley says, cutting himself another wedge of blueberry pie. "You know Harry."

"Not really."

"He's always going off and being brilliant and bloody handsome in the right place and time and saving everyone and he doesn't even do it on purpose."

"Ah, so he's still a bit of a prat, then," Draco says. Weasley doesn't deny it.






"That money wasn't an allowance," Neville said. "I would never—you can have whatever you need."


don't, really," Neville said. "It's—loud. Gran and I used to just have a nice dinner and listen to the Wireless."

"That's—I'd rather do that," Draco says.







He wanted to get him a set of spell-treated vambraces, since Neville's been accepted into Broadsword 450 for the spring semester and only pretending not to be proud of it. He wanted to get him a pocket compass that doubled as an apparation coordinate plotter, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by getting Neville something too nice when Neville was probably going to get him a set of monogrammed handkerchiefs or a new mop or a scarf or something, so he got him










No," Draco says. "You give me money and you don't—you know, push me around or make me, um—"

He stops because Neville looks furious. "Not that you would," Draco finally falters. Neville's been turning the book over and over in his hands restlessly, but now he puts it down on the table, squaring the corners against the edge.

"Did you know," he says, his tone mild, "that those Muggles Harry grew up with put him in the cupboard below the stairs?"

"What for?"

"It was his room," Neville says. "I don't think he's ever really gotten used to being touched."

"That's awful," Draco says. "Is that what Muggles usually do?"

"No, of course not, come on," Neville says.

"Well, how would I know, I don't know any Muggles," Draco says. "I mean, it's not as though I assumed they went around putting babies in closets until you brought it up."

"All I meant was, perhaps you shouldn't expect so little of people," Neville says.

"Perhaps," Draco says. Neville rubs a hand across his face.










You were the first person who ever really treated me like I wasn't a bit of a joke," Neville says. "So I wasn't exactly in a rush to tell you what a coward I was, to be so afraid of some stupid dreams."

"I expect I would have found it tragic and romantic, if that helps."








You used to like things."

"Yeah, sure," Draco says lightly. "That was me."

"Don't," Neville says.`

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like I think you're a—you're after money."

"Everyone else does."

"Name one person who thinks that," Neville says, "no one thinks that, they think you're in—" his voice shakes








Draco allows himself to be cautiously happy—at the honest enjoyment people seem to get from his cooking, at the steadily growing little stack of galleons he keeps in one of the biscuit tins in a lower cupboard, at the way Neville smiles at him when they're having sex, until, cleaning, he sees Neville's appointment calendar. It's a serious little black book, scribbled over with Neville's blocky sсript—classes and training, appointments with the mediwizard he sees about his headaches, long meetings blocked off for his solicitors and money managers, and nearly once a fortnight for the next year, reminders to buy flowers for Draco, lined up neatly with his other chores and responsibilities. There isn't a single dinner or social engagement that isn't about work or duty; Neville apparently doesn't write those down











Hey," Weasley says. "Hey, Draco are you—um, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Draco says.

"Yeah, I can tell," Weasley says, and then makes Draco come back to the flat he shares with Potter.

"It's a little messy," Weasley says cheerfully, scooping some laundry off the couch and throwing it onto a chair. "Sit down." There's a pyramid made of Old Mag's Ale cans stacked up on the mantelpiece, a mishmash of brooms and dueling swords propped up in the corner, and what Draco can only assume is a stolen traffic sign—'Caution: Portkey Point"—hung up on the wall. The coffee table is strewn with Quidditch magazines and textbooks, potions ingredients in clear plastic packets, a tin of broom-bristle conditioner and several greasy rags, a half empty box of owl snacks, and a mismatched pair of gauntlets.

"Can I get you something?" Weasley says.

"No, thank you," Draco says, sitting down a little gingerly on the couch, but Weasley ignores him and makes him a cup of tea, which Draco is dutifully drinking when Potter slams in the door. He throws down his rucksack, tosses his robe over the armchair, summons a bottle of ale from the refrigerator, pops the cap with an inaudible 'pertivo, and takes a swig before turning around and seeing Draco.

"Hey," he says.

"Well, this was nice," Draco says, putting down the teacup with a clatter. "I should probably—" he trails off, because Potter's just staring at him while he takes a few long pulls on his ale.

