corvia

corvia @ 2006-06-16T16:15:00

2006-06-16T06:20:48Z

I know it's been a long time between drafts, and this is the closest to writing I've come recently. Was written with my lovely liamlala, and looks to be a drabble to spawn a plot. Anyway

Title: His Morning Coffee.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Nothing very offensive. Unless you find Draco preening to be so, or the suggestion that the characters might be human beings.

Harry yawned, a slight puff of warmth battling against early morning light. Rising from the depths of sleep, he slowly realised exactly where he was and who was beside him, and smiled. Opening his eyes, he looked at Draco's angular features, somehow softer in sleep.

Harry gazed at those features he had grown to adore, as flashbacks of the previous night's activities ran through his mind; it'd been their anniversary. Though Draco was not always one for great shows of sentimentality, he was certainly for Harry. And for Harry he would often make indulgent exceptions. For Harry, he would do almost anything.

It seemed like mere days ago that Dumbledore had bowed his head one final time, and Snape had performed the final atrocity which had caused Harry to lose all respect he had ever felt for the man, not that it had been much. Necessity, Dumbledore's ghost had told him afterwards, though Draco told Harry it hadn't been necessary at all. And Draco was always right.

Well, Draco was almost always right. He hadn't been right when he'd called Harry an 'ignorant, self-obsessed unsubtle Gryffindor twit', in Harry’s opinion. But then, Draco did have an almost uncanny subtlety about him- there were times when Harry doubted Draco's motives, only to properly understand them a while later after other things had taken place.

Harry slid a hand under Draco's head, cupping it slightly, and kissed him gently on the lips. Draco mumbled something, but it escaped Harry's notice as he got up from the bed, feet dragging as he went to make himself coffee.

Harry put the kettle on, daydreaming of many lingering mornings spent in bed. The shrill whistle brought him sharply out of his reverie, and he silenced it quickly. He listened silently for a few moments and was reassured to hear Draco's almost inaudible snoring from the next room. Draco would, of course, deny he did any such thing, but Harry knew better.

He crumbled the sugar block into Draco's coffee, stirring it in between dreams. Draco would proclaim it disgusting and would threaten to pour it all over the bed if the sugar hadn't been stirred just like this, so Harry paid extra attention to what the spoon was doing. Which lead him to think of other things... spoon, spooning, Draco, Draco's nipple...

At this point, Draco himself appeared, looking charmingly disheveled, and entirely shaggable. "Do you know..." He murmured, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. "I just had the most incredible shag-flashback." He took the proffered coffee with obvious enjoyment: "Oh, my beloved Coffee... honestly, Potter, I was wondering how long I'd have to lie there looking gorgeous and feigning sleep to get my single reason for living."

"Longer than you did, evidently..." returned Harry.

It was strange; whatever happened, whenever it happened, Draco's hair was always immaculate. It sat there, almost begging someone to play with it, silver blonde temptation just above gorgeous, almost unfathomably grey eyes.

As Draco cradled his mug to his chest, savoring its warmth on the cold morning, he caught Harry's glance. "Don't even think about it, Potter. You touch my hair, you die. " He finished his coffee and preened slightly, observing his reflection in the glass of the kitchen window.

Harry rolled his eyes slightly. "Of course, my darling whom I love and adore ever so much and would do anything for."

He turned, smirking. "Don't sass me, Potter. I can take you without even messing up my perfect hair." He stroked it lovingly, and for a very short moment, Harry felt just slightly jealous.

He started toward Draco, moving towards him like a cat, stalking its mammalian prey- he was just slightly shorter than Draco which spoilt the whole effect slightly, but continued the advance nonetheless until he and Draco were almost touching. A moment later, Harry found himself covered in quickly cooling coffee. Draco was attempting to look innocent.

Harry looked up at Draco through caffeine-stained eyelashes. "Mr Malfoy. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the reason for the rapidly cooling beverage which has been displaced above my head?"

Draco paused. "One; you should know better than to wake me up at this ungodly hour, and two; it is my prerogative to pour coffee over my boyfriend's head. Haven't you read “The Malfoy Guide to Relationships, part XXI” yet?"

Harry picked the sopping 'guide' up from the table by a (relatively) dry corner. "And I was just about to get to the good bits, too... "How to get into a Malfoy's pants in three easy lessons..””

Draco's mask let the slight curve of a smile through. "I would say you had that part down pat, Harry. Though your pickup lines could use a little work..."

