hey I just met you and this is crazy

[raven]

After a rather stressful day at work ("Can you spend several hours on the phone with a firm of Scottish engineers? It'll be just like Christmas dinner with your in-laws!") I went to London this evening and had dinner with the South African Siren! For late arrivals to the party of my endlessly fascinating life, I spent a year living abroad some time ago and for all of that period of freezing cold, culture shock and broadening horizons, the Siren was my dearest friend. She's visiting London on holiday before going on Contiki ("I'm shy and socially awkward and spending thirty-three days going around Europe with total strangers! This will end well!") and what with everything else going on, tonight was all we could manage. She and Shim and I ate pizza and drank wine and laughed a lot and talked about nothing and everything, and then we went to Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross and took pictures of ourselves pushing a luggage trolley into the wall. It was such fun, but now I am sad because my friend is gone and I probably won't see her again for another year or years. See, kids, this is why you shouldn't live in other places. You end up leaving bits of yourself strewn all over the place and life becomes, if not a mournful vacuum, at least a study in mournful hoovering.

I did extract a promise from her to attend at least one of the weddings - and as for the rest, I guess I have to go to South Africa, sometime. I do want to. The world seems to get smaller but never quite small enough.

Anyway. Enough mournful. I love this meme so here I am doing it again, now I seem to be writing:

Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any story I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

(Via philomytha.) Oh I should go to bed.

Comments

[philomytha]

*sends cheering-up thoughts*

This one ought to be very fresh in your mind, but I loved it to bits, so:

Simon's eyes opened properly only once. At once, the familiar intelligence settled across his face, and she was aware of the sense of his being somehow bigger. He'd teach that to Miles one day, Cordelia thought wryly, that ability to project himself across more than mere physical space. It lasted only a moment; his gaze lighted upon Aral and his eyes closed again, the questioning look disappearing into inanition and trust.

Cordelia nodded, almost to herself, watching Aral shake water out of his eyes and stroke Simon's hair. He had known where he was, even for just a few seconds; he hadn't fought it. What was strange here, she thought with a brief, controlled shiver, was that there was nothing strange here.

Simon woke to full lucidity only when dry and in bed, covered in fresh sheets in one of the many house guest rooms. Cordelia had just been going to find another blanket for him. "Milady," he said, his eyes widening with alarm, his hands going to his collar automatically, "I came to – I was going to… where…"

"Vorkosigan House," Aral said, stepping in before Cordelia could say anything. "Your silver eyes are on the bedside table. Sleep, and we'll debrief later."

He nodded, then a look of surprise crossed his features. "I'm not wearing any clothes."

"That analyst's mind at work." Aral grinned at him. "Sleep, Simon."

With a brief, thoughtful sigh, Simon obeyed, his eyes closing quickly. His breathing deepened and slowed as they stood there, waiting, and then Cordelia took Aral's hand and led him quietly out of the room.

"I know what you're thinking," Aral said, as they went downstairs.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "I can honestly say, my love, that this is one of those times when even I have no idea what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking," Aral said, "that this could be – it could just be me, taking good care of something that belongs to me because it belongs to me. And I…" He hesitated. "I'm not accustomed, even yet, to seeing the world in the light you cast."

"You've never taken good care of your toys, love," Cordelia said. And with some clarity, she added, "It's not the same thing, to be used by you, and to belong to you. Some might even find the latter freeing."

"Some," Aral repeated, his eyes wary. "I try" – he hesitated – "for one, and not the other."

"I know," Cordelia said, very quietly, and took hold of his hand again. "Do you think," she asked, "that his chip takes in data even when he's sleeping?"

Aral glanced at her. "I daren't ask." He brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, then took it away. "If it does I'm sure he makes reports. Do you mean, data on what's happening around him, or… on dreams?"

Cordelia shook her head. "I don't know."

"What does a man who remembers everything perfectly dream about?" Aral was looking troubled. "And how can he have…"

Faith, Cordelia finished for him. She'd followed Aral with scarcely any less knowledge of the fallibility of humanity. She followed him now, down the stairs in this house she was trying to call her own.

