Pimptastic

Fly, my pretties, fly!

Mon, 01 Jan 2007 22:47:41 GMT

So, most of you will already know that I have disbanded my regular journal, mini_snape in favour of a new one, namely electricwitch
Having spent half of today trying to scramble together my old flist, I thought I´d leave a message here for anyone who´s confused and wants to refriend me but to whom I haven´t sent a "moving journal" message.
(Yes, I did send "moving journal" messages to everyone who updated recently... Yes, I am in fact a 50s housewife)
Please also tell anyone who wants to know. (Shut up, I don´t know who, either)

Oh, and happy new year! And happy new journal to me!

Draaaaamarama

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 21:56:28 GMT

Another drabble; they're all I can crank out these days.

Title: Rivals
Pairing: Bolan/Bowie
Rating: Nothing but character development and intertextuality here, loves.
Genre: Humour

“So, what do you think of T-Rex?” the journalist asked. “Are you and Marc Bolan great rivals? You’ve had to compete in the charts more than once.” David froze at the mention of Marc’s name, eyes widening. A great snaggle-toothed smile spread over his emaciated features. He tried to detect anything that pointed towards sarcasm or a joke in the journalist’s bearing and expression, but he seemed completely honest; leaning towards David attentively, eyes open and frank. David let the smile fade quickly, and, stalling, shifted in his seat a little. He tilted his head back as though lost in thought, waving his cigarette a little.

“Well, we’ve known each other a long time, you know…”

“You have?” the journalist said, scribbling.

“Yes, we met years ago…” David continued, “… but now that I’m the more successful one, I think he’s become jealous.” He smiled vaguely; the journalist nodded, looking at him. A masterly thought struck him. “Also,” he added, relishing the words “his shoes are crap.”

Drabbles drabbles drabbles!

Mon, 06 Nov 2006 15:34:13 GMT

Sooo, here are some brain snacks for all those who are hungry for the verse. Two delectable drabbles about Bowie & Bolan. That sentence alliterated too much.

Title: Rising Star
Pairing: Mod!Bowie/Mod!Bolan
Rating: B for Bitchy.
Warnings: Features references to manipulative abuse of elderly managers.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” Marc had said and David had said, “Yeah, sure,” and in hindsight he didn’t really know what he’d thought it would be like.

But he was quite sure he hadn’t been expecting this. Greeted at the door by a strange, grinning guy some years older than both of them, dragged into a low room with a dusty green carpet, littered with books and records, then onto a creaky bed with itchy brown blankets and cool sheets and suddenly Cochran was playing in the background and Marc’s head was buried up David’s jumper and he didn’t know how all this had happened without him doing anything about it. And, oddly, there was only one thought in his head.

“Marc,” he said, pushing him away a little, “have you slept with Simon?” Marc looked up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He licked his lips and smiled.

“Yes.” he said. “have you?” David shook his head. “You will.” Marc said, and turned his attention to David’s belt buckle.

Don't kill me, I've got so much to give...

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 16:10:03 GMT

So eh, because I don't know what else to do with it and I need to get rid of my guilt, here's my strangling Bowie fic.

PLEASE DON'T KILL ME, LOU REED! I'm sure you are a very nice man who'd never hurt David Bowie, or even think about it ~~apart from that time when you hit him~~. I just needed a vehicle for my own twisted sadism. David Bowie, on the other hand, may try to kill me as much as he wants, because ~~I'll hump his leg until he gives up~~ I can best him in a fight any day.

Title: Kill The Father
Pairing: Lou Reed/David Bowie
Rating: Eh. I don't know. Whatever you give to someone getting off on murder.
Warnings: Remember, kids, strangling people is BAD, ~~mmkay?~~ And getting off on strangling people is even badder. And taking drugs is also bad.
Notes: It's all Morrissey's fault, for quoting that song by that Kristeen person. That's also where the title is from ~~what Freud? there is no Freud here~~.

Kill The Father

He liked looking at him. Not even so much talking to him, or just being around him, as he did looking at him. Like he’d look at a TV or, more accurately, a fish tank, or a birdcage. He liked watching that little blob of colour flit to and fro stuck in its eternal habits; smoking, sitting folded in a chair with his legs bent underneath him, one thin arm over his head. Gazing silently into space as his uneven pupils widened with his high.

Lou grinned his slow, sneering grin. There was not much that escaped his keen eyes, dark and still like the sunglasses that covered them. Especially when he was as attentive to his subject as he was to David. The heroin seemed to sharpen his mind with its spikey ecstasy, making it accurate and quick like the smooth edge of a knife. Even through the clouded glass of his glasses and in a space as dark as this, his eyes, hyper-sensitised by the drug, did not lose a single detail. He could see him on the other side of the room, talking to someone, thin arms jutting out in time to his sentences, long hands fluttering. Lou swallowed, feeling suddenly and painfully deeply how heartbreakingly beautiful David was, and that he had to be with him. Now. So he rose from his seat, in a smooth and unreal way, as in a dream, and drifted over to him. He loomed like a ghost next to David, merely standing and staring, knowing David would be able to feel his gaze upon him through the darkness of his sunglasses. And yes, it was only a matter of seconds before he looked up. His mismatched eyes were searching Lou’s face in wonder, his pale lips parted just a little, enough to make him look breathless. Lou smirked, and leant in to kiss him. Of course David accepted him without question- he had never dared to cross Lou- and opened his mouth to his rough tongue. David was so cold- something Lou always noticed with pleasure- and so oddly soft for someone so angular. Lou brought up a hand to stroke the cool flesh of David’s neck, the fluffy magenta hair at the base of his skull, but instead found the cotton of a shirt collar, and, his fingers probing deeper, the silk of a tie. He hated this usurper from the moment he touched the smooth fabric, but as he tugged at it in fury, and felt David twitch in response, he gasped against his parted lips. Suddenly, he saw.