"Would you like a drink?" he says, finally.

"Yes, please."


Draco has two ales; Potter has another two and Weasley has four, and then they floo up some take away and have another round apiece. Potter and Weasley tell him funny stories about training exercises gone wrong and describe a series of increasingly improbably Quidditch plays they've invented. Draco has another ale and then falls asleep on the couch, head pillowed on unfolded laundry. He wakes up with a Quidditch cloak on top of him and Neville sitting in the armchair opp









Yes, thanks, I'm aware of that," Neville snaps. "And, by the way, Ron dates girls."

"Yes," Draco says, starting to wonder if Neville's running a fever. "I know."




Didn't I give you the recipe?" Draco says. "I can copy it out again for you."

"But mine don't taste like yours."

"Don't tell me you can't follow a simple recipe. How do they taste?"

"Gritty," Granger says. "Sour."

"You must not have emulsified the milk thistle properly—"

"I can expense it," Granger says plaintively. "What's the going rate?"




He wakes up on the converto-couch. Ron is sitting in the easy chair, one ankle tossed up on the bed, reading the scandalous novel Neville got him for Christmas and Harry is lying on the floor flipping through the flashcard file Draco made for Neville. Granger is sitting cross-legged, leaning against the chair, reading. They're sharing a pot of tea, and all of them are eating cupcakes.

"Oh, hey," Ron says.

"Hi," Draco says.

"You've been out for a while," Ron says, summoning a glass of water and handing it to him. There's a smear of frosting on his chin.

"So—" Harry says, sitting up.

"I just fell," Draco says hurriedly. "I guess I just hit my head—idiotic—I'm always doing. you know. idiotic things."

"Yeah," Harry says, his brows pulling together. He looks a little concerned. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I fell."

"We got here in time to pull Neville off your dad," Ron says reassuringly. "So—no need to lie."

"Your dad stole your magic," Harry says, finishing his cupcake in one huge bite and picking up another from the plate on the floor. "Then Neville says you cursed him and I guess that destabilized the spell he was using to hold onto it and it all went back to you. And soap bubbles came out of his ears, for some reason."

Granger huffs a little and starts to say something and Harry tucks the cupcake in her mouth before she can. "That's the short, non-boring magical theory version, anyhow," Harry says.

"Oh," Draco says.









I know," Granger says, at the same time that Harry says, in a studiously careless tone, "How do you know what Greg Goyle thinks?"

"He's in some of my classes and we've—had coffee a few times."

"Oh, coffee," Ron says, in a similarly strange tone.

"Yes, coffee," Granger says. "Since you two were too busy with each other










I have a question," Draco says. They all turn towards him, faces flushed, and Granger raises her pen in a way that means she's prepared to take notes. "Are you eating the cupcakes I made for Robbie Cattermole's tenth birthday celebration?"

"We were hungry," Ron says, after a conspicuous silence.

"You were unconscious for a long time," Harry says. He's still holding half a cupcake, but he's twisting his hand to hide it. "And they weren't marked."

"And then there are all your 'roughhousing' injuries," Granger says loudly, waving her arms around. "I'm sorry, Draco, but they were delicious. You two can't honestly expect me to believe these beyond ridiculous stories about how you have marks all over your neck from mock dueling or tripping over takeaway boxes—"

"Actually, if you've seen their flat," Draco murmurs, but Granger is talking loudly over him, her face red.




I don't want to separate," Draco says promptly.

"Divorce," Neville says, nodding, not quite meeting Draco's eyes.

"I don't understand.

"You have your magic back," Neville says. The expression on his face is familiar from the last months, a peculiar mix of resignation and sadness.

"You knew," Draco says.

"Yes," Neville says. "Or no, not about Lucius, obviously. But you almost never used magic and you always had some flimsy excuse. I thought you were just a bit of a squib or had L—late onset magic loss—"

"I know what LOML is," Draco says.

"I figured—you needed me," Neville says. "And that's why you married me. I didn't mind."

"You didn't?"

"I'm in love with you," Neville says. He's very matter of fact. "You don't have to say anything."












"I mean, I suppose you're not completely unfortunate in the sack," Draco says, and Neville's anxious smile eases into something more genuine and he lets Draco pull him down onto the converto-couch right as there's a loud thump against the house from outside, the distant sound of raised voices. "And, apparently," Draco continues, "we don't even have the most complicated relationship of the people currently in this house."