"Pah! Pickup lines, useless things." Harry threw the book over his shoulder to land with a wet thud somewhere behind him, much to Draco's dismay. Before he could protest, however, Harry was snogging him firmly, and gave no sign of releasing Draco while he still intended to complain. Eventually Harry pulled back, taking pride in the ever so slightly flushed tinge on Draco's otherwise milky cheeks.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Potter, I have a reputation to maintain! My adoring worshippers would hurt me if they knew my boyfriend, who was at the time covered in coffee, drew me into a passionate kiss before 10 AM."

"Reputation?" Harry raised an eyebrow, "I thought I had thoroughly sullied that by now, and made you the contempt of the world. Then you'd be stuck with me!" Harry grinned slightly manically, and Draco leaned back over the sink, away from him.

"Of course, I overlooked the fact that you were a Potter when we first made out - a tragic mistake, obviously. Perhaps I should have chosen that Boot boy... Terry, wasn't it?"

Harry smirked, pretending to be scandalised. "You wouldn't dare!"

Draco slowly and deliberately narrowed his eyes. "Wouldn't I?"

"Of course not!" Harry declared. "If you did, I'd sell my story to ‘My Two Knuts’ for a large fortune, and live very happily off the proceeds til the end of both our days. And then," he continued "You would not be able to continue on in wizarding society, dying alone and old, and you would later be found half eaten by stoned centaurs. "

Draco smirked. "’My Two Knuts’ are quite happy as they are, I'm fairly sure. Though a few temptations might be good for them, I’ve noticed they’ve been a bit neglected lately..."

"'Temptations', eh? I should've thought a proper exposé about a member of the wizarding elite who has constantly scorned their publication would've been of great interest to them..." Harry calmly sipped his half-cold coffee to hide his delight.

Draco's eyes widened, and he looked somewhat strangled. Maybe he shouldn’t have dumped the coffee all over Harry’s head, after all...

Occasionally, Draco wondered at Harry's perception, though of course, he'd never admit it. He seemed to have an innate ability to pick up on things - situations - which surpassed Draco's, though his own mind had been taught and carefully schooled in the ways of wizarding politics.

Of course, it hadn't helped him near the end, when chaos was nigh and he had been inducted into the Death Eaters. He still had the scars from when Harry had removed the mark, almost killing Draco in the process- it had been Hermione's idea, to use the Mark to destroy Voldemort once they had found the last Horcrux. Draco had carefully researched the spell, putting even more effort in than Hermione, and it had been then that Draco had developed feelings for Harry.

Sometimes, that innate ability to pick up on things failed even Harry. Hermione had let it slip one evening over a celebratory drink with Harry that Draco held feelings for him which extended beyond simple friendship, and was far removed from the animosity of their schooldays. Harry had felt the same way, though oddly he felt betrayed by the lack of trust Draco showed by telling Hermione and not himself. He felt a pang of jealousy of the apparent familiarity of their relationship, and it had taken Draco months to repair their relationship, Harry being the mulish, stubborn wizard that he was.

And he had bad hair. Not that Draco didn't love it, of course; he could spend hours playing with it, but sometimes it got to a point where even Draco's love was tried. For example, the times when Draco woke up coughing with a mouthful of Harry's unruly hair.

Those were the times when he threatened to shave Harry's head by hand, for the pure satisfaction of being victorious over the ebony locks. But MERLIN, without his hair he'd lose all ability to make Draco melt, and Harry wanted none of that. There were, of course, other ways to make Draco melt, but swishing hair was one of the best. That, and having his nipples put in oral detention by Harry's tongue.

Draco shivered at the remembrance of pleasure and his attention snapped back to the present. How to best foil Harry without letting him know his plan would work... Flirting was probably the best way to go about it; after all, he'd been schooled in that, too. Not with boys, admittedly, but his father was dead now, and he was Mr. Malfoy; He could do as he pleased.

His father would have told him to carry on the Malfoy line; his mother had softly told him to follow his heart, her cinnamon and alcohol scented breath on his cheek. He had known which piece of advice to follow.

And now that he'd found where his heart lay, no one living or dead would deter him.

"Surely the famous Harry Potter would not reduce himself to such forms of extortion; Not when there are so many more..." Draco let his gaze wander slowly down and up Harry's form, "pleasing ways to go about the situation."

