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There was nothing to talk about anymore. She went back in to the party, forced down a couple of perfume-laced canapés, and tried to smile, but she couldn’t respond to the polite questions about her career prospects, or her latest Potions Project.

The muted buzz of the party, the insufferable pleasantries, the high laughter, and the chink of cutlery, were unbearable. She tried to act like Lily, but she didn’t know what that involved anymore. There had been lots of laughing and eye-brow raising at one stage, but she couldn’t remember why.

Margot was at her elbow, supplying conversation, when there was a lack of it, changing the subject whenever somebody asked Lily what the matter was. It was almost supportive. She was like the ghost of a friend, Margot Holloway. She did everything a friend would have done; she just didn’t mean it. Why she did it, Lily had no idea. Perhaps it was part of her project to research the chemical composition of muggle-borns.

The Ideoscope wouldn’t come off, either. She had tried to get it as far away from her as possible, tried to hurl it into the mess of bracken and Convolvulus beside Moribund Prince’s coffin, but the leather strap had tightened around her wrist, like a boa constrictor. It was cinched-in, bitten-down, and prepared for the long haul.

James Potter and Sirius Black were at the other end of the room, entertaining a group of Slug Club girls – plain but studious – with some breath-taking Quidditch story. Narcissa was still sickly-pale, and clinging to her father’s arm, as if she couldn’t stand up on her own. Her artificial smiles faded as soon as Aloysius Black looked away.

She looked just like Lily at that moment: pale and distracted, trying her best to laugh and fascinate, to be care-free and sociable, but without any conviction or courage. Of course, she was better at it than Lily was. She was a Slytherin. She was used to hiding her own feelings for the sake of her advancement. And there were other conspicuous differences too: the gold trimmings on Narcissa’s shoes, the elegant, well-tailored school robes, the glimmering green eye-shadow, that made her look like a reptilian mirage.

But there was one person like her at the party. The little princess, the porcelain bitch, whose screams had cut into the fog of happiness surrounding Lily in that dungeon classroom, and driven it away forever.

She was well-connected. Her family was steeped up to the elbows in dark magic. Whatever hide-outs the Dark Lord had, Narcissa and her family would know about them. Besides, what she’d seen through the Ideoscope had been a kind of lecture-theatre: a public place, a space for entertaining, not a seedy little back-room in which to meet and plot the world’s destruction. Narcissa would have seen it, no question.

Leaving Margot ensnared in the conversation of a polite Unspeakable called Gerald (for an Unspeakable, he sure could talk a lot), Lily slipped through the crowd, towards Narcissa. She was right next to the door which lead into the garden. It would be easy enough to push her through. But it wasn’t easy to pick a moment when nobody would be looking at Narcissa, because heads swiveled in her direction as though she were the north pole in a room full of compasses.  

Finally, Aloysius Black led a few students into the cellar to see his collection of Unicorn Skeletons, and Narciss was left – momentarily – alone.

Hardly waiting for his head to disappear behind the cellar steps, Lily grabbed Narcissa’s elbow, muttered a Silencing Jinx, and pushed her through the door out into the garden.  

Narcissa opened her mouth in a scream – obviously, she wouldn’t open it too wide, because she had been trained in the studious avoidance of wrinkles – but no sound emerged. The jostle had caused her to spill Butterbeer over her perfectly-tailored school-robes, and she was looking at Lily with red-faced, tight-lipped fury. It was good to see some colour in her face for once.

Lily held her wand to Narcissa’s throat and began speaking very slowly and clearly.

“Now, I want you to concentrate, princess; do you think you can manage that? I don’t think you need to be told what I can do to you. One incantation, and I can mangle your face so thoroughly that all the expensive pure-blood healers in the world wouldn’t be able to fix it. It just remains to be decided how. Would you like tentacles, or twenty-feet of nostril hair? Would you like welts or boils or open sores? It’s your call, because it’s your face, and I wouldn’t want you to get bored of it. I know how much you love looking at it.”

With a wand pressed into her elegant, white throat, and with no functioning vocal cords, Narcissa tried to look disdainful.