[raven]

Ah, you know me well! :)

So I have a major, major narrative-and-otherwise kink for the relationship between Simon and Aral, and explaining it always leads to my flapping my hands around incoherently but. What fascinates me is that Simon Illyan follows Aral, pretty much his whole life – he spies for Aral, kills for Aral, follows him into war, through the Pretendership and the Regency, is thrown into prison for his allegiance at one point, has the same loyalty to the son as to the father, and so on. And against that kind of background, can he ever consent to anything Aral does to him, or has him do? (I did the slightly creepier, more overtly sexual version of this story in “Hold”). In this one, the tension is between Cordelia, who can’t get behind any political system where a human being lacks agency in this way, and Aral, who can’t understand a world without loyalty oaths and absolute fealty, who considers the right thing to do is to maintain that relationship, but without abusing it, to be careful to treat Simon with the care and kindness he’s due. Cordelia thinks this is to treat him like an object or an animal; Aral… doesn’t. Simon’s body is the territory on which that battle is fought – which is why it makes sense to me to have him largely unconscious through this story. The story is about him, but he’s not its protagonist.

Simon's eyes opened properly only once. At once, the familiar intelligence settled across his face, and she was aware of the sense of his being somehow bigger. He'd teach that to Miles one day, Cordelia thought wryly, that ability to project himself across more than mere physical space. It lasted only a moment; his gaze lighted upon Aral and his eyes closed again, the questioning look disappearing into inanition and trust.

Cordelia nodded, almost to herself, watching Aral shake water out of his eyes and stroke Simon's hair. He had known where he was, even for just a few seconds; he hadn't fought it. What was strange here, she thought with a brief, controlled shiver, was that there was nothing strange here.

Simon woke to full lucidity only when dry and in bed, covered in fresh sheets in one of the many house guest rooms. Cordelia had just been going to find another blanket for him. "Milady," he said, his eyes widening with alarm, his hands going to his collar automatically, "I came to – I was going to… where…"

"Vorkosigan House," Aral said, stepping in before Cordelia could say anything. "Your silver eyes are on the bedside table. Sleep, and we'll debrief later."

This, I think, is what this story is about, entirely. Simon wakes up and immediately – immediately! – goes for the ImpSec Horus eyes he should be wearing. “I live to serve”, etc. Aral, being Aral, knows this without being told.

He nodded, then a look of surprise crossed his features. "I'm not wearing any clothes."

When I first wrote this line I think I was going for a little more creepy - in "Hold" I went for that, that Simon can't consent to anything - including sex, and bodily violation generally - but here I wanted to back away from that a little. Somehow this line that wanted to be creepy ended up being... cute? I hope?

"That analyst's mind at work." Aral grinned at him. "Sleep, Simon."

With a brief, thoughtful sigh, Simon obeyed, his eyes closing quickly. His breathing deepened and slowed as they stood there, waiting, and then Cordelia took Aral's hand and led him quietly out of the room.

In the end it all comes to this: he does what Aral tells him, whatever it is.

"I know what you're thinking," Aral said, as they went downstairs.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "I can honestly say, my love, that this is one of those times when even I have no idea what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking," Aral said, "that this could be – it could just be me, taking good care of something that belongs to me because it belongs to me. And I…" He hesitated. "I'm not accustomed, even yet, to seeing the world in the light you cast."

"You've never taken good care of your toys, love," Cordelia said. And with some clarity, she added, "It's not the same thing, to be used by you, and to belong to you. Some might even find the latter freeing."

Simon definitely does; Cordelia doesn’t. They both love him, and he them, in different ways.

"Some," Aral repeated, his eyes wary. "I try" – he hesitated – "for one, and not the other."

"I know," Cordelia said, very quietly, and took hold of his hand again. "Do you think," she asked, "that his chip takes in data even when he's sleeping?"

Aral glanced at her. "I daren't ask." He brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, then took it away. "If it does I'm sure he makes reports. Do you mean, data on what's happening around him, or… on dreams?"

Cordelia shook her head. "I don't know."

"What does a man who remembers everything perfectly dream about?" Aral was looking troubled. "And how can he have…"

Faith, Cordelia finished for him. She'd followed Aral with scarcely any less knowledge of the fallibility of humanity. She followed him now, down the stairs in this house she was trying to call her own.

They all three have that in common, though I don't think they know it, in this story - trying to go, and be, home - Cordelia on a strange planet, Aral trying to recreate his home world anew, and Simon in this post-Ezar memory-chipped existence. I love them, I do - which is why I think I write this same story over and over, loyalty and feudalism and consent issues and all.