In a matter of seconds, he could see himself, pressed closely against David’s lithe body, as he tugged at his tie harder and harder, until it was cutting into his sinewy white neck. He could feel David’s bony limbs flounder against his own strong body in futile struggle, the pain of feeling him trying to fight him off, as he just pulled harder, dug his hips deeper into David’s thigh, his cock aching unbearably from the pressure. He’d feel the cool skin of his face become hot and the harsh rattling breaths from his slack mouth against his own face. He’d watch his eyes become wider, glistening as they began to brim with tears, then bloodshot and finally dazed, the flecks of foam around his lips dry, and his body still and cold as Lou ruthlessly kept the tension on the tie at breaking point, his body pressed hard against the soft form.

With a growl he woke up from this flash of a daydream, feeling so hard and excited as if a single touch could set him off. He opened his eyes and pressed softly into David, who was staring at him with wide eyes. With a start, Lou realised how David’s body was as cool and limp as he had imagined it. He broke away immediately, as the full realisation of what he had thought hit him, and he felt for a wild moment that he had done it. But David merely blinked and shuffled his feet uncomfortably, as Lou hovered near him, staring at him with his reptilian eyes. He licked his lips, and slinked off into the shadows he had come from.

OMG. WTF. MOD?

Sun, 03 Sep 2006 20:35:04 GMT

Well, this just fell out of my head. It's not my fault that it's so disgustingly fluffy, I swear. They just wouldn't move in any other way. On the other hand, it is utterly historically correct. Er, I think. Title taken from The Mighty Boosh DUH.

Title: Don't try and take me on! I'm King of the Mods!
Pairing: Mod!Bolan/Mod!Bowie
Rating: D for Disgustingly fluffy.
Warnings: SICKENINGLY SWEET!

Don't try and take me on, I'm King of the Mods!

David stomped along the road towards the office, feeling depressed. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Simon hadn’t helped him make the big time yet, he was making him paint the office. Like he was his employee rather an artist under his patronage. And then Simon would probably make a pass at him again, too. Damn him! David frowned heavily as he rang the doorbell, and was still frowning when he was let in and clattered up to the office, the leather soles of his shoes making odd thumping noises on the floor that echoed all along the high corridors. He went into the office, which was covered in sheets. In the far right corner there was a small amount of pots of paint and brushes. Somewhere, someone was painting a wall brown, but he couldn’t see who it was because just at that moment Simon blocked his view.

“David!” he said loudly. “So good to see you. How are you?”

“Eh.” David said, trying to peer past Simon to see who else was here. Maybe it was someone famous.

“Well, excellent.” Simon said. “I have to go now, and attend to some business, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. Everything you’ll need is over there in the corner. If you need coffee or food, just ask Phyllis in the other room, alright?” David nodded obediently. “Oh, and ask her for a smock, too. We wouldn’t want those lovely clothes to get all paint-splattered, would we?” Simon grinned and made a strange waving movement towards David, like he was going to clap him on the back, which David dodged. Simon then slipped past him and out the door as quietly as anything. David stomped over to where Phyllis was sorting through things, grabbed a smock, and went back to the other room. Just as he was sorting through the brushes, he got the feeling he was being looked at, and turned round.

An odd-looking boy, the same one who had been painting the opposite wall brown, was staring at him, an impish glint in his dark eyes. He was wearing a blue suit and two-toned shoes under his smock, David noted with no small amount of jealousy, and his hair was curly and dark, but perfectly orderly. Even more annoyingly, he was completely free of paint splatters. Well, now that he looked closely he could see he had some on his face. At least that was something. David stuck out his chin defiantly.

"Ello, who are you?” he said.

"I’m Marc, man.” The other boy said.

"Oh.” David said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a singer.” Marc said, smirking a little.

“Oh yeah, so am I.” David said, tilting his head back. “Are you a mod?”

“Yeah, I’m the King Mod.” Marc said with an infuriating assurance. He looked David up and down in a way that made his blood boil. “Your shoes are crap.” He finally stated.

“Well,” David said, as divine inspiration took hold, “you’re short.” He crossed his arms, sure of the formidable force of this blow. To his surprise, Marc burst into giggles. It was such an odd and infectious sound, David couldn’t help but laugh himself.

"Ere, you’ve got some paint on your face.” he said, and leant over to wipe it off. Marc fell still, looking at him with those big but piercing eyes in a way that made David feel embarrassed for some reason. He cleared his throat and, realizing how close he was standing, did a step back.

“Thanks.” Marc said softly. David turned and practically ran back towards the paint. They spent most of the afternoon in silence, working hard, apart from a small break which they spent with Phyllis in the other room. When they were finally done, they cleared up in silence, too tired to speak, and went out at the same time. As they reached the front door, Marc turned to David and said: “Have you ever been dustbin shopping?”

“No.” David said, trying to look as if he knew what it was.

“Come on, I’ll teach you.” Marc said. He grabbed David by the hand as if it was the most normal thing in the world and smiled at him. David tried not to blush and failed. Marc giggled at this, and, leaning over to him, gave him a quick kiss. “Come on.” he said, looking up at David from beneath his neat side parting. David grinned a lopsided grin, and together they ran off into the grayness of London.