“Oh, you’re thinking that I won’t do it?” Lily asked shrewdly. “You’re thinking that I’d be expelled, maybe even arrested, with your dad being Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and all. And maybe you’re right, but it’s not going to fix your face, princess. Prevention is better than a cure – especially when there is no cure. So open those pretty little eyes of yours, and tell me where this place is.”

She held up the Ideoscope that was now throttling her wrist, through which the stone-walled lecture-theatre could still be seen.

“I’m going to remove the Silencing Jinx for three seconds,” Lily went on, in a business-like tone. “If you scream, you’re going to look like a Flobberworm for the rest of your life. If you lie to me, you’re going to look like a beach-ball for the rest of your life, and if you try to sneer, you inbred moron – if you waste my time with any more brainless chatter about ancient families, and superior blood – you’re going to look like a troll's arm-pit for the rest of your life. The superior one is the one with the wand: that’s what you creeps believe, right? Well, right now, that’s me.”

She flicked her wand upwards, and Narcissa staggered a little, as though she was being released from the clutches of a giant that had been holding her up by the throat.

She cleared her throat, with all the dignity she could muster, and then hissed:

“Knockturn Alley. The Hanged Man. And you could have saved yourself the trouble of those speeches. I wouldn’t dream of lying to you. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity of seeing you get slaughtered by the Dark Lord for all the world.”

“Well, that’s lucky, princess, because you’re coming with me,” Lily replied cheerfully. “Leave without a fuss, and I’ll even refrain from telling people that I saved your boyfriend’s life. Don’t think that would look very good in the society page of the Daily Prophet, do you? One of the last pure-blood families still in existence, and the only son and heir kidnaps a fifteen year-old school-girl, gets himself poisoned by her perfume and has to be saved from an extremely undignified death by a mudblood. Voldemort would probably have him killed on principle.”

She seemed to have touched a nerve here, because the fight went out of Narcissa. Besides, there was a dull curiosity shining in those dead, grey eyes. She wanted to see what would happen. Perhaps she wanted to see what went on at The Hanged Man after-hours. Perhaps she just wanted to see the elaborate way in which Lily was sure to be killed. Whatever the reason, she picked up her cloak – silk-lined with silver fastenings – muttered an excuse to her father, and led them through Moribund Prince’s graveyard and into the street.


Lily had only been down Knockturn Alley once before, to visit Borgin and Burkes. She had peered at mummified cats, wrapped in bandages – some of them still in their faded sarcophagi. Dried spiders had hung from the ceiling, and she remembered a blood-stained, lacey dress on a mannequin, which shifted position every time you turned away.

She understood the principle. People were afraid of these things, and fear was a powerful basis for magic. If you could frighten someone, you were halfway towards exerting your will over them. All dark magic was about dominating others.  

That was the first rule of dealing with dark magic: turn on the light. Get a good look at what you’re dealing with, under all the bravado and mystery, under the black cloaks and the masks. Don’t be deceived by appearances: even Voldemort, warped and red-eyed as he was – had human failings. He was vain and needy; he wanted a reputation; he wanted followers that were little short of worshippers. He didn’t need these trappings of fame; he didn’t need people to be frightened of him; he didn’t need to be venerated or adored, because he was the most powerful wizard that had ever existed. He was in a position to enforce obedience and respect, and yet he wanted obedience and respect to come to him of their own free will. That meant that he could be beaten.

Lily wasn’t simply up against talent, because talent was refracted through the prism of human personality – it was split, or dampened, or intensified, by neuroses and needs. If she was just fighting Voldemort’s talent, everything would be over before it had begun, because there was nobody more talented than him. But what he made of his gifts was another matter.

That was why Dumbledore studied Voldemort’s past, called him by his muggle father’s name: he was resisting all the hype, peering through the pall of fear that surrounded him, trying to get to the vulnerable human beneath.

The shop windows were dark now. The awnings that had hung over them had been reeled in, or were hanging limply over the shop-fronts, trying to disguise whatever shady dealings might be going on within.