"You may change your mind when you get stronger," Neville says, leaning down to brush a kiss against Draco's throat.

"I may not," Draco says. He doesn't.






...
mne kazalos' chto menja nakrylo i ja uzhe ne vyp davno pohozh ne bylo ' no pozv N a potom gosti i neozhid ust ushla i konechno Avatar(mne ponr bol'she chem detjam) i fik, ne znaju m dejstvit vse himija no v jetot raz povezlo

-
Seventh grade did, indeed, keep them apart, as did most of high school. But Joel Glicker was smart and persistent (witness his possession of the only complete set of `Schizos and Serial Killers' cards on record) and Wednesday Addams was... an Addams.
High school didn't stand a chance.




Joel's rambling descriptions of fifth period English ("Mr. Taylor is worse than Gary. If he deconstructs Moby Dick any further, Ahab will end up killing his father and marrying his mother.") and picked up Wednesday's terse replies ("You can collect arsenic by boiling old flypaper").

Joel kept that note and years later slipped it into Another Man's Poison: Secrets to Knock 'Em Dead Entertaining from Lucrezia Borgia, Madame de Brinvilliers, and Martha Stewart, making sure to leave it where his mother could find it.


Stella Glicker had mixed feelings about the Addams family. Why couldn't Joel find a nice normal girl? But a mansion in Westchester is still a mansion in Westchester. Mel was just thrilled that Stella's coddling hadn't repressed his son's heterosexual urges.






an entire tour group of Brownies burst into tears after listening to Wednesday explain the real relationship between Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. Stella looked faintly ill. Mel seemed fascinated despite himself.

Joel made sure to drop a pair of mouse ears on Wednesday's head and snap a picture before she whipped them off and force-fed them to a Dwarf.



Joel Glicker had seen the face of evil. And he had known fear. Allergies, Gary Granger, Camp Chippewa - all paled in comparison to living with Stella and Mel Glicker. But nothing had ever terrified him so much as this moment............

When they reached Joel, Gomez solemnly placed her hand in Joel's. Then he stepped back to stand next to Morticia and promptly burst into tears. Fester, well-supplied by Dementia, slipped him a handkerchief and harmonized with his own loud sobs.



Flora Amor caught the bouquet.
Fauna sulked.The telegram arrived at the Addams home two weeks later.

JOEL DEAD STOP PREPARE GRAVE NEAR DEBBIE STOP WHO KNEW HE WAS AFRAID OF POLKAS STOP

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A beautiful wedding, a thrilling honeymoon, a moving funeral. What more could a girl hope for?
The Bridal Pathwww.yuletidetreasure.org/archive/29/thebridal.h...



"-Honey," Joel said, "I'm back

читать дальшеMORE=читать дальше]

читать дальшеНу, Москва-Питер - с этим всё понятно. У первого мурло - у второго брезгливая морда.



поскольку он был весь про любовь, пришлось стереть. Ибо нежная это очень штука. Руками трогать нельзя








А ещё я очень завидую Борису Борисовичу Гребенщикову.
Лет десять назад, когда ему было столько же лет, сколько сейчас мне, он спел "всё что можно пожелать, всё давным-давно сбылося". И с тех пор перестал заморачиваться на тему "а кому это интересно?".
И, ласково улыбаясь, пишет всякую хуйню, которая интересна только ему самому. А если что-то интересно тебе самому, то всегда найдётся ещё пара людей, которым это тоже интересно.


Вот у меня был случай года два назад. Ну да, маленькому мальчику тогда ещё и года не было.
Купил я жетонов на станции метро удельная, а сам очень задумчивый. Не помню уже после вчерашнего или просто так. Бросаю жетон в щель - красный свет. Ещё раз бросаю - опять красный. Сломался, думаю, аппарат, иду к другому турникету - опять красный. Тут соображаю, что вместо жетонов бросаю двухрублёвые монеты, но уже поздно: "Пройдёмте", - говорят.
Ну пройдёмте, куда ж денешься.