The sound of evil laughter fills the air.

Mon, 10 Apr 2006 15:12:17 GMT

So here it is, my long-awaited saga of TimeWarp!Snape and Adam Ant. First, a few notes about characterisation. Since it's a comedy, everyone's slightly OoC anyway, but... The character of Adam Ant is based entirely on interviews of the time. I know from talking to people who knew him, that he was rather different in real life, but I had to base him on something. So sorry to everyone who ever knew or loved him for any faults. This is also why I used his pseudonym in the story instead of his real name. Snape is (duh) a RHPS fan here. So there. Also, Dave the tourmanager is a figment of my imagination. Somehow, all tourmanagers I meet are called Dave, so I thought it couldn't be too far off if I called him that. On to the story.

Title: Don't Dream It, Be It
Pairing: Adam Ant/Timewarp!Snape. Hints at Adam Ant/Marco Pirroni. (Please don't kill me, Marco.)
Summary: On the first tour with his new line-up, in the spring of 1981, Adam Ant finds himself stranded in Yorkshire. Trying to find help, he stumbles upon an unlikely character.
Ratings are for Americans and fundamentalists.

It was a cool, windy summer’s night, and Adam Ant found himself walking across the most desolate piece of wasteland he’d seen since he went to Berlin. When he went there, there were still some patches, especially near the wall, where the buildings had been bombed away during the war, and that were still barren 30 years on, littered with debris and scorched bricks. This place was so similar to those scraps of no-man’s-land that he half expected to come across yellow signs warning him that he was approaching the border to the DDR.

Except that this desolation had been caused by the collapse of industry, and not of the Third Reich, of course. He could see an enormous chimney rising over what looked to be the town nearby. There were a few lights there, and a definite mass of dark shapes that couldn’t be anything else than buildings. The chimney seem to loom over the houses rather than stand beside them, and he frowned at its ugliness for a moment, before deciding it looked rather like a penis and grinning at that thought childishly.

There was a cold, thin fog tonight that made the air chilly. He shivered as he zipped his leather jacket all the way up, and wished he’d brought a scarf or a cardie or something. Apart from making everything very cold, the fog threw a definite ghostly gloom over the scene. Suddenly, he thought this would be just the place to commit crimes without being caught, and looked around uneasily. Something about this place made him expect herds of yobs come out of nowhere and mug him, like sometimes used to happen when he went out in London.

He looked down at the scruffy grass at his feet where the light of his torch flickered to and fro before his feet, and for a moment could smell the river. It ran not a long distance away from here, and they had crossed it on the bus minutes earlier, before it broke down. It was a putrid, rotting smell. “Hey, Dave.” He called out to Dave the tour manager. “Come here, I don’t want to lose you.” Dave, who had been looking at a pile of unidentifiable old iron, came walking into his direction, and Adam felt more at ease now he was closer.

He bit his lip and wished Marco was here. Dave was a nice man, but he was not very bright, and he had not Marco’s reassuring massiveness. But Marco had been asleep when they broke down, just like the rest. Only he, Dave, Gary the roadie and the chauffeur had been awake and dressed, so they’d split up; he and Dave would go looking for a phone, and the other two would wake up some of the others and try to fix the bus.

Now that he was stranded here, he was not sure it had been such a good idea. As they neared the town, it became clear that it was practically deserted: unemployment and poverty had driven the people away and thrown the houses into disrepair. He raised a hand and wiped his glasses. The moisture in the air was fogging them up, and as they passed the first tumbled down house, he had a feeling he would need clear vision.

The asphalt beneath his feet was crumbling, and occasionally they had to dodge bunches of needles. “Jesus Christ,” Dave said, kicking at a pile of them with one of his combat boots. “We should have brought Malcolm, seems like his sort of place.” Adam grimaced at that.

“Let’s go.” He said. “It’s asking for trouble if we stay out here long.” They were now walking in between two rows of terraced houses. Most of them were boarded up; but outside some of them stood rusty cars or pieces of household equipment, and in none of them the lights were on. “No-one’s still awake, anyway. Which we probably should be grateful for.” Dave nodded gravely, and they turned and walked back.

“No, look!” Dave said, pointing at a house on the corner of the street. “There’s a light on in there. Wonder why we didn’t notice before. Let’s go over and have a look, yeah?” Adam shook his head.

“It’ll only be some junkies. Stay away, Dave, come on.” He said, wiping his glasses again. But Dave approached the house, his head cocked to one side as though listening for something. He nearly touched the wall, and then beckoned to Adam, who walked over reluctantly.

“Listen!” Dave whispered to him. Adam listened, and then snorted with disbelief and amusement. Dave laughed quietly. “D’you hear that?” he said.

“It’s the Time Warp!” Adam said, laughing. “That’s amazing. Haha! Must be punks squatting in there or something.” Dave nodded, and knocked on the door. There didn’t seem to be a bell, and if there was, it probably wouldn’t work. The music paused. There was an uneasy silence, but nothing happened. Dave knocked again. After a few seconds they heard footsteps approaching, and finally, the door opened about an inch.

Two dark eyes lined heavily with eyeliner were looking at him, from a very pale face. It said nothing. “Hello,” Adam tried, in his most amiable voice. “I wonder if you might help us. You see, our car broke down a few miles up the road… do you have a phone we might use?” Their eyes widened, but still the person behind the door said nothing.