"Aguh..." Was the man in question's only response, but the fire in his eyes told more than words could have expressed anyway.

corvia @ 2005-09-11T09:20:00

2005-09-10T23:22:07Z

The day after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, Repent America issued a press release. In it, they implied that Hurricane Katrina was a judgement from God on New Orleans, particularly on Southern Decadence, New Orleans' annual queer end-of-summer bash.

Eh, they're just some tiny fringe group, right?

Well, Agape Press, the American Family Association's news service (and nobody can claim that the AFA isn't right in the heart of Christian activism) posted an article misleadingly titled New Orleans Residents: God's Mercy Evident in Katrina's Wake. They don't just imply.

The pastor explains that for years he has warned people that unless Christians in New Orleans took a strong stand against such things as local abortion clinics, the yearly Mardi Gras celebrations, and the annual event known as "Southern Decadence" -- an annual six-day "gay pride" event scheduled to be hosted by the city this week -- God's judgment would be felt.

“New Orleans now is abortion free. New Orleans now is Mardi Gras free. New Orleans now is free of Southern Decadence and the sodomites, the witchcraft workers, false religion -- it's free of all of those things now," Shanks says. "God simply, I believe, in His mercy purged all of that stuff out of there -- and now we're going to start over again."

Last I checked, this isn't what Christianity is about. I thought Christianity wasn't about exploiting human suffering.

Show me that it's not. Take a stand.

Repost this. Don't just link it, copy it and repost it. Ask your friends to repost this. Find out where they really stand when they don't.

(Links and HTML Source Here)

Reposted to my real life journal. Apologies to those who received two, but things like this really make me irate.

corvia @ 2005-04-14T10:38:00

2005-04-14T00:44:01Z

I'm so proud! I have a plan! *does the Ron from PPP face* rhapsodysmuse will also be proud of me! It's about half done, and will doubtless end up being cliched (because heaven forbid I come up with original ideas), but when done it will be my first fic that I've actually planned and written from start to finish. *jamps* I'm so excited.

The plan is for it to be a Snarry, mid-war fic. More details will ensue once plan is finished.

Random Quiz(zes)

2005-04-06T06:47:06Z

Both swiped from silentauror.

What the stars of Harry Potter say to you when you meet them!! by icyfirechick021
Name
Tom Felton says	"I fancy a shag, want to come?"
Dan Radcliffe says	"Want to come to my place?"
Rupert Grint says	"Don't talk to Dan he's dumb"
Emma Watson says	"Don't hurt me"
Sean Biggerstaff says	"Why don't you come with me"
Devon Murray says	"Look! It's SUPERMAN!"
Alan Rickman says	"You are a fine piece of meat"

Quiz created with MemeGen!

I get all the boys! Score! *smirk, smirk*

What Harry Potter character will you find under your bed? by kaitkaitkait
Name:
Age
Who	Severus Snape
You say:	"You really know how to make an entrance, don't you?"
He says:	"I suppose a shag is out of the question...?"
He comes out, holding a	vibrating wand.
You react by	smiling evilly.
And finally...	...you have the most fantastic sex imaginable, every night for the rest of your lives.

Quiz created with MemeGen!

Bwahaha!

That is all. Oh, except that I am beyond amazed that my fuming-rant about Anti-slashers got linked by the daily_snitch. This is me, flattered.

For the record...

2005-04-05T04:03:57Z

I keep getting asked for recs of good fic, so...

Authors and their fics

Icarus has written many many gorgeous stories, including "Primer to the Dark Arts", which is what I first started reading, but now I love her for the "Beg Me For it" universe, which is Draco/Ron-centric. I never thought it could be done either plausibly or well, but it's both.

Mckay (formerly Jaykay) has written Snarry, Snupin and some other odds and ends, all of which are delightful. I'm especially fond of the "Too Wise to Woo Peacably" AU, based around the production of "Much Ado about Nothing" at Hogwarts.

Sushi's massive "Civil War" series is amazing. There's a depth of characterisation and awe-inspiring plot arcs which kept me reading until the wee hours. I found the chronology a little tricky, since they're written out of sequence and not posted in order, but the story is angsty and plot laden.

Minx has written a lot of one-shot PWPs, but I'm a big fan of the "Fantasy into Reality" series, since it's a twist on the tradition PWP, which allows that the characters just sit around all day, screwing.

That's all I've got for mine. I tend to read their stuff religiously. I'll post any more that I'm frantic about when that happens.

