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Maxilocks · 11-21-2010, 12:34 PM

*waves* Hullo. I have TWO updates. Update one is right below. *points* anddd update two is that I have a a new story. It's pretty different from this FF ~~and a lot easier to write AND understand, I think~~. ^__^ <33

Desire tends to override common sense – and that, though it is not often that we realize it, is its business. It is the mirage effect - an illusion that knowledge makes us laugh at, in the comforts of our homes; but an illusion that knowledge fails to dispel, in an actual dessert.

It is not, never has been, the amount of inner instinct and experience that frees one of desire – the exhausted traveler hails the shade; the hungry man, a free of bunch of grapes; the starved, berries-in-the-wild, though he or she may more than well be aware that trees have hives; that grapes can be sour; that berries can poison.

Desire. It overrode all common sense now, as the corners of Nicola’s mouth turned up, into a small smile that was hesitant, but gorgeous. She touched her hair, huge, brown curls that were turned in at the tips, as if certain she looked out of place; she clasped her hands, as if nervous, jittery; she drew closer to him, as if unsure of the crowd; but the desire to fit in, the need to have – fame, riches, things rather than people – refused to let her break free or excuse herself.

It did not help that he had manners that charmed. There was something cold about him – ice, that seemed part and parcel of his personality – but she could not put her finger on it. More unfortunately, perhaps, she did not attempt to. She was aware that there was something muscular about his arm, something strong and quite at ease, and Nicola held on to it like a badge of pride, her key into a world she had often striven – and often failed – to be an unasked part of.

Countess Alva Castle greeted her, at the doors. Nicola ignored [like she ignored all else that she disliked there] how the Countess’s eyebrows – both, not one – lifted at the sight of her; how the Countess's eyes narrowed, though only for a second, at Nicola's introduction; how the Countess's voice, as the two of them were ushered aside, contained its practice, professional warmth only as long as she talked to Antonin. Nicola considered these only minor difficulties; little stones she would have to pick out of her way, one by one, if she needed to cross the marsh and reach the other end.

Because, for all her faults, Nicola Miller had an ambition – and a patience to stick to the path that could drive to that ambition – that could have matched the most cunning Slytherin’s.

Her Waterloo pall the more unfortunately] was that she lacked a Slytherin’s sharpness, the steel-like rationale ruthlessness requires.

Nicola was no dull, ugly ducking – few things escaped her, if they had something to do with her purpose. She counted the similarities and differences between these people, and herself. She appraised the updo – elegant but as unlike her loose curls as possible – that seemed the norm, tonight; she sized up the gowns – silks, chiffons, satins, no jeans, no cottons, no denims – that the ladies flaunted. She noticed each earring; each painted nail; each sharp heel – and yes, she was glad when Antonin asked a dark-haired woman she did not know if she could please fetch the lady – meaning Nicola – a wrap.

Oh, she could have said no that offer of a wrap. It had been cold outside, but inside the gardens, a combination of closure, heating charms and bunches of large, faerie lights ensured relative warmth, enough to make her feel at her ease, in the muggle attire she had selected to impress Sirius Black – the muggle attire she now wished she had not, for it seemed to be the source of the sarcasm, the threat, she felt in here. No wonder, then, that she grabbed at the ‘wrap,’ a flowing, front-open gown – fitting in, she knew, was necessary.

Antonin made no comment as she tied the front clasp, a light silver one. But then she drew closer to him, as if nervous; and he saw the unease, the nerves. “The gown suits you stunningly,” he said, tones radiating natural confidence. “Robes must, even better. But this is, I believe, your usual attire?”

“No,” Nicola lied, at once. She had seen the rich pureblood types that hated all things muggle, before; and though he had yet to speak on that subject, seemed too cultivated to, the feeling that he did not appreciate muggle clothing, if muggle anything, made her extra cautious. She blamed Sirius Black then, blamed him for being the reason she had so dressed. “I prefer robes myself. I do not know what came over me tonight. I wanted a change, I think. You are – you are not an enthusiast of such clothes?”

If she had expected an answer that would let her into his nature, hand her the key to the kind of person he was, she could not have been more mistaken. “Opinions and facts are not the same thing,” he said, and though his smile was light, she knew better than to broach the subject, again. “I keep the former to myself. Perhaps you would fancy a drink, Nicola? A firewhiskey to warm yourself up?”

She nodded.

“I am sure that would be lovely, Antonin.”