[philomytha]

So I have a major, major narrative-and-otherwise kink for the relationship between Simon and Aral

Coals to Newcastle here, as I expect you already know ;-). I am still mulling over that prompt you trailed in the water for the ficathon...

has the same loyalty to the son as to the father

Currently playing with this a lot in a fic, because it is the same loyalty (as I note, having just been fiddling around with the bit where Simon is perfectly prepared to run a coverup if Miles has been stealing millions from ImpSec, half for Miles's sake and half for Aral's), and it's also different, the distinctly paternal element in Simon's relationship to Miles, the way he has clear authority over him at the same time as a duty to serve him.

(I did the slightly creepier, more overtly sexual version of this story in “Hold”).

The thing about 'Hold' is that it is creepy - from Cordelia's point of view, but as you make perfectly clear, it's not creepy from either Aral or Simon's point of view, it's just how the world is and possibly how the world ought to be. If you write Aral/Simon without Cordelia's perspective, you end up with a very Barrayaran tale and the consent issues only appear in the authorial voice, because they don't appear for Aral and Simon the way they do for Cordelia. Especially not young Simon. Older Simon is a lot more self-aware, I think. Possibly he's learned from Cordelia?

Simon’s body is the territory on which that battle is fought – which is why it makes sense to me to have him largely unconscious through this story.

Ah! That makes perfect sense! Though in another sense, it sort of compounds Cordelia's perception of him being treated as an object in this. (I admit, one of my impulses after reading this was to try to remix it from Simon's/the chip's point of view. Just to see what it looked like from flat on your back, as it were. Differently complicated. Incidentally, you could make a case for the chip continuing to record sound, though it's hard to see how it could record sight when Simon's eyes are closed. I may have thought too hard about this ;-).)

"Vorkosigan House," Aral said, stepping in before Cordelia could say anything. "Your silver eyes are on the bedside table. Sleep, and we'll debrief later."

This, I think, is what this story is about, entirely. Simon wakes up and immediately – immediately! – goes for the ImpSec Horus eyes he should be wearing. “I live to serve”, etc. Aral, being Aral, knows this without being told.

Yeah. That was the bit that got me, the way they both fall instantly into place without any need for thought or explanations, they just slot together like puzzle pieces.

When I first wrote this line I think I was going for a little more creepy - in "Hold" I went for that, that Simon can't consent to anything - including sex, and bodily violation generally - but here I wanted to back away from that a little. Somehow this line that wanted to be creepy ended up being... cute? I hope?

It is cute, gives a sense of complete intimacy and warmth to their relationship. And yes, I noticed Simon obeying Aral's orders without further question.

I love them, I do - which is why I think I write this same story over and over, loyalty and feudalism and consent issues and all.

As many times as you write it, I will read it!

(And, um, I kind of went on a bit in this, but hopefully you'll forgive me!)

[raven]

Oh oh oh I would be THRILLED if you wrote it for the ficathon. I just, I can't seem to get enough of this idea, and I really would love to see your take on it. When I first wrote "Hold" it was going to be 500 words of OT3 fluff and I just couldn't do it, because I couldn't stop the creepy getting in. You're absolutely right that it's only creepy from Cordelia's point of view - which is why she's in both these stories! I think stories set before she returns to Barrayar catch the creepiness a little - I have read your latest, though shamefully not commented on it yet, and I do like that very much, Simon well aware that he's there in someone else's stead - but mostly you need Cordelia's perspective to bring it out. I think the older Simon probably also has more of a sense of what he's lost - he's stood back from his life and seen how it might have been without the chip, with a personal life, maybe, and with something other than loyalty to keep him warm at night.

(I admit, one of my impulses after reading this was to try to remix it from Simon's/the chip's point of view. Just to see what it looked like from flat on your back, as it were. Differently complicated.

Ooh, fascinating, and I never thought of it continuing to record sound! Oh, gosh, imagine him replaying that to himself afterwards. It doesn't bear thinking about - he'd be mortified and horrified and baffled in equal proportions, I think.