Slash (and Anti-Slash) Rants

2005-04-04T10:38:33Z

During my daily list-skulk I came across this. It's a response to the Anti-slash petition that's going around. In reality I'm sure there are many such anti-slash petitions, but I found this one offensive for several reasons.

First off, after reading their proposal of reasons slash should be banned, I was offended at people trying to take away one of my hobbies when they couldn't even correctly spell 'incarceration'. This, I realise, is more than a little intellectual snobbery on my behalf, but it rankles that people still have the gall to assume it is their right to tell me what I can and cannot do, when their attempts to express their horror/disgust/etc., are so halfbaked and shabby.

In the interests of fairness, most of their reasoning seems to be in the 'protecting the children' vein, which I would (attempt to) respect, were it aimed at not just slash, but all adult fiction. As it is, however, the petition makes no mention of anything but slash, and as such I am offended by their blatant homophobia.

In defence of the slash I love so dearly: The examples of fic that they present, while doubtless they do exist, are by no means your average slash. Non-con exists, and yes Snape is one of the major perpetrators of non-consensual sex in the Harry Potter fandom, but the majority of this (I would say the vast majority,) that features non-consensual sex also includes a victim who is over the age of consent.

I also want to say that most of the fic written in this manner, is not written terribly well, and is not appreciated by the majority of the slashing community for either its form or content. In fandom we'd say it 'squicks' or disgusts us. Many of us dislike things such as these. Slashers are not generally Paedophiles or Child abusers any more than the rest of society, and fiction involving these characters and these themes is certainly not aimed at children, as the petition suggests. Surely the lengths to which most fanfiction archives have gone to protect the integrity of their readers/writers (e.g. password protection, banning of explicit fiction, etc.) shows that there is an awareness of the problem of children reading such fiction, and that attempts are being made to prevent it.

On a final note: Don't tar us all with the same brush. I could say that based on that petition all straight Christians are homo- and xeno-phobic arseholes who are couching their own agendas in anything they do. However I know this not to be true, just as I know that not all slashers (if indeed, any) are pedophiles, child abusers, or otherwise 'sick'. I bridle at the notion that people with such narrow minds entertain the notions of curtailing my freedom of expression to the point that I may be sued or sent to prison.

Surely this is not the depths of fear of free speech?

One shot!

2005-01-20T03:42:21Z

This was written for my English major paper, under the requirement:

Write an imaginative piece in the same style as one of your major texts. My major texts were Frankenstein and Edward Scissorhands, so it's sort of intended to fit into that kind of genre. And vents my beef with gene-messing (GM). Biased social commentary adds to the flavour.

The clinic was horribly dingy, the walls marred grey by the uncertainties of prospective parents. The contrast between the building and the rest of the neighbourhood was marked; no wonder it was underground, only known by the select few who could afford the treatment and afford the social stigma attached to it, should the treatment fail.

The woman fretted and fussed, pacing over the same stark line of threadbare carpet, once a pale red, not the colour of dried blood from the filth their kind brought in with them. The man read and reread the brochured strewn artfully over the fractured glass coffee table.

Noveau rich, mostly; wanted to buy their status in the world, and if they had enough money, they could buy anything. Even beautiful offspring. After all, beauty was power, wasn't it? Isn't that what it came down to? Beauty held the power to persuade and enchant. To inspire and most of all, to succed. To be victorious where others had failed.

Oh, how he hated himself for doing it. For allowing himself to sink this low, when he had sworn that he would never again use the skills he had learnt after his failure. Never! But when his former professor had referred a special friend to him to treat a hereditary illness, pity and duty had taken him and quieted even his most violent objections on the subject.

After the first client, there were many more. Who'd known a mute could be such a gossip? He certainly hadn't or he would have refused. Honestly he would have. After the first client, though, he became used to eating, and having a roof over his head. There was not excuse for it, and he had given up trying to assuage his guilt long ago.

The woman coughed pointedly and he turned his sneering attentions upon her. She withdrew a little and murmured serial numbers to him, which he dutifully wrote down. These people didn't even consider that those numbers represented human beings, and probably never would think of them as even human. He certainly couldn't. The were a collection of data, numbers and chemicals and superficiality. The children that were born from their designer label parents would be beautiful progenies, but nothing more than tools to their parents. Tools to aid their social advancement and their decendant's social standing.

No, the children would be beautiful, but their parents were hideous. And with time, they would be tained and spread their eveil ever wider in the world. The materialism and close-minded snobbery they would inherit from their parents and the world would expand and contract in horror until the Mother Earth coughed their kind up in a fit of cathartic apocalypse.

