Access

So much that needs saying, and yet the words to say it have fled my mind. What seemed so clear when I was half-asleep at midnight now seems as murky as the non-pond at the end of the neighborhood dock - there's nothing there but moldy ground.

Perhaps if I were to go back to that state - but I can't walk around meditating! The infinite knowledge of the universe is not to be accessed in its entirety at all times. (Just because you can doesn't mean you should.)

So, allow me to dismiss it. It is enough to know that it can be clear, and thus will become so.

(I think I slipped into meditation without meaning to.)

Ring

I've got you wrapped around my finger -

Ow.

You're cutting off my circulation.

I shake my hand to try to get you off of me, but you've got quite the grip. Though I knew you were flexible, I had no idea you were so strong.

Now if only you'd apply it to something less frustrating than clinging to my finger.

Go take up ballet or something - anything else but this, really.

I'm not a fan of this human ring - it means confinement on much too grand a scale.

Muses

You're a warped kind of muse. You tear me up and make me doubt myself, convince me alternately that romance trumps logic and that logic reigns supreme. You hold me close and comfort hurts inflicted by others and then throw my trust against the nearest wall, saying that you'll fix it even as we watch the yolk stain the sidewalk. You clarify me and you confound me.

Who said that muses lived on Mt. Olympus? Your house looks a lot like mine.

There are some weeks when I'm flying on the updrafts of your attention and some when I can do little more than lock myself away so no one (especially not you) will see me cry. But the vast majority of the year(s), I regard you with a cynical indifference, a contempt for myself regarding you that is easily misinterpreted if you don't live in my head (and even if you do).

You're usually the first person I turn to when things go seriously wrong.

Maybe all the rest is okay, then. (What lies I tell myself.) No one ever claimed that muses were always good and kind and constant.

We always just rather assumed.

On the Dock

I thought the worst thing possible was to be alone, watching people walk away from you. But the worst thing possible is almost entirely different. It's being surrounded by people, and knowing that despite their attentions, their smiles, and their touch, that you are still alone.

Okay, so he's been hurt. That just means that he's going to use you as a band-aid. You aren't going to solve jack for him; you're just going to cover it up so he can forget for awhile, but be loose enough for the dirt to get in and infect it.

What are you doing with this guy? And why do you feel guilty about it? You owe allegiance to no one, so don't give me this "but there's..." act. The Mormon is bad for you. Or, rather, you're bad for the Mormon. He's this pure thing, and he won't thank you for the corruption. You're doing him a favor by walking away.

And what's this nonsense? You're not good enough for him now? Ugh. You deserve something corrupted now? This is a mess.

And where do you get off saying that he's corrupted? You can't judge jack. People are people, no better or worse, first place or last. Right or wrong, you can't even tell for yourself, so don't go imposing it on other people. Set your own moral compass to the North Pole first.

I feel sick and shivery, and I felt it start even as his lips caressed my neck. I knew he was using me. I knew he would use me. And yet I cannot fault him for it. There are certain liberties allowed to those in pain.

I cannot imagine my world being ripped from me so completely as his has been.

So, I quietly (or not so quietly) allow him what comfort he wishes to take. If that's all I can give, then I do not begrudge him it.

What I begrudge is the conflict it inspires. Geez, mind, body. Start communicating in something other than nonsensical screams. Take turns talking and work it out. It's not like I can call in a mediator to help you solve your problems, and in the meantime, I am being cleft in twain.

I just want to dance. When I dance, everything makes sense. I don't have to worry that I'm making the wrong choice, because there is no wrong choice. There are missteps, sure, but those are normal, laughable. They're right, even as they're incorrect.

So, I'm going to go and move a little. After all, dancing makes everything fall away, leaving only the right choice. If I dance, it will all come clear.

From a Distance

Calm, but far from serene: the stereotypical numbness of novocaine to the heart. I don't feel the blood rushing through my veins, and it is almost as though I can believe those old rumors that I have a hole rather than an organ in my chest.

Every breath is deep and even, swelling from the diaphragm in perfectly paced crescendo-decrescendo phrases. My forehead is fallow ground, and my lips marble monoliths, heavy and immobile. You could draft blueprints for palaces with the line of these lips, build them and have them stand to observe the crumble of centuries. My face is a silent film of a still life.

I hear cars pass by on the road below, see the flash of headlights across the back wall of my bedroom. Flash, watch them come and disappear, and afterwards discover that my bedroom is unchanged. The maintenance of the status quo inspires only apathy.

A car may just have passed, but if so, I did not notice.