Thick mist hung over the scummy puddles, and black ivy was wound tightly around the street-lamps, throttling them, and muffling their bluish light. The street had an air of dilapidated grandeur that reminded Lily of the Valance House. She half expected to see axes mounted on the walls.

What she did see on the walls was far more disturbing: black graffiti, only distinguishable from the black wall behind it because it was wetter. Daubed in what looked like bile were the words: I Feed Mudbloods to my Dog.

Narcissa was inspecting her shoes: some black ivy had brushed against them, and she was worried that they were scuffed. Almost absent-mindedly, she muttered: “You know you’re going to be killed?”

“Of course,” Lily replied simply.

“Horribly.”

“I’d hope so. If mudbloods can be famous for nothing else, we can make spectacular ends.”

“What’s so important about finding him, anyway? You think you can beat the Dark Lord? He wouldn’t even bother dueling you himself; you’re not worthy to look at him, let alone fight him: he’d have you dispatched by one of his Death Eater lackeys.”

“Well, if all his lackeys are as lame as you, I’m not worried.”

“He’ll have you in the muggle-baiting ring, being beaten into a pulp by one of your own kind,” Narcissa sneered.  

Lily had no idea what this meant, but she wasn’t about to admit ignorance in front of Narcissa. “Not just me, princess,” she said patiently. “He’s not going to be very happy with you when he finds out you helped me to get in.”

“I’m not going to help you get in!” Narcissa protested shrilly.

“We’ll see.”

Lily felt better now that she was doing something. She even had a plan. It was a long shot. It was the longest shot in the history of long-shots; the kind of long-shot that would require a telescopic lens and, where that failed, a prayer. But it might work.

She was going to save Caladrius – and Severus, if possible – if not, she would have to leave him behind. She would have to accept, once and for all, that there was no helping him. After all, where was all his anger supposed to go? Could love diffuse it? Could patience dismantle it? Probably not. The only way to get anger out of your system was to smash a few things. And, in order for Severus to get all the anger out of his system, he’d be smashing things forever. There’d be nothing left when he’d finished.  

She stopped outside Borgin and Burkes, trying to get her bearings. To the right of the door was a high window, just at the level of her eyes, cracked and entirely opaque with grime. But on the ledge in front of it was a little bottle. It was black glass, sculpted with ornate markings and insignia. The stopper was made of silver, of the same elaborate design. But around the bottle-neck, someone had attached a label via a length of dirty string. It said: ‘Drink me’.

Lily suddenly remembered hearing Alice in Wonderland when she was little. It had scared her so much. When she’d first heard about Voldemort and his campaign against muggle-borns, she had thought of the Queen of Hearts, randomly shouting: ‘Off with his head’ at anyone who irked him (except, instead of ‘Off with his head’, it was ‘Avada Kedavra’). But it was the same principle. Just as savage and arbitrary. A game in which everybody else seemed to know the rules.  

She picked up the bottle, and flipped the label over. On its other side was a pencil sketch of a Lily.

It was for her. But who knew she was here? Was Severus expecting her to come after him? Was he trying to help her? Maybe he’d been forced to take Caladrius to the Dark Lord – blackmailed or threatened – maybe Voldemort had kidnapped his mother.

“I don’t know why Severus ever debased himself with you,” Narcissa interrupted, as though she felt that they had gone too long without exchanging insults, and people were going to start thinking they were friends. “He’s intelligent: he respects pure-bloods.”

“Only when they have something he wants,” Lily muttered.

“Well, you needn’t worry about that,” Narcissa replied, a little defensively. “He came up to my bedroom tonight, but I told him to go away. I’m going to marry Lucius Malfoy,” she added, as though she thought this last sentence would be the real painful blow.  

“What?”

“That’s right. And a common bitch like you wouldn’t even be able to marry his House-Elf.”

“He has a House Elf?”

“Who do you think cleans that mansion? His mother?”

“Wait,” Lily ran her fingers through her hair. “Who are we talking about here?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

“Oh.” She blinked. As her confusion subsided, she began to feel the sting. Snape had gone up to Narcissa’s bedroom. Could there possibly be an innocent explanation? If not, he had unforgivably bad taste – but, then, he’d gone to join Voldemort, of course he had bad taste.