В линейном отделении милиции пахнет застарелой бедой и люди мрачные. Играют в подкидного дурака. "Документы", - говорят.
А фокус в том, что я как раз ехал за своим паспортом, где мне должны были продлить регистрацию ещё на три месяца за три тыщи рублей. "Нету, - говорю, - документов".
Но они ж зоркие. "А вот паспорт у вас в кармане", - говорят. А я по этому паспорту матери моего ребёнка собирался по пути заплатить за кредит на стиральную машину. Небольшой кредит - тысяч восемь, что ли.
"Ага! - сказала милиция. - Значит вас зовут Екатерина Александровна. Кредиты берёте судя по этой бумажке. Интересно-интересно. Плательщик Дмитрий Анатольевич Горчев, гражданин Казахстана. Это ещё интереснее! Это вы видимо?" "Ну я" - говорю неохотно. "А Екатерина Александровна вам кем приходится, позвольте поинтересоваться?" "Женой" - отвечаю угрюмо. "Однако же в паспорте Екатерины Алексанровны написано, что мужем её является гражданин Мартынов". "Они разведены давно, - говорю. - Штамп только не успели поставить". "Это понятно, - кивает головой милиция. - Не успели. Поднимите-ка ручки".
Обшарили карманы. Извлекли из них семь тысяч рублей, телефон и фотоаппарат (у меня тогда ещё была мыльница).
"Это мы приобщаем к делу как вещественные доказательства, - сообщила милиция, распихивая добычу по карманам. - Сумочку позвольте посмотреть?"

И достали из моей сумки Пакет Белого Порошка. Грамм двести, то есть, лет на десять-пятнадцать. "Ууу, бля", - сказала милиция и посмотрела на меня с большим сочувствием. "Это не мой пакет, это вы мне подкинули! Требую занести мои слова в протокол!" - истерически сказал я. Милиция посмотрела на меня почти что с нежностью: "Занесём-занесём. А ну-ка закатайте рукавчик. Ага. Всё понятно". "Я кровь сдавал, когда студентом был" - сказал я из совсем уже бездонных пучин отчаяния. Я действительно сдавал кровь. За деньги, вот такая сволочь, потому что жрать было нечего. "Донор" - юмористически кивнула головой милиция.

И тут я очнулся. "Господи! - сказал я с очень большим чувством, - Иисусе Христе, сыне Божий, помилуй мя грешного!" И медленно и торжественно перекрестился.

Милиция вздрогнула и заморгала. Тот милиционер, который держал в руках Пакет с Белым Порошком, раскрыл его, макнул туда палец и осторожно лизнул. "Соль! - сказал он с изумлением. - Вы всегда носите с собой соль?" Я задумался, вспомнил: "А, да это мы летом ещё ездили по набоковским местам, в Рождествено, помидоры ели".
Тот, который читал паспорт, долистал до страницы с детьми: "Горчев Дмитрий Дмитриевич, 2006 года рождения - это ваш?" "Мой". "А на жизнь чем зарабатываете?" "Писатель я", - ответил я дерзко. "Про что пишете?" Стандартный вопрос, стандартный ответ: "Про вас".
Два милиционера, не говоря ни слова, вышли. Видимо в книжный магазин, что при станции. "Вы курите, Дмитрий Анатольевич, сказал оставшийся милиционер, подвигая мне пачку парламента. "Да у меня есть", - ответил я и закурил свою оптиму.

Минут через пятнадцать вернулись ушедшие милиционеры. Утвердительно о чём-то кивнули. Неохотно достали из карманов вещественные доказательства. "Вы уж поосторожнее с порошками, Дмитрий Анатольевич, - сказал сидевший за столом милиционер. - А вот это вашему сыну. Купите ему что-нибудь", - и протянул мне ещё тысячу рублей.

И тут я действительно охуел. Чтобы милиция вернула отобранное - это я чисто теоретически могу себе представить. С трудом, но могу. Мало ли чудес бывает в этом мире. Тем более, что это только что на моих глазах случилось. Но чтобы отдала СВОЁ - нет, это невозможно вообще и в принципе. "Ну и нам на пиво дайте сколько не жалко"- продолжил милиционер. Не жалко мне было пятьсот рублей, каковые я отдал с большой радостью.

Я вышел из отделения и не стал дёргать судьбу за уши: никуда не поехал, а пошёл домой и по дороге всё пытался совместить невозможный факт с реальностью. И на полпути меня осенило: бля! у меня же в совсем заднем кармане была заначка на самый крайний случай. Вот её-то мне милиция и подарила.