What is this cold, calm brand of madness? It is strange and stranger, sociopathic-ally scary. (I feel for my pulse - I do NOT have a hole where my heart should be.)

There it is! A beat! I heard its sloshing push from within my ear! Disappointment. (I even know its name.)

I watch a pair of headlights rise and fall on my bedroom wall.

Glitter

He's got glitter in his hair and it's all she can do not to reach out and touch. It would be a wasted gesture anyway. She is all too familiar with the manner in which he'd start and jerk away.

So she doesn't reach out, tucking her hands in her back pockets just to make sure, staring at him all the while.

He lets the moment grow long until it no longer fits, dragging on the ground. He is aware only that she has told him something he doesn't want to hear, and his cold gaze (like pale blue and blades) violates her even as she presents her chest to accept the abuse.

She loses when she speaks first.

"What'd you expect?" she asks, shoulders hunching forward. Her voice is golden-green, but whisper-thin: a mine that will soon be exhausted. "She wasn't going to wait forever."

He pulls himself taller, and the fading sunshine sparks momentarily in the glitter adorning his hair. His shadow drapes her like a funeral pall.

"No, of course not."

The anger in his tone (a terrible, burning glacier) is not directed at her, but she still slumps back with a wince, hands unconsciously abandoning her pockets to protect her belly and throat.

"No," he says, lips drawing away from his teeth, "I'd never expect her to wait for me."

Her eyes are pulled back to the glitter once more, fascinated by the softly dancing warmth, the last lingering coals of a bonfire against a bloody sunset. Her lips part with a golden-green sigh, the last of the vein.

"She says-"

His laugh skitters out like hailstones to pummel and crush her sentence.

"She says she's sorry," he continues for her, face now in darkness. "Yeah, and she sent you to say so 'cause she means it."

His voice grates like an iceberg against a metal hull, but she fancies that his eyes (pale blue like blades) contain hurt, just barely hidden by ire and ice, and her hands drop back to her sides.

"Because she still loves me," he finishes.

Her throat bobs as she swallows back something - not tears, no, not those - and she shakily extends one hand, reaching out.

The glitter gave a final glint as the sun went down and died.

The Golden Skeleton

The words to understand roll through the fingers of my thoughts, a skeleton key to the world. It's cold and harsh, the low candlelight glinting off the gold with innumerable implications.

But maybe if I put the key in the right doors in the right order, I'd find something warm.

I gulp down tears and series of possibilities, aware that the key can bring me nothing warm. Something real, yes - real and as harshly freezing as the key itself.

My thought-fingers curl tightly around it. For all the pain the accursed thing has brought me, I cannot (will not?) relinquish it. I can't remember how I lived (if I ever lived) without it.

What if this key is all I have?

Yes! This key was given to me for a reason!

I recognize the color of desperation in my thought-voice, the reflexive seizure so familiar and so startling.

Maybe I was given the key for a reason, but it is only a skeleton key. There are other ways to unlock those same doors.

My thought-fingers slacken from the gold, still cold despite the years of contact with my mind heat. I rip my gaze away from its insidious glint.

Progress.

The message light is blinking. Red, dark. Red, dark. How didn't I notice it before? Then I remember dismissing it for later, and later again, and again. Just how many messages are on there?

I almost leave the task for later (never) once more, but the alternative is getting lost in the key. So I push my chair back from the table (is this real or still in my mind?) and stretch.

My thought-fingers tighten around the molded metal without my bidding them to.

Startled and a little shaken (will I never be free?), I take the two steps across the room to the machine.

I don't even know how to say the number on the readout.

As I watch, it clicks over to just one figure, an eight sideways.

That's not overwhelming.

Fortunately, this is a special answering machine; I breathe a sigh of relief upon catching sight of the large button marked "summarize." (Yep, this is still in my mind.) I press it.

"Yo, mind! This is her body speaking. Stop screwing things up for her! I've got it handled. Stop playing with that golden skeleton or you'll make her into one. Yeesh! I know what I'm doing."

I blink as the display blips to zero. My body was apparently raised in New York.

I can't stand New York.

But the message means something, more than the filter of the skeleton key lets on.

My fist slowly unclenches, and my fingertips experience the alien rush of air as they lose contact with its chill form.

It is beautiful: the key, the words. Also amazingly useful, but not the answer. Sometimes the point is not to open the door, but to find the key (the one key) that fits the lock.

A slow smile ghosts over my thought-face, and my thought-fingers close over the words again.

I tuck it into my back pocket.

It was given to me for a reason.