But Voldemort was one thing; Narcissa was quite another. People might join Voldemort because they were scared, or black-mailed, or intimidated. They might do it for motives that were, if not noble, at least understandable. But people who got romantic with Narcissa were lost to every good feeling. They were ruled by greed and willful stupidity.

Are you actually saying, her brain interjected, that you’d rather he was a Death Eater than Narcissa’s boyfriend?  

Fortunately, she never got a chance to answer herself. There was a scuffling sound at the far end of the street, as though of feet on cobbles, and then silence. Lily was sure they could be seen: they were standing right underneath a street-lamp – but, for a long time, nothing happened. She supposed they were being assessed.  

They were a strange sight, she had to admit: two girls, dressed in school robes, and peering around dark corners: one of them thin, haughty, and luminously pale in the moonlight: the other one sturdier, with rosy cheeks, and sharp green eyes that made you think of pine needles.

And then she felt the familiar, creeping cold: a kick of icy air that hit her full in the face, and almost sent her reeling backwards.

Perhaps it would have done, if Narcissa hadn’t been there. But there would be no reeling in front of this snooty bitch: Lily was adamant of that.

“It’s a Dementor,” she said, surprised to find her voice steady. She peered at the darkness for a moment, and then added: “Five.”

Narcissa gasped. “But they’re supposed to be guarding Azkaban! They’re not allowed here!”

“Why don’t you go tell them that?” Lily suggested.

Over the sounds that were now pouring in through her ears – the echoes of her worst memories – she said. “Do you know the spell to repel them? You just concentrate on a happy memory, and say: ‘Expecto Patronum’.”

Narcissa didn’t seem to think much of this plan, because she turned to run. Lily caught her by the elbow, and dragged her back. She was incredibly light.

“If you run, Princess, they’ll catch you,” she growled. “And they don’t know the difference between pure-bloods and mudbloods. Your incestuous family tree doesn’t mean anything to them.”

Lily turned back towards the Dementors. Narcissa had enough sense not to wander off on her own: she might not know much about magic, but she was skilled in the art of self-preservation.

You’ve got to keep the light on, that’s the important thing. See what you’re dealing with. These aren’t phantoms come to drag you down to a hell of bitter memories: they’re biological creatures like you: they have to eat, and sleep, and breathe, and they can die. They want you to think that the rules don’t apply to them, but they do.

The lamps were going out at the far end of the street now. And, as the Dementors glided soundlessly towards them, every light they passed flickered, and then vanished. Darkness was swallowing the entire street. But Lily wasn’t alarmed by this. Darkness could only improve a place like Knockturn Alley.

She concentrated on the lamp above her and, as it started to flicker, muttered “Incendio” under her breath. She was feeding the flame with one of her own conjuring, so that every time the light flickered, it came back blazing.   

The Dementors stopped advancing. She supposed she had made her point. How they would respond to it was another matter. She couldn’t swear to it, but they looked almost angry. They were soundless, of course, but there was a kind of buzzing coming from them – half-way between noise and motion. They were half-grumbling, and half-trembling, with rage.

Then she heard a wet, rattling intake of breath, like an engine revving-up, and she suddenly felt frightened. She was fine when the fight required her to be ruthless and single-minded, but, when it required her to be happy, she was lost. Or anyway, she was tonight.

“That’s where you’re going,” sneered Petunia, through the years, and through the steam that had shrouded her on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. “A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy… weirdos, that’s what you two are.”

She had been called worse.

“Geez, Evans!” Avery exclaimed. “Even your own kind don’t want you! How does it feel to be a freak in both worlds?”   

His parents were cousins. What did he know?

“I don’t need help from filthy little mudbloods like her,” Snape hissed.

That was old news now. The sting was duller. Just a background ache.

“He’s coming,” said Severus, and Lily’s blood froze inside her veins.

She heard Caladrius growl: “I’ll bite my tongue out about before I tell him anything.”