(Also, don't apologise for going on. :) I had dinner with an old fannish friend visiting from abroad today, and we spent the whole evening talking fannish stuff and kink bingo and giggling and horrifying the people next to us in the restaurant, and all the way home I was thinking, isn't it awesome that I have all these incredibly specific obsessions and so fabulous is the world, I also have friends who want to discuss them with me!)

[philomytha]

Oh oh oh I would be THRILLED if you wrote it for the ficathon. I just, I can't seem to get enough of this idea, and I really would love to see your take on it.

Well, perhaps typically, the way it's going at the moment is a lot more gen and about the chip and mind-rape than actual slash... I'm not sure how much closer to writing their creepy power issues into a sex scene I can get than the recent effort (which did have definite moments of creepy, like Simon's whole 'there's nothing wrong with Aral using me for quick hard meaningless sex if that's what he'd rather, but I'd better stop him because he'll feel bad about it later'). It's kind of an unresolvable problem: nothing Cordelia does or says can make Aral and Simon equals, there's no way Aral can not be the Lord Regent and no way Simon can not be a subordinate prole officer, it's fundamental to who they are and what they are to each other. Maybe if they all moved to Beta Colony, ten years down the line they might have their heads in a new place, but otherwise it's built in. And yet they still have to deal together, and try to be good to each other.

I think the older Simon probably also has more of a sense of what he's lost - he's stood back from his life and seen how it might have been without the chip, with a personal life, maybe, and with something other than loyalty to keep him warm at night.

Whenever I write Simon, Alys is sort of sitting there in the back of my mind, keeping an eye on things. Her perspective on Simon is so different from Aral or Cordelia's - Barrayaran, and broadly under his protection, but not in a clear power relationship with him - they're much more colleagues than anything else. They still have plenty of their own class and power issues to sort out (and isn't there that bit about how it used to be a capital crime for a prole man to sleep with a Vor woman?), but they're much more solvable.

[hedda62]

How about this bit? (Hard to choose; I love this whole fic.)

"Anna, what?" He's so gentle, still, and although his movements are cat-like, quiet, she feels him get up and walk across to her, the warmth of his body mutedly vivid and close. "What could you think about?"

"You," she says. She turns around and takes in his expression, laughing a little at his mixture of confusion and care. "Not you, really," she goes on, and it's easier to say this time. "Not you. Hamlet."

She screws her eyes tight shut and says it, get it into the room like a throwing star: "What a piece of work is a man!"

"How noble in reason," he agrees, but the words are quiet, without expression. As though he's handling them delicately, leaving them clean and for her to use. "How infinite in faculty."

"How like a god," she bursts out. "That's it, isn't it? And it wasn't like that. The revolution was important. It was for the good of the people. But each person, each life – they should have been worth something, they should have meant something. It should have been... different."

In the end, she's just shrugging at him. It should have been different. But real life isn't like theatre, and Geoffrey understands that more than most people. He opens the window and flumps back down on the couch. She goes to sit beside him, sinking into the soft cushions with a slight smile. "The Canadian Consulate wanted to send me to Winkler," she says after a while. "I'm not sure how they knew I'm from there. I suppose it must be on my passport. Then they wanted to send me to New Burbage."

"But that would have been in contravention of the Geneva Conventions," says Geoffrey in perfectly expressionless fashion.

She nods. "Right. So I told them I was going to Montreal. And I did."

She arrived in late spring, and Geoffrey picked her up bodily off the doorstep and deposited her in an armchair with a pile of cushions. Ellen ran to make tea. It's a bittersweet memory, tinged with grief, but with also affection. That's what the bubble of something indefinable is, she thinks; simple affection for Geoffrey, whose mind is so dark and complex, and who finds it so easy to find people to love. It was the same in Bolivia, people rushing to meet her and to kiss her hands, the woman from the far north who had been so good to their comrades. There's sweetness in that memory, too.

[raven]

Oh, hey, you're into Slings & Arrows! Awesome. :)

This story is an odd one - I'd almost forgotten I wrote it until just now, but of course seeing it brings it all back. It's set on a humid, glowering summer night edging into a thunderstorm - and of course, it was written on a night just like that, and here I am re-reading it on a night very similar. Funny how small details bring back a whole world - I was nineteen when I wrote this, living with my parents and rewatching all of S&A in lieu of doing any work.