“You’re supposed to say: ‘You’re wet.’ now.” Adam added helpfully. The eyes narrowed again.

“What do you want?” a dark voice said.

“Actually, our car did break down just outside here.” Adam continued. This didn’t look to be easy. “And we were wondering if we could use your phone to call mechanics. Satanic ones will do.”

“I don’t have one.” the owner of the house said, and continued to glare down at him.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Adam cleared his throat, and was about to say that he should be on his way again, when his curious companion suddenly stated: “I saw you in Jubilee.” and opened the door another inch. Adam could just about see that he was wearing a corset and all the appropriate Rocky Horror fan garb.

“Did you?” Adam said. He was about to wipe the moisture from his glasses, and saw there wasn’t any. As he looked around, he noted that the fog didn’t seem to reach the house at all. Funny, he thought. But I’m not complaining. “Nice corset.” He tried. “Like the make-up, too. Nearly as good as mine.” To his satisfaction, a smirk appeared on the thin lips of the object of this flattery.

“I don’t have a phone.” The owner of house said, as though mulling over the fact. “However, I can easily provide you with a great variety of other things. Such as a drink.” Adam’s brows rose even higher. Thinking it was probably a very bad idea, he smiled.

“That would be lovely.” He said. “Wait, I have to ask my friend.” He turned toward Dave. “Oi, Dave, fancy a drink?” Dave shook his head.

“Nah, seems a right spooky place here to me. I’d rather wait in the bus.” He said, and shivered. “That mist is doing my head in. Makes me feel sort of... miserable, you know? Look, come back before three, and if everything’s fixed before then I’ll fetch you. But somehow I don’t think that’ll be the case.” He pulled Adam aside. “Eh, listen. Do you really think this is a good idea? Remember that bird in Oxford? You can’t trust a fan nutty enough to be living in this waste of bricks. And what do you want to go in there for, anyway?” Adam shrugged.

“Nothing is nuttier than Sid Vicious in one of his funny moods.” He said. “And I came out of that pretty well unscathed. Better than Nancy did, anyway. There’s something about this fellow... you know?” Dave shook his head.

“Well, you go ahead,” he said. “But if you’re not back before three I’ll break down that door and drag you back.”

“Right, Dave. See you later, then.” Adam said. He was cold, and eager to get inside. Dave walked off, and he turned back toward his strange new acquaintance. “Sorry, my friend doesn’t take well to Northerners.” he said, winking. No smile appeared on the other’s impassive face, however, so he hastily continued: “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Severus Snape.” he said, swinging the door open. “Please, come inside.” And Adam did.

--------------------------------------------

“Severus, that’s an, er, exotic name.” Adam said, stepping inside. “Do you have foreign roots?” He turned and looked at Severus, who was using a very strange device to lock his door, and furthermore, was muttering to himself. Severus swung round and glared at him for a moment, but when Adam, who was waiting for an answer to his question, refrained from comment on his methods of security, his look softened.

“No.” He said quietly. “My mother was just rather… eccentric.” Adam laughed.

“I know what you mean.” He said. At this, Severus threw him a quizzical look, and gestured him into what he assumed was the living room. It was small, dank despite the fire that was burning, and its only decorations were shelves filled with books and jars that held animals suspended in green liquid. Adam made a beeline for them. “Those are great.” He said, suppressing a shudder at the sight of something warty and possessing far too many tentacles and heads. “If somewhat macabre for my taste.”

Severus did not appear to listen, however. He was busy tottering towards the kitchen on his platforms. Adam shrugged and looked around for a record player. He wanted to put the Rocky Horror soundtrack back on. Have a party. But much as he looked, he couldn’t find one. There was a strange kind of old fashioned camera standing on the far end of the room, though. He was standing and staring at it when Severus returned, carrying some glasses and some wine. “What are you doing?” Severus’ voice boomed out behind him, in a tone that was more suited to a classroom that a house. Adam started and flew a few steps backward.

“Just looking at… at the camera.” He said, hesitantly, watching Severus.

“Oh.” Severus said. His features relaxed. “Wine?” He held up a glass.

“No, sorry, I don’t drink.” Adam said, warily.

“Suit yourself,” Snape said, and shrugged. Adam glanced at the camera, and noticed again what he thought he’d seen earlier: there was no film inside it. However, Severus seemed rather testy about the camera, so he decided not to ask him about it. He sat down in a dusty armchair, and Severus, a glass of gold-coloured wine into his hands, sat down opposite him, and stared at him. Adam, noticing this, was not impressed, and stared back. It was an awkward scene.

“So, erm, why do you live here?” Adam said, finally, to break the awkwardness. He always believed in courtesy and manners. Severus, though, merely narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, before replying reluctantly:

“The house was my family’s.” With this he relapsed into a sulky silence. Adam sighed.

“Well…” he said, “Why don’t you put the music back on? Or was it the film?” Severus twitched slightly.

“Film.” He said. “Yes, why not.” He rose, walked towards the camera, fiddled with some things, muttering to himself, and suddenly, in mid air in front of the bookcases to his left, as clearly as though on a cinema screen, Adam saw Brad and Janet standing in front of the castle, and he could hear the music playing all around him.

“Amazing.” Adam said. “That must be a very advanced VCR.” His friends in the art world had cameras and VCRs and such, to edit films with. But he had never seen one as good as this.

“Yes.” Severus said, frowning.

“Where did you get it from?” Adam said, gazing open-mouthedly at the images.

“A present.” Severus said.

“You must have some very rich friends.” Adam commented.

