Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Behind the Veil
I don't know if there is a site wide Disclaimer or not, but if there isn't, I'd like to say that the following goes for the next three chapters in this story: I do not own Harry Potter. In fact, if I did, I would not be sitting here, in the dark, "borrowing" wifi from my neighbor. No, I would be very happy in a beach house somewhere on the coast, with my very own laptop, and wifi connection, and my school would not be giving me financial aide problems. I'd be very happy with myself, yep yep yep! Alas, as it is, the wonderfantagemous JK Rowling owns the wizarding world and all who inhabit it. /sigh/
Dumbledore anounced the Masquerade Ball in October. It was to be held in November, on the last weekend of the month. My first thought was that it would be the night whether my sudden attraction to Harry Potter was just lust or something possibly deeper. Of course I couldn't just go up to him on some random day and ask if he likes me too, and I sure as hell couldn't talk to any of my girlfriends. I'm Pansy-friggin-Parkinson, for crying out loud and I have a name to uphold. If word ever got out that I found Harry Potter even remotely good-looking in any way, shape, or form... I dont want to begin to think about that result. Torment from my fellow Slytherins would come first, follwoed by jeers from the other houses and words crueler than anything even Draco could say would arrive from Potter and his friends. Not that I'm worried about Mudblood Granger or that sorry excuse of a wizard Weasley. Wait, I must have been thinking about Longbottom, though the blood-traitor Weasle comes close. It's not even that I care about anything Potter would have to say either...much. But you see, I'm sort of delicate. I may spit acid and take it in turn without so much as flinching, but inside, I practically fall to pieces whenever someone as much as mean-mugs me. Like, what the hell did I do? But of course, you would never know: Parkinsons do not cry. Or at least, we aren't supposed to. I interpret that to mean, Parkinsons are not supposed to cry in front of others, as in, I like to release my tears in the privacy of my silent-charmed bed, an empty classroom, or the shower. "If you let others see you cry," my parents always told me, "you are showing them your weaknesses. Even when we are weak and have nothing to lose, you must never show it. An enemy could easily destroy you." My father especially always talks like that, as if everyone and anyone I can possibly meet will turn out to to be an enemy. Perhaps Potter and I were switched at birth-- Potter seems more like the type to need a father like mine, he's had so many frienemies and friends-turned-enemies. Or is that the definition of the word?
But right now, it is not about my father and what my parents have taught me. It is about my kindergarden crush on Harry Potter. The kindergarden crush that I should NOT have, the joy that I should NOT have felt when I heard he and the Weaslette had broken up, the tingle I should NOT get whenever he so much as glances in my general direction. Smitten I am, but smitten I should not be. Yet... yet there's no fiddling with emotions, especially ones the gods seem to feel are fitting, despite my mumerous protests. Thus I began my potting for the Masquerade Ball.
_-=`*`=-_
I wanted to be noticed, but not stick out so much that questions were asked. And no matter what, nobody could know who I was, even if that meant departing before the unmasking, my favorite part of any masquerade. It meant that I had to avoid most people, and I did-- until I realized that I didn't have even the slightest idea of what I was going to do for a costume. That left me another item on my list:
? Think up a costume
? Get a costuem
? Find secret hiding+changing place
? Discover Potter's costume
? Find/Dance with him at Ball
? Leave before midnight
I feel like Cinderella almost. Only, she was competing against hundreds of women for the love of her prince and I'm trying to conceal my identity from mine-- Wait, what am I thinking? Harry Potter is in no way shape, or form a prince of any sort, even if his gaze does mealt my-- augh! STOP IT! I need to get a grip on myself. Maybe the love gods have planned this, but I refuse to give in to their plotting.
The Masquerade Ball was not until the twenty-third of November. Today was the... thirteenth of October. I had a full month and ten days to figure out my costume. A month and three days if I get my things from Hogsmeade-- the next upcoming trip was next week ( I highly doubt I would figure anything out by then), and the sixteenth of November. Gods, I need to do some quick thinking; this deadline flet me with about two weeks to think up a costume and another two weeks to make up a dressing list. I;ll need the rest of the time to assemble a proper outfit.
_-=`*`=-_
I'm not a particular fna of lists, but I find myself writing mor and more of them in my head. I've a list of things I need to do before the ball, a list of possible hiding places, a list of indefinite definites for the ball, and a list of people to avoid from now until after the Masquerade Ball. Currently I'm working a list for all possible costumes:
? Princess (like that'll happen)
? Mermaid (I would think I'm on drugs if I weren't me)
? Veela (I need to realistic)
? One of the Holyhead Harpies
? One of the Professors
? Some ficticous Muggle character.
The only options I really liked were numbers four and six. I especially liked option six because nobody would expect a pure-blooded Slytherin to dress as a Muggle anything, let alone know anything about them. It was perfectly brilliant. Now, I only needed to find the character.
Figuring the just right hiding spot was slightly trickier. I needed a place that people would not easily figure, but not a place where I would have to go out of my way to get there. I'd spent a long week stressing about where exactly I wanted this place to be and when I figured it out, I swear, I called myself stupid for a second week, it was so obviously perfect, and right on my way to the owlery. Nothing suspicous at all. Two and a half weeks to go.