"Anna, what?" He's so gentle, still, and although his movements are cat-like, quiet, she feels him get up and walk across to her, the warmth of his body mutedly vivid and close. "What could you think about?"

"You," she says. She turns around and takes in his expression, laughing a little at his mixture of confusion and care. "Not you, really," she goes on, and it's easier to say this time. "Not you. Hamlet."

She screws her eyes tight shut and says it, get it into the room like a throwing star: "What a piece of work is a man!"

I absolutely love the idea of Anna being, in her way, as fervent a student of literature as any of the company, and it seems to come up in everything I write about her. Also, Anna. Lovely lovely ANNA.

"How noble in reason," he agrees, but the words are quiet, without expression. As though he's handling them delicately, leaving them clean and for her to use. "How infinite in faculty."

I'm always amazed, in the canon, by how kind Geoffrey is. He really is. He's good to the young company, he's even sweet to Sloane after he's been punched by him! And I was always sorry we never saw more of him and Anna interacting. So here they are, at a time period I also enjoying writing about.

"How like a god," she bursts out. "That's it, isn't it? And it wasn't like that. The revolution was important. It was for the good of the people. But each person, each life – they should have been worth something, they should have meant something. It should have been... different."

In the end, she's just shrugging at him. It should have been different. But real life isn't like theatre, and Geoffrey understands that more than most people. He opens the window and flumps back down on the couch. She goes to sit beside him, sinking into the soft cushions with a slight smile. "The Canadian Consulate wanted to send me to Winkler," she says after a while. "I'm not sure how they knew I'm from there. I suppose it must be on my passport. Then they wanted to send me to New Burbage."

"But that would have been in contravention of the Geneva Conventions," says Geoffrey in perfectly expressionless fashion.

She nods. "Right. So I told them I was going to Montreal. And I did."

She arrived in late spring, and Geoffrey picked her up bodily off the doorstep and deposited her in an armchair with a pile of cushions. Ellen ran to make tea. It's a bittersweet memory, tinged with grief, but with also affection.

It's this image that drove me to write this story in the first place - Anna coming home to Geoffrey and Ellen. Because she would, and they would take her in.

That's what the bubble of something indefinable is, she thinks; simple affection for Geoffrey, whose mind is so dark and complex, and who finds it so easy to find people to love. It was the same in Bolivia, people rushing to meet her and to kiss her hands, the woman from the far north who had been so good to their comrades. There's sweetness in that memory, too.

And again - Geoffrey, who is a complex and difficult person, does love people with the clear innocent devotion. He's loyal to Ellen, he's good to May and Anna. Oh show, I miss you, show.

[hedda62]

I love this show and Anna is my favorite character, and I love ideas about what happens to her, so there you are. And it's likely that she and Geoffrey would interact in a more true and profound way when they're not working together any longer.

It's set on a humid, glowering summer night edging into a thunderstorm - and of course, it was written on a night just like that, and here I am re-reading it on a night very similar

Despite the inherent violence, it's in some ways the most luminous and yearning sort of weather, so it's really perfect. Thanks for the commentary!

[ladymercury-10.livejournal.com]

How about this, from "let it always be known that I was who I am":

"I'm feeling much, much better," she said.

"That's why you've not got out of bed for a week, is it," Rory said, from the other side of the room somewhere; face-down on her pillows, she couldn't exactly see him very well. From the small, industrious sounds he was making, she guessed he was cleaning the mess she'd left in the room before she'd gone away.

"I love my bed," Amy said, with absolute truth. "I love it a lot. I want us to get reacquainted. I do feel better."

"Amy," he said, urgently, and she rolled over suddenly, peering through the translucent layers of sheets. "I want you to know I'll do anything to make you feel better. Anything. I'll fetch for you, I'll carry for you, I'll play Raggedy Doctor with you."

"And will you believe me?" she asked, with the bite in her voice. "Will you believe me when I tell you what happened to me?"

He sat on the edge of her bed. "Yes," he said, and for a delicious moment it was that simple; it was truth ringing in the air like a struck bell.

"Really?" she said, quietly.

"Yes. I won't promise to know how to understand it or what to do."

She thought about that. "That's fair enough," she said, after a while. After another moment, without either of them really thinking about it, he got into bed with her and they snuggled down together.

"I really do feel better," she said again.

"I'm glad," Rory said, and she laughed.