я даже до середины не дочитал. Потому что там юмор. А юмор, он же не в том состоит, чтобы меня щекотать, чтобы я рассмеялся, а в том, ну я не знаю в чём. Может быть в том, что и юмора-то никакого нет и поэтому смешно.





Ни один предмет в мире я не держал в руках с разными целями так часто.






Поначалу я очень изумлялся, когда какая-нибудь вполне приличная барышня внезапно таки в эту койку шла. Объяснял я это, разумеется, своим гигантским умом и блистательным остроумием. Но потом заметил, что они меня вообще-то толком и не слушают, а говорят вседа о чём-то своём. Тогда я плюнул, перестал искать ответы и несколько раз бывал вполне счастлив.







Как сказала одна моя знакомая, прислав мне в качестве своего портрета точку: "Это я, вид из космоса".



, который даже я, готовый в молодости читать всякую дрянь, так и ниасилил.




Пафос, да? Да. Но зато правда.









сидели с ней как птицы на одной ветке и, когда никого из её родственников не было видно, самозабвенно целовались.
Однажды, когда был дикий дождь, она пришла ко мне совершенно мокрая под одеяло.
И я, молодой ещё тогда, дурак, понял одну штуку: не нужно лезть к этой девочке внутрь с круглосуточно торчащим по её именно поводу хуем. Она приходит сюда не за этим, а за, извините уж за такое слово, любовью, которой тут дохуя. Да, иногда любовь удачно совмещается с еблей, но это чуть позже. А пока что - спать.



Делать что-то безнадёжное - что может быть прекраснее этого? Да ничего.





Достаточно ткнуть пальцем в одну-две точки.
Как их найти? Извините, не могу объяснить, но я иногда умею.

Печальное же состоит в том, что лучше всех находить эти точки получается у самых нами любимых и близких людей, но это уже совсем другая тема.






вот до чего ж всё ж таки удивительные существа - люди.
Некоторые всё понимают, другие вообще ничего не понимают, одни кретины, другие прекрасны, одних хочется послать нахуй, а с другими нужно выпить сразу по двести.
И все живые.
И если бы я был Господь Бог, то сидел бы и улыбался незаметно в свою бороду. Потому что нехуёво они придуманы.








. А на самом деле степан этот так же прост и бессмыслен, как сломанный ещё в прошлом году колун, подаренный мне двумя мореходами.
То есть я сам его придумал.
Хуже того - даже себя самого я тоже придумал, ибо если кто-нибудь не поленится заехать в нашу деревню, он там вместо меня обнаружит сонное существо с гноящимися от где-то подхваченного конъюктивита глазами, которое ни разу не читало ни одной своей книжки и пора бы вообще-то ему сходить в баню.
И деревню эту я тоже для себя придумал: если соседу показать фотографию этой деревни, он скажет: "Во, бля! А это где?"

И так всегда и везде: разговариваешь с каким-нибудь человеком и опять же мысленно засовываешь ему в голову свои представления о прекрасном. И говоришь с ним так, как будто они там есть. А когда вдруг выясняется, что представлений этих там нет, никогда не было и никогда не будет, ну, тогда что: бить морду или, если человек интеллигентный, то вежливо послать друг друга нахуй.
Значит человека этого придумать не удалось.

www.reproarte.com/picture/Franz_Marc/The+large+...


Слова большие, словно яблоки. Густые, Как мед

AAAAAAA godblesstoyou,deardearV-iaP


When the story gets told later it always begins different. Kaylee says it begins when Wash died, leaving her with an empty bed and unfulfilled dreams. Simon thinks it was dusting off a crying child that fell and scrapped her knee one day when they were in the market of some little backwater. Mal doesn't say, because he knows better, but Zoe knows he thinks it's when she ended an argument between him and Kaylee by asking what would happen if it was her with child. He'd got real quiet and they just looked at each other......They were there to meet a man looking to move some roasted ore left over from the smelters that were prime material for gravel making and cement, though Jayne swore it was for remining silver that hadn't all oozed out and Mal says they were actually skimming off the ore and only calling it roasted, but..............................and just so was paying close attention to everyone else in bar while the music played hard and that was what it was. One man by the pool tables, singing along. And not just singing shy-like, but belting it out enough to hear him a little over the noise, head bobbing, foot tapping, and all the while studying the game he was playing. He didn't look no different than any of the rest, though maybe his face was a mite cleaner. Tall with short hair and a layer of dirt over well patched clothes, but it was the singing that struck Zoe.
For all his pretty face, he looked a bit like an overgrown kid singing like that, young and goofy.[/MORE]