And she could hear the cruel, callous shrug in Snape’s voice as he replied. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

There was nothing but hate in that voice. No trace of playful sarcasm or exasperated patience. He was gone. And it didn’t matter if she rescued him from Voldemort, it didn’t matter if she told him that their kiss had meant something to her, or that she would never go out with Potter. He would still be dead. She couldn’t reclaim him from all that hate. What did one idealistic little girl matter, when the whole world got under your skin?

Anger had eaten him. And, even if she could get him back, he would be a mangled, regurgitated mess. Where would you even start, with someone who had come back from inside the belly of the beast?  

There was nowhere else to go. There was nowhere she could find him.

And, just as she closed her eyes, surrendering – at last – to the numbing cold, a strange image flickered across the inside of her eye-lids. It was like a kind of visual spasm. And, for the longest time, she couldn’t remember whether it was a memory or a dream.

And then she realized it was a bit of both. It was the image of Severus standing in the shallow water, glowering at the scene of beach-ball-throwing and frivolity that was stretched out on the beach in front of him, looking daggers at the palm trees and the scar of sunlight on the sea.

It was the world she’d seen through the window in her library book. Severus was still alive there. He could tell her what to do. He could tell her how to save him.  

She slashed her wand through the air, making the Dementors jump back a little, and shouted: “Esperio!”

And the scene in front of her began to fragment. A bright gash appeared down the cobble-stoned street, just like the scar of sunlight on the sea.

It widened, and a salt breeze ruffled her hair. Searching, tentative beams of sunlight brushed her face, glinting off the dark cobbles of Knockturn Alley, subjecting them to more light than they had probably ever encountered before.  

She turned on her heels, in front of the window into the other world, to grab Narcissa, but she was disappearing up the street, her high-heels clattering ludicrously on the cobbles. Lily wondered whether it was the Dementors or the Esperio Charm that had scared her away. Probably both.

For a few moments, she hovered on the brink of the other world, wondering whether to go after Narcissa. She was very conspicuous, and this was a rough enough neighbourhood without the Dementors.

But then a grey, scabbed hand reached through the image of the beach and grabbed her throat. It was pulling her forwards, but it couldn’t see the world that it was pulling her into.

Her shoes, which had been dragging firmly along the cobbles, suddenly found that there was nothing underneath them anymore. Lily was being held up by her throat, with her feet dangling in another world.

Choking, she grabbed hold of the scabbed claw with both her hands and raked her nails across it. They’re not spirits, she told herself. They feel pain. They’re just like you.  

Other hands were reaching for her, plunging themselves through the beautiful vista of beach-world, creating swirls and eddies in the picture.  

Lily kicked forwards, and found that her foot connected with something. There was a hissing intake of breath and then a sudden, jarring absence of hand at her throat. She felt as though she hovered in the air for a few minutes before falling. Ludicrous, she realized, as she spat sand out of her mouth and rubbed her knees, straightening up to see a window into Knockturn Alley that was shrinking to a pinpoint of darkness, and then vanishing. But perhaps the normal rules of physics didn’t apply here.
Following on from Curly Hair, Feathers and Flame. Narcissa/Lily conversations are almost as fun to write as Narcissa/Sev conversations. Immediately after this comes A Little Corner of Paradise, which I wrote ages ago, and am now trying to fit in with the rest of the plot! :)
Does anyone know if 'bitch' is strong enough to merit a mature content warning for offensive language? I actually think I've said it before in these stories, so this might require a lot of retrospective censoring. Please let me know if you think this is unacceptable, and I'll change it.
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:iconwearesevenstudios:
WeAreSevenStudios Featured By Owner May 11, 2010  Professional Artisan Crafter
talent was refracted through the prism of human personality – it was split, or dampened, or intensified, by neuroses and needs.
I like that statement. :)

After all, where was all his anger supposed to go? Could love diffuse it? Could patience dismantle it? Probably not. The only way to get anger out of your system was to smash a few things. And, in order for Severus to get all the anger out of his system, he’d be smashing things forever. There’d be nothing left when he’d finished.
I don't know how many different times I've had this same discussion about these same, unanswerable questions. Can the anger ever fully get out? Is there a way to keep it from coming back? Is love enough? Is physical work enough? Is coffee, mindless computer games, mindless TV shows, enough? And when you find out even crack cocaine isn't enough, what do you do then? And what do you do when you mess up and the hideous anger comes through again, and wrecks all the progress you made? Are you just too damaged? Can someone really be broken beyond repair? Maybe this is why Snape and Harry, each in their own way, are so hope-inspiring to me. They each do survive in their own way. Harry offers hope of healing and triumphing, and Snape, possibly more realistically, offers hope of surviving and making one's life count for something.