"I take it you don't mind me doing what I do, any more?" she asked.

"I mind if you're sad," he said. "And I meant it," he added, with the same quietness in his voice. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Will you dress up in my French maid's outfit?" she said hopefully.

"Yes," he said, and started taking off his boots.

[justice-turtle.livejournal.com]

From Malice Aforethought:

"I want you to explain this to me in words with as few syllables as possible," Kira said, as calmly and rationally as she could. Sisko was nursing a bruise on his temple and looked as belligerent as she felt.

Dax stepped forward and said, "This is Karan, son of Morak, ja'H quaghar of Qo'noS."

"What does that mean?" Kira asked, still calmly, still rationally.

"Uh, literally it means "the one who is the sniffer of skulls,'" Dax said, a little uncomfortably. "A more idiomatic translation would be, uh. Attorney-general."

The attorney-general of Qo'noS glared at Kira, balefully. He was wearing full battle regalia, but he sat more composedly in his chair than any other Klingon she'd met. "The issue is as follows," he said, with clipped, precise enunciation. "Major Kira was recently acquitted of the murder of a Klingon named Kron, of the House of Duras."

"Yes," Kira said.

"It is the contention of the Klingon Empire that she was acquitted only according to the law of the Federation. Nowhere in the law of the Federation does it state that Federation law should apply on Deep Space Nine."

"Wait just one moment." Sisko raised his head. "That can't be right."

"Captain, you are welcome to study the legisprudence of your people at your leisure. In the meantime I shall be in my quarters."

He swept out.


*

[Excerpts from K.N. v T.K.E. [2364] 667 SC 119]

Per curiam.

Our learned friend for the Klingon Empire contends that in an absence of immediately applicable substantive law the reasonable expectations of the victim should be satisfied [...] The court is not wholly convinced of this proposition in view of the victim's decease but allows the premise [...]

* * *

We are grateful also for the Empire's acknowledgement that should it be held necessary a Federation court could be deemed competent in Klingon jurisprudence [...] due process requirements could not be satisfied on Qo'noS given the defendant's relatively small build and lack of familiarity with Klingon procedure.

[littlered2.livejournal.com]

"Can you spend several hours on the phone with a firm of Scottish engineers? It'll be just like Christmas dinner with your in-laws!"

Everyone's dream day at work.

I did extract a promise from her to attend at least one of the weddings

Having two weddings sounds like an excellent opportunity to get as many friends as possible to come! Very handy.

I had a moment in my job interview this morning which made me think of you - the record office that the job is with holds a lot of manorial records, and one aspect of the job is identifying them and adding them to the Manorial Documents Register. The archivist interviewing me was telling me about the MDR's initial function as a legal tool, when an aspect of land law (which I cannot remember,shamefully) changed in the 1920s and affected titles which derived from manorial rulings (ie, lots). Apparently holders of these lands need to register them by next year, so everyone is getting very worked up about manorial records again. (Apologies if I have horribly butchered the details of your area of work!)

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

Oh, god, yes. Manorial rights cease to be overriding pre-registration interests in September 2013. I move back to real property in a week or two and I suspect it'll be straight back to getting ready for the change! It's a fascinating job, but it freaks me out how soon it is, now.

[littlered2.livejournal.com]

It is very soon! I hope the preparations over the coming year aren't too arduous.

For the meme, from "a historic and seismic shift":

"I am the Secretary of State for Magical Affairs," she says, and smiles. "It's not a cabinet post most of the time. That said, most people do call me the Minister for Magic."

"You're... who?"

She reaches for his hand. Numbly, he goes to shake it, with the muscle memory overriding conscious thought, and she smiles at him, warmly. "Oh, and my name is Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister."

It's only about the second or third time someone who isn't from the BBC has called him that, and the warm glow spreads to his toes even as he says, "What do you mean, magic?"

"Now" – she consults a clipboard which he could swear wasn't there a moment before – "I understand you lead a coalition government. That's a little problematic. Perhaps you could organise a meeting with the other chap some time soon? If you can get him up to this office unaccompanied we'll take care of the rest."

"The other..."

"Nice man, wears a yellow tie on the television? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, I've been perched on the roof at work holding up a TV aerial trying to escape the magical interference, it's been very exasperating. Now, about..."