The Secret

I am all but crying for a possibility, and even though I do not voice it, it is worth a laugh. Maybe I'm jaded, in my not-so-special naive way, but I know something beautiful when I see it. Or feel it, as the case may be.

Disclaimer: I've talked of the intricate orchestration of the universe before, and I doubt this reflection will add anything much more to it. But you and I will never be certain unless I write it.

That card's been in love with me for months. I've been afraid of it, I've been pissed with it, and I've been relieved to see it. Mostly, though, Little Miss Rational (yeah, that's me) has been confused by it.

I knew it would sparkle clearly eventually.

But patience, however rational an attribute, has been the perpetual bruise on my shoulder, ripe for poking and pain.

But, tonight, some of the mud has finally slid off the card, revealing a beginning - a remedy. (The latter is a great turn by the subconscious phraser.)

Little Miss Rational was right to be confused, 'cause she SOOOO can't handle this. It would be like trying to teach a toenail clipping about quantum physics: she just doesn't have the context for it. (R.E.A.L.I.T.Y. and R.E.A.S.O.N. have a fair bit in common, but they are far from the same thing.)

That card is my way out, my way back. Not to whom I used to be (I did waaay too much paperwork to get that divorce to go through) but to a healthy place somewhere between ergos and emotions.

The universe is a masterpiece, able to encompass a great many things its inhabitants will never fully understand (including itself). I have to laugh at my tears because I am both jaded and naive, one because I am the other, inextricably and forever, heartbreakingly hilariously. Do you want to know the secret?

That's how it's meant to be.

The Violet Round, Chapter Five

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: Harry Potter's world belongs to JK Rowling. I only write using it to improve my own writing skills. Nor do I own Much Ado About Nothing. However, Danielle Varens is all MINE, and I reserve the right to use her however I wish.

Draco breathed deeply through his nose before letting a grin completely overtake his visage. It was wasted, of course, as he was the only person around to see it, and the door he was about to knock on didn't care. Had he been in a bar, at least three people would have propositioned him based on that smile; forget the rest of the package.

He rapped on the smooth mahogany and the smile vanished, replaced by a carefully schooled apathy.

Right. Because Draco really didn't care how Granger reacted to him.

He heard movement within the chamber, and mutterings, and the grin's ghost fleeted across his lips. He'd probably interrupted her in the midst of a good book.

She'd probably been drinking tea, too.

She needed a personality, STAT.

He rolled his eyes at his own allusions.

"Yes?" Granger snapped, flinging the door open and stepping back to lean against the wood.

Draco blinked as his eyes travelled over her. He'd seen her in her pyjama before, but always in the mornings, when neither one of them was awake enough to be either amiable or attractive.

That, he now realized, was probably a good thing.

The skimpy girl boxers and tight t-shirt left little to the imagination, revealing that Granger was a petite woman with a curvy build and ample breasts, although little padding otherwise. She hadn't removed her makeup yet, but she had tamed her hair into a low ponytail that caressed her throat, the curls seeming to gleam golden in the warm light that spilled from her room.

Draco swallowed and deliberately shifted his weight against the door frame, crossing his left foot over his right ankle.

"Good Lord, Granger," he drawled. "Are you always so pleasant in the evenings?"

Her amber eyes narrowed and her lip curled. He might have heard a growl, but he must have been wrong. She was much too refined for such animalism.

"What. Do. You. Want?"

He arched his left eyebrow.

No, that was definitely a growl.

He studied her again.

She was not so much leaning against the door as she was slumped against it. There were black smudges beneath her eyes, and the skin around her mouth was slack. Her cheekbones were sharp, and her collarbones stuck out. Her shoulder blades protruded awkwardly. Even through her t-shirt, her ribs seemed a long ways from her abdomen. Her pelvis, as it sloped into her shorts, was angular to the point of pain. Her legs seemed spindly, as though impossibilities kept her upright.

Draco's gaze moved past her into her room. Shelves, floor to ceiling, took up most of three walls, and all were stuffed with tomes. Potions, herbology, history, literature, geology, astronomy... the topics were myriad. The fourth wall contained a window, before which was set a roll-top desk. Beside the desk was her wardrobe. Both were tightly closed. Her bed was in the center of the room, taking up much of the space. It was round, and crowded with pillows to the point he couldn't see the bedspread.

A sound of impatience brought his gaze back to her glaring presence.

"It's October second," he finally replied.

"So?" she asked, mirroring his one eyebrow raised expression.

"So I ran into your dearest friend Varens on my way to Quidditch practice," Draco said, making a show of rolling his eyes. "Silly bint was dressed completely inappropriately for the occasion. Do hope Potter chewed her out for it. Anyways," he rested his elbow in his hand and examined a finger. "She insisted that we must start planning some masque tonight." He peered at her over the nail, and performed a perfect mini-sneer. "Don't suppose you happen to know anything about all this?"