“I do.” Severus said, the corners of his mouth twitching as though in amusement. He sat down again. They watched the film; Adam singing and talking along, Severus looking on, seemingly skeptical, until the Timewarp started. Adam laughed as he saw Severus getting up for the dance, then joined him enthusiastically.

“I can’t… believe I’m doing… the Timewarp at two… in the morning… in the middle… of Yorkshire… with a complete stranger.” Adam said, attempting the tapdance.

“I can’t believe how awful you are at tapdancing.” Severus returned.

“Well, you’re not even trying.” Adam said, jumping to the left.

“Tapdancing is below my dignity.” Severus said, stepping to the right.

“And poncing around on your own in a corset isn’t?” Adam said, hands on his hips.

“I’m not on my own, and there is nothing wrong with corsets.” Severus said, his knees in tight.

“Well, that’s no lie.” Adam said. Severus smirked, and suddenly, during the pelvic thrusts, Adam found himself glancing over to him perhaps slightly more than was necessary. What was more, Severus was doing the same. And then the song ended and they both fell down onto the ground. Adam laughed at the weirdness of it all, and, looking over at Severus, laughed even more. Severus just looked so insane, long spindly legs in stocking that were nearly too big sprawled across the wooden floor, his spidery arms flung about, his white face covered in his black hair. “Oh, that’s classic.” He said to himself, and, propping himself up on one elbow, he realized he felt an insane desire to kiss Severus. It was probably just because he rather looked like a girl in those clothes, especially splayed on the ground looking murderously up at him. He considered Severus’ burning black eyes for a moment, then slipped an arm around the hard satin of the corset, and sought out his thin red lips through the matted mess of black hair. And so, insanely, Adam Ant suddenly found himself kissing the most insane transvestite he’d ever seen, in the middle of an insane town in Yorkshire, feeling like he had just gone completely insane.

-------------------------------

“Oh bollocks, it’s nearly three.” Adam said in alarm a good while later. “Dave will be here soon.”

“Tell him to sod off.” Severus said slurringly, and turned his face back into the pillow, black hair spilling across the worn corduroy of the small sofa. His arm, dangling off the sofa onto the floor, twitched for a moment, then relaxed.

“I think I will.” Adam said, dreamily stroking Severus’ shoulder; milk-white with make up streaks of red and blue across it. “I’m having enough fun here, I reckon. Have you seen my specs?”

“Er.” Severus murmured. “Floor?”

“Oh, yeah.” Adam answered, drowsily. He laid his head back down on Severus’ skinny back, his lips, stained with the other’s lipstick left light traces on the pale skin. He closed his eyeliner-encrusted eyes, and slept, and dreamt.

When, minutes later, the doorbell rang, no-one answered.

Queer reading isn't just for the gays anymore, my dears.

Fri, 10 Mar 2006 21:52:23 GMT

So, while studying for my last essay this year- it's about neo-gothic elements in HBP- I read a lot of essays by other people, and the absense of any Snape/Lucius connections annoyed me. Here, then, is my own attempt. Naturally, since I am writing this alongside my actual essay, it's not as good as it could be, but maybe I'll rewrite it later, and then post it to communities. I need beta's too, so if you feel like it...

                                                                                                                 A LAPDOG
                                      A ~~long~~ ~~hard~~ ~~deep~~ detailed look at the relationship between Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy (and his family)

A complaint that occurred to me while reading HP criticism over at hp_essays: Why do none of the ‘serious’ writers sympathise with the pairing (in sex, love, or friendship) of Snape and Lucius? Is this too much like a ship for them? Or are there still so many people in the world who believe that everyone, including fictional characters, is by default straight? That is disheartening. Considering the proof for their relationship, I find this entirely unjustified.
    Authorial intent, as in most literary criticism, is irrelevant to the question. Maybe JKR never intended to suggest any homoeroticism, but especially within the realm of the Gothic novel (fantasy is a genre hereof), it is the subconscious rather than the conscious that is the drive, and therefore what must be studied. I personally have never found authorial intent interesting anyway- literary criticism is based upon interpretation, and proving interpretation as possible, not upon reading what the author says you should. That does not mean that reading interviews is not useful- when JKR shoots down a theory, this means that it will probably never be important to the plot. For instance, I am sure there is proof, if you feel strongly enough about it, for Snape’s being a vampire, but it will never be of any significance to the plot if JKR says it is untrue. However, the relationship between Snape and the Malfoys is of paramount importance, since it caused Snape to forge the Unbreakable Vow. Even if he agreed beforehand with Dumbledore to kill him, or with Voldemort, he still made a vow that was, when he started it, to protect Draco, not to kill Dumbledore. That was added during the vow:

“Will you, Severus, look after my son as he attempts to fulfull the Dark Lord’s wishes?”
“I will, said Snape.” (…)
“And should it prove necessary, if it seems Draco will fail…” whispered Narcissa
(Snape’s hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?”
(Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, p.41)

Therefore, as the second part was added after he could do anything without looking silly, there is no reason for him to offer to swear the vow apart from sympathy. It seems sad that the one time he stands up and does something for love it causes his downfall.
    Many believe that Snape is driven by self-preservation, rather than moral values of the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’, and that his taking the Unbreakable Vow is therefore characteristic- he wants to protect those he likes- or uncharacteristic- he is too selfish to care for others outside himself- but they agree that he takes it out of affection. There are two possible objects of this affection- Narcissa tries to persuade Snape by appealing to his affection for Draco and Lucius:

“I only meant… that no-one has yet succeeded… Severus… please…
you are, you always have been, Draco’s favourite teacher… you are Lucius’ old friend
… I beg you… you are the Dark Lord’s favourite, his most trusted advisor… will you speak to him, persuade him-?”
(Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, p.38)

Notice she does not say ‘our old friend’, or ‘our friend’, but ‘Lucius’ old friend’. She apparently only knows Snape through Lucius and Draco. Though Snape obviously cares for Draco too, and she knows he does, Lucius’ friendship goes back farther. ‘Friend’, furthermore, is singular, suggesting that he is Lucius’ -only- old friend.
    It is impossible to prove, while looking at the words that are there, to argue that he does it out of affection for Narcissa. Considering following passages, some kind of sympathy between the two is implied, but in Narcissa’s mind, his relationships with the other two are obviously first. Although the two talk familiarly, Snape addresses both sisters similarly, and there is at no point implied or said that Snape knew Narcissa outside of her domestic context of husband, sister, son.
    Furthermore, there are the obvious clues within the other books that hint to a relationship between Lucius and Snape:

Draco tells Snape, “I expect you’d have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job – I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir.”
(p. 267, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets)
(In response, Snape smirks.)

(at the end of Goblet of Fire, Harry names the Death Eaters he saw at the graveyard. When he comes to Lucius’ name, Snape…) “[makes] a sudden movement”
(Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, p. 706).

Sirius :“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days?(…)”I expect he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?”
(Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, p. 520).

(When Snape refuses to give Umbridge Veritaserum, she yells) “I expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you!”
(Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, p. 745)

His twitch at the mention of Lucius’ name implies some kind of emotional shock at hearing him exposed to the authorities. He is obviously either shocked, concerned or angry to hear Harry deliver Lucius up to the authorities. One does not twitch in pleasant surprise. Then Lucius has obviously been name-checking Snape around the Ministry- why is not very clear, since Snape has never seemed to have anything to do with the Ministry. Perhaps he was trying to worm his friend into a nice position in the Unspeakables. Then there are the favours he showered on Draco from day one. Over the course of the books, this has grown into genuine liking for the boy- however, I am not writing this essay about Draco- but at the start, just as his dislike for Harry was based on his father, his love of Draco was grounded in the same. “Lapdog”, finally, has obvious sexual overtones and Snape does not even deny the insult. “Speaking of dogs…” he says, implicitly acknowledging the accusation.
    Thirdly, Lucius and Snape occupy similar positions in the political spectrum- self-interest, coupled with protection of their loved-ones. They were Death Eaters together, and both of them returned to a more or less normal life afterwards.
    Finally, I propose that they met first through the Slug Club. I was surprised when everyone believed neither would have been in it, since they seem to me two of the most obvious choices out of all the adult character of the relevant generation. Lucius, because Slughorn has an obvious preference for those with an illustrious background, and- let’s face it- nice-looking boys, and Snape because he was a genius at Potions, if not in general. Of Snape we furthermore know that he was in the Slug Club because he was at the Christmas party (of which occasion we sorely need some art, by the way. I want to see Snape looking as awkward as Morrissey, dangling in the background somewhere). Draco says of Slughorn and Lucius:

“Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favourite of his.”
(Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, p.144)

Lucius might have exaggerated when he said he was a favourite (considering Slughorn’s superlative enthusiasm for everyone, probably not), but he would not praise Slughorn to his son if he had spurned him from his club. Furthermore, as the parties of the Slug Club appear to be for all members, not just those at school, they would have met regularly, even after Lucius had left school.
    Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy were, at one time, close friends. Whether they were just before Lucius went to Azkaban is unknown, but they had at least at one point a bond strong enough for Snape to swear on his life to protect his son in a war, while he is carrying out a very hazardous mission. It was even strong enough for his wife to expect him to swear this. Similarly, whether they were ever more than friends is unknown. Considering the vehemence of Snape’s actions, and the ‘lapdog’ comment, I would say yes. Compare it to when Bellatrix calls Snape “Dumbledore’s pet”. It does not have the same connotations. Either way, what is there cannot be ignored. Affection, not a choice between an abstract ‘good’ or ‘bad’ is Snape’s main motivation in this book, and hints to this effect have been given throughout the book to affirm this.

Bibliography:

All quotes from HP books from the British editions

hp_essays: Draco's Last Great Protector

hp_essays: Connecting the Dots: Snape and Lucius

Er. Sorry about this.

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 14:09:09 GMT

Well, everyone knows Coleridge and Wordsworth were OTP, so this needs no introduction, apart from profound apologies and a warning that it's actually rather fluffy. Which I find very scary, since I don't think I've ever written anything romantic, and therefore it's most likely crappy. Anyway.

They were walking up the hill ponderously. William gazed at the ground and the tips of his Hessian boots, noting with irritation the moist thud they made on the earth. He was out of temper today, owing to a quarrel he’d had with Dorothy. It had been one of those trivial fights that surface on days when everyone’s temper suddenly had an extra short fuse, and he had been sulky ever since. Samuel had been up in his room, dressing- he always took ages to get dressed- when it happened, and, because of his ignorance of the morning’s happenings, was looking at William curiously. But William couldn’t be bothered to talk about it. William stamped his cane into the ground with extra effort. Samuel blinked in surprise, and then went back to thinking.