Summary from "Bushwacked"

Summary: ALLIANCE COMMANDER: You fought with Captain Reynolds in the war?
ZOE: Fought with a lot of people in the war.
ALLIANCE COMMANDER: And your husband?
ZOE: Fight with him sometimes, too.



"Fair does not mean ‘everyone gets the same’. Fair means ‘everyone gets what they need'."



Zoe swears that Wash bruises if someone so much as looks at him funny. He has that kind of complexion, the kind she coveted when she was too young to have grown into her own skin: the kind suited to blond hair and blue eyes, that blanches and blushes, that does not tan but burns. It shows every mark and mar of his clumsy days—a scrape from working on the forward console hatch with Kaylee, a gash from an overeager landing, assorted cuts and bruises that he can’t even recall acquiring.

(“Oww, “ he whines whenever Zoe is required to bandage some hard-to-reach spot. “Ow, oooh, ya—careful! …And again—this time with feeling—ow!" Then, just when she’s starting to feel a mite bit guilty, he’ll give her a sly sideways glance: “Guess you’ll have to kiss me to make it all better.” Clumsy and a terrible patient. Zoe’s not sure how he survived this long.)
[MORE=lost and found
Title: Fair in Love and War]2ndary-author.livejournal.com/51078.html#cutid1


community.livejournal.com/hp_sas/10804.html

“I’ll leave,” Al heard himself saying, “I won’t crawl back here. Owl me whatever I owe you; I’ll pay Scazza—”

A chair flew in from the adjacent room. “Sit down.”

“You’ll burn it afterwards.”

“Correct.”


There had been strange looks, of course, whispers and pointing fingers. But no one had been so forthright about their disgust. Al remained on his feet.

“The chair will not thank you for your martyrdom.”

“No, really. I’ll stand.” The back of the chair was within reach and Al almost went for it. “Thank you. I mean, it’s all right. I know.”

“And what do you know?” Draco leaned back to look at him.

“Nothing.” Al sank into the seat; the question begged for an answer that he could never utter himself



Memories. Surely you recognise these?”

Blood rushed away from his brain. Al felt lightheaded, his skin cold; but he nodded.


continued to study the cracks in the glass beneath his feet, twirling his wand between his fingers like a baton.

“So this is what I’m asking in return for my services. Memories.”

The twirling stopped.

“Don’t look at me this way. Every visitor of Water makes the same payment, but—” he cast a silent spell on the spindle, which spun and tore the strands of memory away from the water screen; they screeched in a futile attempt to escape the draw of the glass cylinder, “—given your surname, it’d be unbecoming to offer you some special treatment … an award of bravery, if you will, for upholding the fine Potter tradition of ignoring the rules.”

What a longwinded way to get to the point. Al felt an emergent lift at the corner of his lips.

Draco resealed the ceiling. For a moment, water continued to fall like rain.

“Usually, I select the memory I wish to save. But, Mr Potter—”

“Al.”

“—Al, I’ll let you choose your own.” The offer was smooth as black silk, the veil unable to conceal the glint in the eyes beneath. “Including that memory, should you desire.”

The knot in Al’s chest loosened. Everyone wanted the same thing from him in the end, the thing that had defined him, had become him.

The Memory.




“You could very well be the next one lying there.” Draco nodded towards the waterfall and his eyes swept towards Al, then trailed from his face towards his abdomen. “Delinquent. Weak. Your parents will be so much happier without you.” He withdrew his wand, his final question replacing the void of his absence. “Who wants a whore for a child?”









Draco did not look disgusted. “Thought you’d be back only if let Scorpius in. I remember that. How’s my son?”

It made no sense—mistaken as his dad then. It had happened before; the flowers made it easy and for the flowers, Al could be anyone, anything. “Scazza’s fine.”