Kayso, I am right now adding two stories at the same time to my page. As well, I'm not exaclty used to the formatting on here, I much more prefer bb code or rich text, but yeah, whatever. So formatting will wait until it isn't late and I'm not reading and uploading at the same time yeah? That blue botton beneath this note. Click it. Then when the page loads, write in that box at the bottom. Yep. That big shiny one. Cookies for you.
Dumbledore anounced the Masquerade Ball in October. It was to be held in November, on the last weekend of the month. My first thought was that it would be the night whether my sudden attraction to Harry Potter was just lust or something possibly deeper. Of course I couldn't just go up to him on some random day and ask if he likes me too, and I sure as hell couldn't talk to any of my girlfriends. I'm Pansy-friggin-Parkinson, for crying out loud and I have a name to uphold. If word ever got out that I found Harry Potter even remotely good-looking in any way, shape, or form... I dont want to begin to think about that result. Torment from my fellow Slytherins would come first, follwoed by jeers from the other houses and words crueler than anything even Draco could say would arrive from Potter and his friends. Not that I'm worried about Mudblood Granger or that sorry excuse of a wizard Weasley. Wait, I must have been thinking about Longbottom, though the blood-traitor Weasle comes close. It's not even that I care about anything Potter would have to say either...much. But you see, I'm sort of delicate. I may spit acid and take it in turn without so much as flinching, but inside, I practically fall to pieces whenever someone as much as mean-mugs me. Like, what the hell did I do? But of course, you would never know: Parkinsons do not cry. Or at least, we aren't supposed to. I interpret that to mean, Parkinsons are not supposed to cry in front of others, as in, I like to release my tears in the privacy of my silent-charmed bed, an empty classroom, or the shower. "If you let others see you cry," my parents always told me, "you are showing them your weaknesses. Even when we are weak and have nothing to lose, you must never show it. An enemy could easily destroy you." My father especially always talks like that, as if everyone and anyone I can possibly meet will turn out to to be an enemy. Perhaps Potter and I were switched at birth-- Potter seems more like the type to need a father like mine, he's had so many frienemies and friends-turned-enemies. Or is that the definition of the word?
But right now, it is not about my father and what my parents have taught me. It is about my kindergarden crush on Harry Potter. The kindergarden crush that I should NOT have, the joy that I should NOT have felt when I heard he and the Weaslette had broken up, the tingle I should NOT get whenever he so much as glances in my general direction. Smitten I am, but smitten I should not be. Yet... yet there's no fiddling with emotions, especially ones the gods seem to feel are fitting, despite my mumerous protests. Thus I began my potting for the Masquerade Ball.
_-=`*`=-_
I wanted to be noticed, but not stick out so much that questions were asked. And no matter what, nobody could know who I was, even if that meant departing before the unmasking, my favorite part of any masquerade. It meant that I had to avoid most people, and I did-- until I realized that I didn't have even the slightest idea of what I was going to do for a costume. That left me another item on my list:
? Think up a costume
? Get a costuem
? Find secret hiding+changing place
? Discover Potter's costume
? Find/Dance with him at Ball
? Leave before midnight
I feel like Cinderella almost. Only, she was competing against hundreds of women for the love of her prince and I'm trying to conceal my identity from mine-- Wait, what am I thinking? Harry Potter is in no way shape, or form a prince of any sort, even if his gaze does mealt my-- augh! STOP IT! I need to get a grip on myself. Maybe the love gods have planned this, but I refuse to give in to their plotting.
The Masquerade Ball was not until the twenty-third of November. Today was the... thirteenth of October. I had a full month and ten days to figure out my costume. A month and three days if I get my things from Hogsmeade-- the next upcoming trip was next week ( I highly doubt I would figure anything out by then), and the sixteenth of November. Gods, I need to do some quick thinking; this deadline flet me with about two weeks to think up a costume and another two weeks to make up a dressing list. I;ll need the rest of the time to assemble a proper outfit.
_-=`*`=-_
I'm not a particular fna of lists, but I find myself writing mor and more of them in my head. I've a list of things I need to do before the ball, a list of possible hiding places, a list of indefinite definites for the ball, and a list of people to avoid from now until after the Masquerade Ball. Currently I'm working a list for all possible costumes:
? Princess (like that'll happen)
? Mermaid (I would think I'm on drugs if I weren't me)
? Veela (I need to realistic)
? One of the Holyhead Harpies
? One of the Professors
? Some ficticous Muggle character.
The only options I really liked were numbers four and six. I especially liked option six because nobody would expect a pure-blooded Slytherin to dress as a Muggle anything, let alone know anything about them. It was perfectly brilliant. Now, I only needed to find the character.
Figuring the just right hiding spot was slightly trickier. I needed a place that people would not easily figure, but not a place where I would have to go out of my way to get there. I'd spent a long week stressing about where exactly I wanted this place to be and when I figured it out, I swear, I called myself stupid for a second week, it was so obviously perfect, and right on my way to the owlery. Nothing suspicous at all. Two and a half weeks to go.
Kayso, I am right now adding two stories at the same time to my page. As well, I'm not exaclty used to the formatting on here, I much more prefer bb code or rich text, but yeah, whatever. So formatting will wait until it isn't late and I'm not reading and uploading at the same time yeah? That blue botton beneath this note. Click it. Then when the page loads, write in that box at the bottom. Yep. That big shiny one. Cookies for you.
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