He smiled unpleasantly at the couple as they scuttled hurriedly up the concrete cancerous stairs towards daylight, where they could pretend it had never happened and that it was their own inferior, despicable genes that had spawned such a physically divine child.

He fingered the pile of notes that the couple had deposited on the counter ponderously. Money was possibility, just as beauty was power. He dropped the money into an old shoebox and pottered off to his laboratory, his feet sticking noisily to the linoleum with each step.

***

Several weeks later, a couple was found dead in their two storey sprawling bungalow. The man had been shot in the back of his head at point-blank range with his ebony inset hunting rifle and the woman had been eviscerated with one of her designer carbon-steel kitchen knives. Another knife lay on the table below the words which had been carved in with elaborate care: "Your kind will be wiped from the earth, even if it must be done one by one. You're not the only ones with the money to buy anything..."

corvia @ 2004-11-24T20:10:00

2004-11-24T09:41:06Z

Next chapter, hot off the press. Or notebook. Whatever.

Considerably more lighthearted than the last. Does poke fun at religion though, so if that offends you - find something else to read. Written after watching Dogma, so the new main character is heavily inspired by Alan Rickman's Metatron.

Jour de jugement

Her eyes flickered open. Well...actually, that wasn't true; She became aware of her surroundings. He felt it as a slight shift in the air in the room. He didn't know her name and didn't ask - that wasn't his job or anything to do with him.

She had been staring mindlessly at the same - apparently intriguing - spot for four, perhaps five turns of the clock. A relatively short time, really, 'fore new arrivals awakened. After all, he himself had been post-vitam for nearly four times that, which was still only a little above average.

Quentin realised with a start, that she was watching him and looking very much Compos-Mentis. "I'm alive." She croaked in what he assumed was a question, so he shook his head, 'no'.

She frowned then, and so he clarified: "Not on your former plane of existence, but I suppose you exist here. In some way, shape or form.."

A raised eyebrow accompanied her next question. "Plane of existence?" When Quentin didn't respond, she seemed to drop the subject and began to take note of her surroundings.

He was impressed with this one. She wasn't being hysterical like so many other broads he'd had the misfortune of trying to...acclimatise...to this world. Not that the blokes weren't like that from time to time, but more often it was the women who awoke and once they got an eyeful of the suspiciously bright room - well, it was all downhill from there. The bints would start frantically murmuring 'Hail Mary's and either crossing themselves or scrabbling at their decolletage, as if the impression of the crucifix were a phantom pain that could not be banished. Or, perhaps hoping to find it as protection from the perceived Judgment Day.

She was different. And she was walking, albeit slowly, towards him. "Is - Is this...heaven?" she asked tentatively, frowning.

"No." It was closer than most people came to the truth on their own, however.

Admittedly, it was an afterlife of sorts, but there that similarities ended. Heaven and Hell both implied Judgment of a soul on sins rendered; most of them pathetic little things like not returning your library books on time. Last time he'd checked there was even a separate layer of purgatory for those 'sinners'.

Literary-Purgatory or something equally spurious..

There were no angels or trumpets to be seen here. No devils or pitchforks. None of the specific, black and white symbolism that so many organised religions were so fond of.

And he himself was no more Jesus, than he was Muhammad or Buddha. This place had no religious affiliation. Which, needless to say, was very difficult for the indoctrinated to accept.

No, this wasn't heaven. If heaven existed at all, he had a feeling he definitely wouldn't be getting a cordial invitation anytime in the next eon, anyway. The debauchery that was entailed and bound to the life and society of landed gentry in his lifetime would, doubtless have put him on the 'banned for eternity' list.

And look where it'd gotten him, too. A cushy job ushering in agnostics, and nominal believers into the afterlife.

He checked his fob-watch and firmly cleared his throat. 'We must be going.'

The woman frowned. Which was fair enough, really. The Receiving room was white and faceless - the pure marble glowed innocuously from somewhere out of sight, and beyond comprehension. "How? Where? Why?" She was perplexed.

"To teach you the most important lessons you shall ever learn," Quentin retorted.

The bint cowered.

He didn't mean to sound intimidating when he said that. How could he have? He didn't raise his voice or anything. Oh, bollocks - he was going transparent again. That might've had something to do with her reaction...

He rolled his eyes. "Nothing like that, wench. Just hurry up, will you? We're already late."