You know what?” Draco, too, smelled like flowers; his voice was smooth as nectar, his lips soft like petals. “This …” His fingers traced along Al’s nose, from bridge to tip, then to his mouth, his jaw; Al could see and feel every one of them. “This has been passed along to your son. To Al.”



Lavenders, their sight, their scent, their taste, had taken over the world, save for the little space Al occupied and drew his breaths from, where it was barren and mired with blood. Critters—Dark and invisible—were crawling beneath his skin. Al had bitten on himself, picked on his skin with his fingers to no avail; the tears in his skin had shown nothing but flesh and blood.







Lily stuck her tongue out, then her eyes lit. “So, how was dad?”

Al snickered and stuck out his palm; Lily took off her glasses and handed it over.

“I’ve said this many times before.” Al pushed up the spectacles and feigned an irritated expression. “Sure, pure-blood families have been richer than half-bloods and Muggleborns and they might have got some of their money from Dark activities, but unless we have proof, the Ministry cannot just take away their assets, which everyone knows is what this measure’s really all about.” He tore off the glasses and returned them to his sister. “There.”

Lily looked comically pensive. “Insightful, indeed.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s made better arguments when Mum wanted to try something new for dinner.”

“For good reasons.” Lily laughed. “Remember that fish thing? Blech. It was funny though; I’d never seen Dad turn so red. I almost wished she’d cooked more.”

“He swore the fish was swimming inside him for days.” Al joined in the laughter. “But wait.” He thought for a second. “About the debate. There’s something I forgot to mention. When the floor opened for discussion, Dad … you know him, when he loses it he can be rather—”

“Loud?” Her eyes widened with curiosity.

“Honest.










“You thought I wanted to see touching … as a tool of humiliation.”

He stretched his arms across the desk and examined their length, speaking again only when his eyes—and Al’s—had finally reached his hands.

“You see these hands?” Joy had departed; Draco’s fingers curled, grasping for the silver sprinkles cast by the light on the dark gloves. “They evaded my mother’s reach when she took her last breath; they’ve never touched my son or his mother. They haven’t even felt the flesh they’re made of for more than a decade.”

With one fluid motion, Draco reached upward and caught a light sphere in the air; silver wings soon sprouted from it and it took off from the black silk.

“No one is good enough, clean enough for them.”






“To answer your last question,” he said quietly, “I do not wish to touch you because if I do, there will come a time when I will not be able to stop, even if you want me to.”




The movement was awkward, graceless; his grip kept slipping with the layers of gauze in between, and his search for deep pleasure accomplished little but gathered the fabric between his fingers and his thighs. Looking more pained than pleasured,..............



Then, quiet sobs serrated the heavy, humid air.

Al did not know how long he had stood there, how long he had watched the lone figure coiled up behind the glass, lamenting a predicament, an unfulfilled desire with tears that nobody would see or hear.

The image was so foreign, yet so familiar—



You asked me whether I like your father; it’s irrelevant. I need him.”

“They’re not the same.”

“They can be, if the need runs deep in your blood—”

“Liking,” Al chewed his lower lip, “comes from here.”








But the silk and veil were reminders of Draco’s inaccessibility, and the almost-healed scar on his hip that Draco looked at everyday, of Al’s free will stolen from him in the past.

The choices of what to give, whom to give it to.

The choice of memories—what to remember, what to forget.

What they both needed, perhaps, was a reversal of fortune.








But the eyes never opened; the fanning came to an abrupt, resolute stop and the eyelids, almost blue with veins, squeezed themselves tight.


He could play Saviour, even if he had no longer believed …

It was in his blood.
.................................The glove fell onto the bedding as Al whispered, “Hold on to me.”

Hold on, because only then you’d know your salvation is real; more than a dream, a desire, an image.

Hold on, because salvation could drift away,....................





Perhaps, there was no such thing as a beautiful memory of sex.











It was Al’s father. One step after another, his worn boots carried him up the stairs towards the foyer of the auditorium. His head remained bowed, never for once turning to look the judges, to whom he should have excused himself before leaving, or his son, who—because of him, because of his legacy—had lived through the crime, the shame all over again.

No one stopped him; no one was able to. He was almost at the entrance when Al’s mum seemed to wake from a trance and stood. She looked at her son, then her husband and back to her son, evidently at a loss of what to do.

...................... The oak double door closed behind him.