11-21-2010, 12:34 PM	#654 (permalink)
Maxilocks SS Featured Author Türk Bilgini Bugbear Join Date: Apr 2006 Location: {in a leap of faith} Posts: 31,791 Hogwarts RPG Name: Sarani Glass Graduated x12	♥ Mrs. Itachi Uchiha™ & MAJNOO! : Bleach & Kyo & Natsume ♥ [ Maxh!Jesh ] waves Hullo. I have TWO updates. Update one is right below. points anddd update two is that I have a a new story. It's pretty different from this FF ~~and a lot easier to write AND understand, I think~~. ^__^ <33 Desire tends to override common sense – and that, though it is not often that we realize it, is its business. It is the mirage effect - an illusion that knowledge makes us laugh at, in the comforts of our homes; but an illusion that knowledge fails to dispel, in an actual dessert. It is not, never has been, the amount of inner instinct and experience that frees one of desire – the exhausted traveler hails the shade; the hungry man, a free of bunch of grapes; the starved, berries-in-the-wild, though he or she may more than well be aware that trees have hives; that grapes can be sour; that berries can poison. Desire. It overrode all common sense now, as the corners of Nicola’s mouth turned up, into a small smile that was hesitant, but gorgeous. She touched her hair, huge, brown curls that were turned in at the tips, as if certain she looked out of place; she clasped her hands, as if nervous, jittery; she drew closer to him, as if unsure of the crowd; but the desire to fit in, the need to have – fame, riches, things rather than people – refused to let her break free or excuse herself. It did not help that he had manners that charmed. There was something cold about him – ice, that seemed part and parcel of his personality – but she could not put her finger on it. More unfortunately, perhaps, she did not attempt to. She was aware that there was something muscular about his arm, something strong and quite at ease, and Nicola held on to it like a badge of pride, her key into a world she had often striven – and often failed – to be an unasked part of. Countess Alva Castle greeted her, at the doors. Nicola ignored [like she ignored all else that she disliked there] how the Countess’s eyebrows – both, not one – lifted at the sight of her; how the Countess's eyes narrowed, though only for a second, at Nicola's introduction; how the Countess's voice, as the two of them were ushered aside, contained its practice, professional warmth only as long as she talked to Antonin. Nicola considered these only minor difficulties; little stones she would have to pick out of her way, one by one, if she needed to cross the marsh and reach the other end. Because, for all her faults, Nicola Miller had an ambition – and a patience to stick to the path that could drive to that ambition – that could have matched the most cunning Slytherin’s. Her Waterloo pall the more unfortunately] was that she lacked a Slytherin’s sharpness, the steel-like rationale ruthlessness requires. Nicola was no dull, ugly ducking – few things escaped her, if they had something to do with her purpose. She counted the similarities and differences between these people, and herself. She appraised the updo – elegant but as unlike her loose curls as possible – that seemed the norm, tonight; she sized up the gowns – silks, chiffons, satins, no jeans, no cottons, no denims – that the ladies flaunted. She noticed each earring; each painted nail; each sharp heel – and yes, she was glad when Antonin asked a dark-haired woman she did not know if she could please fetch the lady – meaning Nicola – a wrap. Oh, she could have said no that offer of a wrap. It had been cold outside, but inside the gardens, a combination of closure, heating charms and bunches of large, faerie lights ensured relative warmth, enough to make her feel at her ease, in the muggle attire she had selected to impress Sirius Black – the muggle attire she now wished she had not, for it seemed to be the source of the sarcasm, the threat, she felt in here. No wonder, then, that she grabbed at the ‘wrap,’ a flowing, front-open gown – fitting in, she knew, was necessary. Antonin made no comment as she tied the front clasp, a light silver one. But then she drew closer to him, as if nervous; and he saw the unease, the nerves. “The gown suits you stunningly,” he said, tones radiating natural confidence. “Robes must, even better. But this is, I believe, your usual attire?” “No,” Nicola lied, at once. She had seen the rich pureblood types that hated all things muggle, before; and though he had yet to speak on that subject, seemed too cultivated to, the feeling that he did not appreciate muggle clothing, if muggle anything, made her extra cautious. She blamed Sirius Black then, blamed him for being the reason she had so dressed. “I prefer robes myself. I do not know what came over me tonight. I wanted a change, I think. You are – you are not an enthusiast of such clothes?” If she had expected an answer that would let her into his nature, hand her the key to the kind of person he was, she could not have been more mistaken. “Opinions and facts are not the same thing,” he said, and though his smile was light, she knew better than to broach the subject, again. “I keep the former to myself. Perhaps you would fancy a drink, Nicola? A firewhiskey to warm yourself up?” She nodded. “I am sure that would be lovely, Antonin.”