"But WHERE?" She persisted, the idea that they be able to escape from a room with no doors, windows or obvious sources of light or air was very, very difficult to accept.

He ignored her and strode briskly toward the luminous wall. Half a step before colliding with it, a door appeared and a wrinkled, hunchbacked, pale blue creature that smelled faintly of lavender scurried forth and held it open for him. "After you," He murmured, with a mocking court bow.

She sighed and sauntered, sauntered through the doorway, trying not to peer at the miniature footman too obviously. And failing miserably. "What IS that creature?" She asked, craning her neck to get a final glimpse of it over her shoulder, before a corner swallowed up the curious thing. And still the hallway continued with nary a shadow or hint of its twists and turns.

"An Imp." He intoned, never missing a step and the finality in his voice indicating that he thought the conversation to be over.

"I thought this wasn't Hell? I also thought that they were supposed to be red and black. And reeking of brimstone."

"Yes, well," He cleared his throat awkwardly. "That was one of the deserter Imps. The Powers-that-be decided that it would be more -" Here, he sneered in absolute abhorrence. "soothing, if they were pastel blues and purples. And 'Garden Fresh'." Quentin shook his head in irritation, and promptly crashed into his...charge. "What in the blazes?!"

The woman was laughing herself stupid. It was all he could do to stop his own lips from twitching in response.

Yes. She was impressive. Different. He took her elbow gently but firmly and they continued their way to the lesson intended.

~Fin
For now, anyway.

oh, by the way. If you like this stuff, PLEASE comment. I live for comments.

Because it's really not polite to have a writing journal empty for too long...

2004-11-23T11:53:59Z

I wrote this a while ago. April, maybe? If you've read it, don't read it again. Save yourself the effort, hm? High angst warning, character death, and other nasties.

Maison de la Tristesse
Her eyes stung: Bitter tears threatening to cascade down deathly pale cheeks. She winced, forcing them back. The pain had receded long ago, but the effects remained along with the simmering undercurrent of anger and resentment. She thought it was supposed to be the other way around, but apparently not. No one understood, that was abundantly clear; but whether or not they cared she could not say. Stifling a shiver, she curled up a little tighter in the worn Chesterfield wingchair she'd commandeered ever since. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't.

He said he'd always be there for her.

"Where the fuck is he now?!" She whispered hoarsely, scrubbing fiercely at her eyes with her left wrist. The livid red scabs and tears a matching testament to her pain. She took another shuddering breath and rested her head on the back of the chair, her sobs resurfacing and the accompanying river of tears soaking the burgundy velvet a deeper, bloodier red.

Making the monumental effort, she reached over and snagged the crumpled and eyeliner-stained piece of paper that was resting innocently on the dark wood sidetable:

I can't be what I want to be, I can't be what you want me to be, and so: I won't be at all...Goodbye Anya - You will be in my heart for the eternity and more, until we are once more united. Hugh.

Anya gave a strangled cry and crushed the note in her fist, several more fat tears wrenched from her burning and tortured eyes. She stood, stumbling a little, and groped for her lighter. The click of the flints heralded a burst of flame from her heirloom silver, and she held the corner of the paper in the fire until the paper curled and flames were licking up over Hugh's final words.

There was a sickening CRUNCH. She whirled to see where the smash had come from and rubbed her eyes wearily upon seeing it was the neighbourhood stray who had adopted her. The moggie weaved it's way around the remenants of a ceramic bust of Leonardo's David to curl deftly on the Chaise lounge. She smiled weakly and then swore loudly as she dropped the paper, which had burnt far closer than she'd intended and was now completely black, curling ash. Lunging forward, she stamped it out quickly and returned to curl up snuggly on the Chesterfield, where she promptly fell asleep from emotional exhaustion.

Unbeknownst to Anya, however, she had not only dropped the paper, but also her lighter. Which was still ablaze as it had never gone off. Fortunately, it was almost out of fuel at this point, but this was swiftly becoming a moot point as fire deftly snaked it's way across the rug and clambered up the thick velvet drapes. Within moments the room was an inferno. Within minutes the modest house was aflame, thanks in no small part to Hugh's vast collection of Antique furniture. By the time the neighbours, some half kilometer away became aware of the blaze, it was too late to save the house; much less the lonely woman who was inside.

It appeared that Anya and Hugh would be reunited much sooner than originally thought.

Pity she didn't want him anymore...