BUT back to fan-fiction - this is the question that it seems all Severus/Lily writers come to, and answer in a dozen different ways. Would Lily's reciprocated love make everything better? Personally, at the moment (and my opinions change), I think it would take a lot more than a loving friend/girlfriend. There's no 'magic' solution to that kind of residual abuse. I am really looking forward to how you end this, no matter what ending you create.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner May 12, 2010
Those questions have really plagued me too - especially when writing about Severus. I imagine being really angry is something like being an alcoholic - you can never be cured because, if you make one slip, you're back where you started. You have to just take each day at a time and hope for the best. (And, with no-one to support or encourage him, it's no wonder that Severus lost hope of ever crawling out of his anger :()
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:iconmalfoyfanatic:
MalfoyFanatic Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2008  Hobbyist Photographer
Lovely chapter! I really like Lily's attitude here. She would do anything for a friend in danger, and I love that! :D And, btw, the title fits Cissa really good!!
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2008
Lol! I like Lily when she's threatening Narcissa - she really does show her Gryffindor side in this chapter! ;) And, yes, she is very loyal to Caladrius (and Severus, even though she's frightened and disgusted by what he's done). I find myself liking her character more and more, even though it's hard for me to write because I am SO not a Gryffindor! She's much too impulsive and optimistic for me to get inside her head.
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:iconmalfoyfanatic:
MalfoyFanatic Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2008  Hobbyist Photographer
Yes, I can see what you mean. It is always hard to get into a characters head, if he's so different from yourself, because you would usually write what you've done in his situation. But that's the challenge, isn't it?
If you're not a Gryffindork, what are you then?? I would bet on Slytherin ^_^
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2008
I reckon I'm a combination - a Slytherpuff - quiet yet calculating, but without the hard-working or ambitious qualities, lol! I don't know really - I've always thought that the whole Sorting people when they're 11 years-old is very mean. Plus, Severus was incredibly brave and he was in Slytherin, and Wormtail was a treacherous creep, and he was in Gryffindor, so they're not very good indicators!
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:iconchaobaby7:
Chaobaby7 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
I love this story, its perfect and a good escape from things, I love stuff with Cissa in it. I think "bitch " is fine. In my Sev stories I've used the f word because I think Tobias would have had bad language, I don't like swearing at all but in literature I see that sometimes it needs to be used, I mean if you were writing about gangsters or dock side navies you wouldn't have them saying "Gor blimey" or "flippin eck", I guess just a word to say "some strong langauge" is enough.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
Thank you, I'm so glad you like it, and very happy that it's helped you to feel better. I agree, I totally think Tobias would swear up a storm! I think Sev wouldn't be above the occasional 'f' word, either, in stressed-out circumstances ;) That northern, working-class upbringing's going to show itself somehow! But he probably tries to distance himself from anything that reminds him of his dad and the muggle world.
Yes, I think literature has to use swearing, because a sense of realism (even in stories about wizards) is very important. I like how J.K. has Ron swearing, but she just says: 'Ron used a swear-word that made Hermione hiss: "Ron!" etc. That's a good way to get out of it! :)
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:iconchaobaby7:
Chaobaby7 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
Oh yes, I made Sev swear a few times, life in those back to backs, I've a few words being said behind our house, you hear lots in those houses, I miss them actually. Yes, there are clever ways of fitting in swearing. I always remember in Wutehring Heights Heathcliff is described as swearing and cursing alot, I watched a TV series of WT and he cried out when they set the dogs on them "Get off you bastards!" I had to look up the b word not knowing at age 11 what that meant.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2008
Lol, Heathcliff would swear like a sailor, definitely! That reminds me of watching Blackadder when I was a kid, and not knowing what a prostitute was, and imagining it as some kind of traffic warden! :giggle: Yes, I may have Sev doing some heavy-duty swearing in the next couple of chapters ;)
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:iconchaobaby7:
Chaobaby7 Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2008
Yes, I can see Sev being a bit x rated at times. Oh I was 18 and did not know what the f word meant. I was such an innocent.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2008
That's good! It's given you a good vocabulary! :) I'm only a fan of swearing in emotional circumstances (or when Sev does it! ;))
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:iconchaobaby7:
Chaobaby7 Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2008
Me too.:)