They had talked about poetry and the human mind over breakfast. Well, Samuel had talked, mainly, because William was rather sullen today. He did not mind, though, he was used to it, and rather enjoyed talking even if no-one listened, since it made the thought process run more smoothly. He had thought today’s walk would get William out of whatever mood he was in, but so far he had only trudged on like an angry bull, in silence. Samuel sighed, and swept his hair from his brow. It would be useless to suggest opium; William did not like it, and Sarah would not let him take it anyway.

They reached the summit, and for a moment both stood struck still with amazement. The beauty of the landscape rolling out before his eyes filled William’s heart with joy, and he began to feel slightly better. He glanced over to Samuel, whose eyes had fixed on some point in the distance, his mouth slightly open. He could tell he was about to embark on a long exposition of some point or other, and smiled. Samuel could be so absurd sometimes. He poked at a rock with his walking stick, waiting for Samuel to come out of his reverie, and start talking. Sure enough, after several moments, he turned to William slowly, eyes misted over with thought.

“To admire on principle is the only way to imitate without loss of originality.” he said, making a vague motion with his hand. William hummed approval, and took Samuel by the arm. They slowly began to make their way down again. “The primary imagination I hold to be the living power and prime agent of all human perception, and as a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I AM.” Samuel continued. William looked at him from the corner of his eyes, tracing the curves of his full lips, the passionate glitter in his eyes, the fevered red patches on his pale cheeks, the messy folds of his carelessly knotted necktie.

‘I wonder what it would take to make him stop talking.” William thought, and he bit his lips to stop himself from smiling as he thought of the solution. His hand crept on around Samuel’s hips, and a moment later a very accurate observation on the difference between the primary and secondary imagination was most unfortunately smothered in a kiss.

Girls and ladies, lords and... and things...

Sat, 10 Sep 2005 17:15:40 GMT

The first post in the series 'Great unpublished works' is the hitherto unseen and unheard of...

It was a languid summer’s night in Hollywood, Los Angeles. Crickets chirped, palm leaves swayed slightly in the soft breeze, and from up the street the relaxing sound of far too loud rap music could be heard, wafting down from the house of some far-too-famous and poised-for-his-down-fall rapper.

Steven Patrick Morrissey was just sitting in his garden, slowly stroking his dog, lost in thought. On his knee was lying a small, colourful book, which he had barely looked at before throwing it aside. Nonsense about wizards and children. He did not care if Nancy Sinatra loved it so much she had thought it suitable to give it to him for his birthday, this was simply not for him. Then again, as he thought about it, just about nothing was for him anymore. Even Hollywood was starting to bore him slightly. Sighing, he got up, flinging the book unto his elegant cast iron garden chair, and walked up to his house, followed closely by his dog.

“Go on. Bed!” he said to it. It looked at him with pleading blue eyes. “Bed!” he said again, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the dog’s basket next to the empty fireplace. Slowly it obliged, whimpering softly.

“Good boy,” he said, and turned to go up the stairs to his bathroom. The house was quite cool and very quiet. His footsteps echoed slightly in the silence, and once upstairs he stumbled headfirst into a cabinet because he had forgotten to put the light on. “Ah, shite!” he called out, annoyed.

It was then he heard a strange noise from the room his fax machine was in. And, what was more, it didn’t sound like a fax machine. He switched on the lights, thinking it would be a mouse he had startled . The light would drive it away, back to its hiding place. He swore softly to himself again, and walked on into the bathroom. Singing to himself, he stripped off his clothes, and got into the shower. “I’m going to lassoooo you with my rubberband laser….” he sang, as the bathroom started to slowly fill up with steam. There was a strange noise from the hallway. “Pull you closer to me….” He stopped, and listened. Again he heard something, making too much noise for a mouse. It didn’t sound like a dog either. He pushed aside the shower curtain and looked around. “Snuffles?” he called. “Boy?” He whistled. No reaction. His dog had never before been able to climb the stairs before, or at least, he hadn’t done it before. He shrugged. “Lassoooo you with my rubberband laaseeer…”

“Lovely,” he said to his reflection, having put the finishing touched to his hair.

He put on his bathrobe and opened the door. There was nothing there. Not even Snuffles.

He frowned. Odd. Warily, he crossed the hall way to his bedroom. He opened the door and switched on the light, and there was that sound again.

He turned around abruptly, to see something looking like a shadow flitting into the room where his fax machine was. “Hello?” he said loudly. He backed away into his bedroom, and grabbed the phone. Thank god he still had one, despite his dislike for the things. Not gazing at the phone, but at the hallway, he dialled 91, and left his finger hovering just above the 1.

“HELLO?” he said again. Something rumbled in the room he had seen the shadow enter. “I advise you to show yourself, or I will call the police.” More rumbling. Fine, police it was, then. He was about to press the 1 again, when, with frightening speed, a big, wavering black blob came bumbling into the hallway. And he screamed. He couldn’t quite believe it himself, but he, Steven Patrick Morrissey, was screaming. In a scarily high pitched voice, too.

The blob, who also seemed to be surprised, spent a few seconds trying to remain standing, grabbed the wall, groaned, and let out a stream of odd-sounding curses.

He seized this opportunity to stop screaming, and look around the room for a weapon.

There was none. Except a very heavy book of the same coloured cover and title as the one he had been ‘reading’ in the garden, that was on his bedside table. He grabbed it, and had it ready in his left hand, leaving his right hand free to deck this….thing.

“Who are you?” he demanded, waving the book above his head. The black blob lifted its head, and revealed a kind of face from behind a curtain of black, suspiciously shiny hair. When… it saw him, something that looked like eyes widened, and the black blob straightened itself, and threw the hair from its face a bit. Now he could see clearly a very pale face, with two black eyes that were staring at him fixedly.