A furrow stole across Granger's brow and she rolled up from her slump, stretching lithely.

Merde. Draco scrambled to pop his eyeballs back in their sockets before she noticed them on the floor.

"I've not the least idea what Danielle is on about, Malfoy," she informed him, stalking past him into the common room, settling on her violet suede sofa with a huff. "Why don't you explain?"

He smirked at her, ignoring the shreds of his composure, and sauntered to his room.

He paused in the doorway, posing really, his chin turned just so over his shoulder, his fingers wrapped around the jamb.

"Damned if I know."

The door shut with a soft click, easily drowned out by Granger's enraged epithets.

It was a very good thing that Draco Malfoy didn't believe in Hell, as Danielle Varens had explained the masque in detail that afternoon.

And it was going to be a lot of fun.

~*~

Mmmmmm.....

Something smelled delectable. Sweet.

Hermione nestled into the warmth that surrounded her, smiling contentedly, her nose twitching.

But what was that smell?

Had Dobby tried to make her breakfast in bed again?

She cracked an eyelid and scanned the room suspiciously for the house elf.

No Dobby in the part of the room she could see.

She closed the lid and snuffled into the blankets as though still asleep, rolling over. Her curls tickled her nose.

Huh.

No Dobby here, either.

Both chocolate eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily.

Where was that smell coming from then?

Hermione arched up to sit in the center of her bed, the blankets falling around her waist as she stretched her back and legs before rolling off the bed. She paid no attention to the various ways in which her clothing rode up and slid down her body.

Her nose lead her into the little kitchenette off the common room, where Malfoy stood before the little two burner stove -

Hermione blinked and rubbed her eyes with her fists before checking again.

Yes, Draco Malfoy was making hot cakes in his pyjama and dressing gown.

The Slytherin Prince casually moved to flip a cake without a spatula, glancing at her as he did so.

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The hot cake landed on his toe.

"Owwwwww!" He howled. "Merlin bless it, Granger! Go put some clothes on, would you?"

Hermione reverted to her usual morning persona.

"Oh, you big baby!" she snapped, her face screwing itself in towards her nose. "It's hot cake batter, and the cold side landed on your foot."

She stalked over to him, leaned down and yanked his foot out from under him with a strength born of anger.

Luckily, she thought his gasp was of surprise.

"See?" she drawled, pointing at his big toe as he caught himself against the wall. "You are just jolly-good fine." She all but threw his foot down, snarling, "Get over yourself," as she strode from the room, curls bristling.

She couldn't help but feel that any Sunday that began with Malfoy flipping hot cakes could only get stranger.

The Violet Round, Chapter Four

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: Harry Potter's world belongs to JK Rowling. I only write using it to improve my own writing skills. Nor do I own Much Ado About Nothing. However, Danielle Varens is all MINE, and I reserve the right to use her however I wish.

Draco stared at her after she finished telling him her plan.

"How the hell did you end up in Gryffindor?"

Varens laughed.

"I got mad skillz, yo!" She slid her hands together before her nose. "Hollaaaaaa!"

The waves kept time against the wood.

Draco leaned away from her.

She sighed, her smile slipping away, and scrubbed at her face with her palms.

"We've got some work to do."

He arched an eyebrow at her, refusing to move any closer.

"Don't be afraid, Malfoy." She rolled her eyes, leaning back on her arms. They were sitting on the end of the dock, their jeans rolled up, dangling their feet in the chill water. "You'll have to get used to it if you want to get in with Granger. It's called a friendly display of insanity, and it's one of the many ways in which Gryffindors express their affection."

Draco's eyes widened and he felt the blood drain from his face.

Varens bit at her lips, not making any real effort to conceal her unholy delight.

What had he gotten himself into?

~*~

Their fits and giggles finally subsided and they fell silent, leaning against each other in the doorway. The hallway was deserted and the flagstones were cold under their bums, but neither one noticed. They were comfortable together, for awhile.

Hermione glanced over at Harry to find his gaze distant, the mirth having melted from his visage.

She watched as his eyes flicked down, then to the upper left hand corner of his gaze, and then to the upper right. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he was thinking about.

She fidgeted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, jostling Harry with her shoulder.

He blinked and pulled himself more upright, turning to smile at her.

She returned the smile.

Harry heaved himself to his feet with a groan and then offered her his hand, helping her up.

They stood there a moment, turned half away from each other, as silence reigned.