"Wait!" He takes a step back, privately castigates himself for yelling – the media doesn't like it – and follows it up with a deep breath. "I don't know who you are, madam, and I don't know how you got into this office, but..."

She waves a lazy hand. "Look, it's been a difficult night for me as well and I'd quite like to go home and go to bed. Briefly: yes, magic exists, yes, there are witches and wizards in Britain, there have been for centuries, there are many, many people who already know this, and more than one of them is in your cabinet, in case you want to go and have a good shout about it tomorrow. Your deputy doesn't, and he needs to know. And if you're lucky, you won't ever see me again."

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

I really am sorry for long it's taken me to do these. The best-laid plans...

"I am the Secretary of State for Magical Affairs," she says, and smiles. "It's not a cabinet post most of the time. That said, most people do call me the Minister for Magic."

I can't take credit for the original idea of this story, I have to admit. Someone came up with it on Facebook the night of the election, I saw it, and wrote this in a frenzied couple of hours on sight. It's such a perfect notion.

"You're... who?"

She reaches for his hand. Numbly, he goes to shake it, with the muscle memory overriding conscious thought, and she smiles at him, warmly. "Oh, and my name is Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister."

It's only about the second or third time someone who isn't from the BBC has called him that, and the warm glow spreads to his toes even as he says, "What do you mean, magic?"

Of course it had to be from Cameron's POV if you wanted to maintain the surprise. But that meant, ah, writing from Cameron's POV. I hope I managed it. I was holding my nose the whole time.

"Now" – she consults a clipboard which he could swear wasn't there a moment before – "I understand you lead a coalition government. That's a little problematic. Perhaps you could organise a meeting with the other chap some time soon? If you can get him up to this office unaccompanied we'll take care of the rest."

This line, I swear, wasn't meant to sound so blatantly pornographic. But that's how my friends chose to read it!

"The other..."

"Nice man, wears a yellow tie on the television? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, I've been perched on the roof at work holding up a TV aerial trying to escape the magical interference, it's been very exasperating. Now, about..."

"Wait!" He takes a step back, privately castigates himself for yelling – the media doesn't like it – and follows it up with a deep breath. "I don't know who you are, madam, and I don't know how you got into this office, but..."

She waves a lazy hand. "Look, it's been a difficult night for me as well and I'd quite like to go home and go to bed. Briefly: yes, magic exists, yes, there are witches and wizards in Britain, there have been for centuries, there are many, many people who already know this, and more than one of them is in your cabinet, in case you want to go and have a good shout about it tomorrow. Your deputy doesn't, and he needs to know. And if you're lucky, you won't ever see me again."

Hermione knows exactly how flustered he is - she, too, comes from Muggle stock! But she doesn't like him that much either, hence the immense impatience. I love her, I think I've made it clear, but Hermione, grown-up, confident and fiercely socially progressive, is one of my favourite characters to write.

The thing about other members of the Cabinet being aware of magic - I merely meant that some of them might be the parents of Muggle-born children at Hogwarts. But again, people took it in all sorts of directions, to my absolute delight. In general, I was delighted with how many people enjoyed this story, and didn't throw things at me for writing Cameron RPF!

[littlered2.livejournal.com]

No need to apologise - thanks for commenting.

I love seeing Hermione as the Minister for Magic - as you say, it's perfect.

On the subject of members of the Cabinet being aware of magic, it definitely seems likely that some of them would. (When considered at any length, the ignorance of wizards regarding the Muggle world and the successful concealment of the magical world from Muggles seems deeply unlikely. Loads of the characters we see are Muggleborn or have one Muggle parent - lots of people should know! And Muggle culture shouldn't be quite so alien to the wizards.)

I love your writing, and can completely see why Hermione is one of your favourite characters to write - she is so great. I want to see her fighting for her causes and righting wrongs forever. (I wonder how she/her parents reacted when they found out she was a witch, incidentally. By the time we first see her, she's read as much as she can about the wizarding world and is much less overwhelmed by it than Harry, but the initial moment of revelation must have been a shock.) This is a lovely fic. One nitpick, though - even with a busy job as Minister for Magic, I refuse to believe Hermione wouldn't know all about Muggle politics and exactly who Nick Clegg is (much as I love the "Nice man, wears a yellow tie on the television?" line).