“You’re Morrissey.” It said.

“Yes, I am,” he said. Must be a mad fan, he told himself. “And who are you? What are you doing here?”

The ……man grimaced to himself. “I have come to see you, of course.”

Morrissey narrowed his eyes. “How did you get past my dog?” Another thought hit him. “Forget the dog, how did you get past my ALARM?”

The man shrugged. “I have my ways,” he said. He rubbed his eyes as if in pain. Bravely, Morrissey took a step towards him.

“Look, I don’t care how you got here, frankly, I just care about you getting out.” Suddenly courageous, he grabbed the man by the… whatever it was he was wearing, and started to pull him toward the staircase. He noticed the slight smell of alcohol that surrounded the man.

“Let go of me,” the man said, sounding annoyed.

“Well, if you won’t cooperate,” Morrissey said, and hit him very hard on the head with the book he was still holding. The man swaggered for a few moments, and then fell to floor with a soft thud. “Oh dear,” Morrissey said to himself, looking down at him. “I’d better call the police. Or an ambulance.” He thought about this for a while, then turned and was about to make his way back to his bedroom, when he felt a hand around his ankle. “Whaaaa!” he shouted, as he was brought down. Within seconds, he was entirely covered in endless amounts of cloth and felt two arms clench stiflingly tight around his waist. A pale face appeared next to his. It smelt strongly of whisky, which made Morrissey cough. He struggled faintly, but really, he couldn’t be bothered, and this man, or thing, or whatever it was, was obviously far more enthusiastic than he was, so he just gave up and tried not to suffocate.

“You’re mine,” a very drunk and slightly smothered voice said next to his ear.

“Right,” said Morrissey, contemplating the light fittings on the ceiling. This was really quite bizarre, he thought, and fell asleep.

--------------------------------

The next day, Morrissey woke up with a stubborn pain in… everywhere, actually. “Oooww,” he groaned, and wanted to turn in his bed, but found this was impossible. “Hmmmhm,” he groaned, and tried again. It was still impossible. He opened his eyes, to see that there was a man lying on top of him. Well, that’s no surprise, he thought to himself. It does explain why I’m so sore. He turned his head to the side, and noticed the shiny wooden floor and the top of the staircase. But wait, he thought. Why am I lying in the middle of the first floor hallway? And why is he fully clothed and am I wearing my bathrobe? From the next room, the fax machine made a strange sound. Suddenly, everything came flooding back. The noises, the black blob, the book, the tackling. “Oh dear,” he said yet again to himself. He closed his eyes. This was not good.

“Mmmmm… huh?” he suddenly heard above him. A weight disappeared from his chest as the man who had, until now, been asleep directly on top of him, lifted his head. “Merlin’s beard, I’m sore,” it muttered in a deep voice, gruff with the after-effects of drink.

“Good morning,” said Morrissey calmly. “Would you mind getting off me?”

There was a short pause before the other man was able to speak. “… You’re Morrissey.” he staring at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, I know that,” replied Morrissey. “You have told me that several times already.”

“Could you tell me what I’m doing here?” The man said, slowly pushing himself up, and straightening his eccentric outfit.

“No, I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Morrissey, also getting up. “Now please get out before I push you down the stairs.”

The man laughed. Well, it nearly resembled a laugh, at least. “I remember,” he said. “You hit me over the head with that book.” He pointed at the bulky volume with which he had been clubbed the night before.

“Yes, I did. Unfortunately, it seems I did not do any severe damage,” said Morrissey. He nudged the book with his foot.

“All nonsense and sentimentality,” said the man, gazing at the book with distaste.

“What, the book?” said Morrissey.

“Yes, that book,” said the man. “I did not expect you to own it.”

“Oh, well, I’ve never read it.” said Morrissey vaguely. “I just like to keep it next to my bed in case deranged Goths break into my house in the middle of the night to tell me that I’m Morrissey.”

The man’s really sickeningly pale face broke into a crooked smile. “How responsible of you.” he said. They were silent for a few moments.

“Nice to meet someone whose complexion is actually paler than mine,” began Morrissey, a propos of nothing. He was beginning to feel rather fatigued, but not up to the task of actually throwing this guy out.

“That is what good old England does for you,” replied the man.

“Yes, no other climate quite gives one’s skin that delightful mix of looking ill, underfed and in dire need of intellectual enlightenment quite as that of England does,” said Morrissey, attempting a more scornful tone. The man smiled another awkward smile, and sighed.

“You know,” said Morrissey thoughtfully, “I really dislike everything.”

The man snorted. “I dislike everything too.” He said. Again, they were silent. Morrissey stretched one of his aching limbs and an idea popped into his head.

“I say, fancy a shag?” he said.

A humurous attempt at making Severus Snape and Morrissey get it on. Naturally, Severus Snape belongs to JKR, and Morrissey belongs to Attack Records. Morrissey's dog belongs to Morrissey. I don't know its name, for which I apologise. A dog shouldn't have to appear in fanfiction, anyway, so I apologise for that as well.

Testing, testing, one two, one two. Two, two, two..

Mon, 29 Aug 2005 20:36:35 GMT

Just giving this Cadillac a test drive, yo. Welcome, welcome, to another year at Hogwarts.
I mean, this journal. Whoop. Invite your friends round, we'll have a ball.
Though I won't say whose.

And maybe, sometime soon, I'll even post something that makes sense in here.