"I'm not Benedick," Harry finally spoke turning fully away. "I'm Claudio."

~*~

Harry didn't care what Hermione said about Varens. She was still a bitch, she was still a shrew, and she was still late for practice yet again. By all rights, he should kick her off the team. He really, really should.

His eyes seized on her and narrowed as she strolled onto the pitch, her third generation Firebolt slung casually over her shoulder. The bint hadn't even bothered to put on Quidditch robes, for Merlin's sake! She was bare-foot, in low-slung jeans and a t-shirt that was so tight it might as well not exist. She'd freeze! Of all the arrogance...!

"Sorry, I'm late," she drawled, studying her nails as she reached Harry. "Captain." Her icy eyes met his, and an eyebrow quirked ever so slightly. He was further infuriated.

"Laps, Varens!" he snapped, gesturing to the rest of the team as they played tag on their brooms in the air above them. "You have held everyone up. So you will do laps for thirteen minutes after practice. On your time. For the next three practices."

The blonde bit of trouble shrugged, and his eyes were drawn to the bare skin around her navel that the gesture revealed. He considered reprimanding her for that stupidity as well, but decided that her immune system would scold right enough by failing on her.

Why didn't he end all of his troubles and kick the harridan off the team again?

Harry scowled as he released the balls from the chest and took off into the atmosphere, settling in to watch for the telltale flash of gold and weaknesses in his team.

Ginny dropped below Kim to receive the Quaffle, the exchange quick. Harry nodded curtly. If he hadn't known that the red ball was supposed to be changing hands at that moment, he would not have noticed. This was part of their new strategy.

Ron blocked as Ginny tried to score with the tail of his broom.

A bludger flew at Kim and he held his breath.

But Varens, as always, appeared, knocking the offending enchanted attacker clear across the pitch to where her counterpart, Dean Thomas, waited to bat it into a member of any other theoretical team they played.

Harry frowned.

Oh, yeah.

That's why he couldn't expel her from the team.

Affirmations

I am a happy, warm, approachable person. I laugh and dance in public. I overflow with positive emotions and quietly accept and address negative emotions. I express sympathy when others express upset and am excited with others when they express exhilaration. I feel comfortable discussing any subject with any person and see no point in censoring myself. I expect reciprocation from others, but do not condemn them if I do not receive it. I am a safe space. I smile and converse with others an am undaunted by any rejection, as it is not personal. I am a safe, warm, space.

The Big Bad Wolf

"She wants everyone to think she doesn't have a heart."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you try to convince people that you don't have ordinary emotions."

"I do what?"

...

"Being pissed off won't do you any good."

"I know."

...

"Why do you feel frustrated? There's no reason to."

"I'm sorry."

...

I didn't believe it when my friends told me that I seem to shove people into believing that I don't have normal emotions, that I turn away and sneer when I hear people discussing upsetting situations or romance. Sure, I'm Mademoiselle Logique, but I don't disdain emotions.

Except that then I began to notice things. Like the way my parents question and dismiss any negative emotions as useless and impractical. Like the way I feel a need to apologize when I seem anything but happy. Like the way I used to write about how things felt without trying to divine the reason for it or dismissing it, but now I write exclusively to divine the reasons for what I feel and then dismiss it.

Like the way I flash to feeling uncomfortable and irritated with myself whenever I catch myself feeling an emotion, even happiness, without a 'reason.'

Somewhere along the way (about three years ago, if Kitty is to be believed), something vital and alive about me died. Or, at least, began to strangle and choke beneath the fingers of my intellect.

I can feel it struggling and my grip tightening even now.

Perhaps then, there is still hope that I can recover. I am both terrified and titillated at the prospect of feeling passion again. (Even as a part of me rolls its eyes with muttered phrases containing "melodrama" and "naivete.")

Looking back, this struggle, between rational and romantic, has been the story of the last three years of my life. (Clicks and snaps echo in my brain-chamber as I finally back up enough to see part of the machine.) This is why I've yet to really apply any of the relationship skills I've so carefully studied. This is why people don't feel comfortable approaching me. This is why I no longer have the patience to listen to other people's problems and why they no longer seek me out for advice. This is why I tend to view literature in terms of the rational vs. the irrational.

So what do I do about it? How do I stop leashing my emotions? I don't want to be a cold, unapproachable person. I want to find something pure and passionate. No, I don't want to be a slave to my emotions. But I do want to be able to accept them, rational or no.

The contradiction amuses me. I wear everything I feel on my body, put it on display, and yet I so carefully control everything I feel.

It is time, as ever, to make some changes.