Plus I used to get a clip round the ear for saying things like shit etc. My parents were strict but good people.
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:iconnorthangel27:
northangel27 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I don't think that 'bitch' requires a mature warning. They can say that word on primetime television here in the states, so... I wouldn't really worry about it.

Anyway :hug:, this was brilliant. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. I just love it when Lily's Gryffindor side comes out. I'm off to read the next chapter :-)
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
Thanks very much! I'm happy about the mature content warning - I wish they gave you a list of words that were offensive, but then I suppose they'd have to put a mature content warning on the guidelines, and that would get confusing! I'm so glad you liked the chapter - I find writing Lily hard, because she is just so much more optimistic than me! This chapter was really out of my comfort-zone. I'm far more at home in the gloom of Sev's mind! :)
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:iconnorthangel27:
northangel27 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008  Hobbyist Digital Artist
We should co-write something sometime. I could write Lily and you could write Sev. That would be fun! :-). I find Lily really easy to write.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
Yeah, that would be fantastic! They're so different, that it would feel right for them to be written by different people. And I love the way you write Lily, she is a very strong but sensitive character in your stories. I love writing as Severus - it is quite liberating to refer to almost everybody as a 'dunderhead'!
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:iconnorthangel27:
northangel27 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008  Hobbyist Digital Artist
lol. That word has started slipping into my conversation. It is quite a liberating thing to say, I must admit. Add to that, that it is almost exclusively a northern English term (or so I've been told), and all my people are originally from Manchester, and I guess I do at least have a little bit of a right to use it ;-)
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008
Absolutely! Harry Potter has really influenced my conversation too. When I want Paul to turn out the light, I say "Nox." (which I'm sure is very irritating, but it's such a part of my imagination, that whole world, that I can't help it, the language just leaks out).
It's great that your family are from Manchester. When did they migrate to Canada? I don't know about the history of the word Dunderhead, but I can look it up (as the dictionary I work on is absurdly detailed - oh, it would be so good if I found a Snape quote illustrating the word! I might sneak one in, see if anyone notices! ;)
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:iconnorthangel27:
northangel27 Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2008  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Oh, if you weld that kind of power, you really must sneak a Snape quote into the dictionary. I would be so ecstatic!

I heard the thing about "dunderhead" being Northern English in origin on one of those Brit-picking sites they have out there for Harry Potter fanfic writers. There are people out there who really research this stuff (which is lovely because it saves me time ;-)).

Anyway. My family immigrated to Canada in 1898, so that was quite a while back, but my sister went to Bible College near there for a year, and she said that the moment she stepped off the train it was the oddest sense of deja vu. I really do need to get back there sometime. It seems the ancestral blood is calling.
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:iconls269:
ls269 Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2008
I totally don't wield that kind of power! But it is my job to find quotations to illustrate the senses we have in our dictionary, so, if I ever started working on 'dunderhead', I could theoretically add the quotation (theoretically, because I actually only add pre-1800 quotations from historical databases - it is an extremely geeky job!) But the office is a haven of Harry Potter fans, so I wouldn't be surprised if somebody had already added a wry Snape quote! ;)
Oooh, must look at that research website. I'm terrible with that kind of thing! Never know how old the characters are supposed to be or anything!
Manchester's lovely. If you go there, you must visit the Lake District in Lancashire, it is (except for the constant rain) the most beautiful place in England!
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