Of Sugar Sticks and Brooding Boys - Sa13+
 

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y12...garsticks1.png
Of Sugar Sticks and Brooding Boys
A Collection of Short Stories
featuring my many other characters



[A.N] I've decided to make a collection of short story FFs about my many RP characters. They have a habit of always wanting to come out and play and they won't stop talking to me. xD Which is cute and endearing but sometimes gets annoying. Teehee. So, I decided that, to appease them, I'll write a collection of short stories =)

So, what are Ficlets, as I've taken to calling them? They're kind of like drabbles, but longer. Stand alone fics that link to different times in RPs or other ficlets. They're not exactly a full fic and sometimes are just the thoughts of a character or a memory or explain something unexplained in a RP. =)

These characters typically take place in a separate "universe", that is, not necessarily from SS. While I tend to follow the SS timeline, a lot of these characters have threaded together and would have been at Hogwarts while I played other characters. Sometimes, because I play them in other RPs or on other sites, they encounter events that have never taken place in the SS RP. In such an instance, I will give the necessary back story.

All comments are greatly appreciated and constructive criticism is allowed =)

Ashurrii

Table of Contents
My Favorite Scar
Mozzie
Ghost of You
Tristan (and Boo)
Lifesaver
Mozzie (about Frankie)
You Were the Last Good Thing About This Part of Town
Jamie (of Tag and Bucky)
We're Still So Young, So Desperate For Attention
Full Cast (Mozzie, Boo, Nolan, Tristan & friends)
Night Turns to Day
Poppy

My Characters
Nolan Weiss
Morzella O'Neil
Tristan Storme
Charolotte "Boo" Remmington
Tastsu Szabo
Olliver Stratton
Poppy Bradshaw
Ophelia L'Corr
Suukii Little
Salinea Avary
Alexis Lloyd
James Reiss
Ashlie Moore

All others are not mine and will, accordingly, be credited.

My Favorite Scar


OoC: Mozzie O'Neil belongs to me. Jose is product of Boys Like Ama, Fantasy is the creation of Fateylicious and Frankie is possession of Nienna and Mozzie

Mozzie pranced down the hall in search of someone, anyone, to talk to. With exams on their way, Nolan had barricaded himself in the Boys Dorm, never to be seen again. Or at least not for the next three days. He would sit and waste away until every words in their text books and essays were absorbed by process of osmosis. Then he would return to the living world, disheveled, starving and wearing the same clothes from the prior days with bags beneath his eyes.

She scoured the halls for people. anyone. Even that nasty Salinea or that rotten Fantasy. Where was Jose? Were these people actually studying? Who would waste their time learning what they hadn’t learned by now? Pausing by a row of armour, Mozzie scratched her cheek lightly and nibbled on her lower lip. When empty, Hogwarts was kind of eerie.

Why wasn’t Frankie around? He didn’t actually study, did he?

As if her thoughts could summon him, Frankie appeared at the intersection of her hallway and his. Stepping towards the armour, she stealthily watched him, fingers clutching the crevices of the stone wall she had flattened herself against. Frankie Gavino paused, back to her and looked down the staircase before him.

Jumping out from behind the armour, Mozzie barreled down the hallway, crying out “Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaa aaaaaaaankiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” The boy jumped and began to turn around as Mozzie leapt through the air and landed on his back, legs wrapping around him and arms strangling his neck. Unbalanced, the momentum knocked Frankie over and the two screamed (as well as laughed, in Frankie’s part) as they tumbled down the stairs.

“Ooooowww… oh Merlin it huuuuuuuuuurts,” Mozzie moaned, laying across her friend.

“The school is spinning,” Frankie remarked in a dazed manner.

“It hurts to move my—OW!—arm.”

“I feel sticky.”

Sticky? Without moving, Mozzie looked up and over at Frankie.

“Holy sour sticks,” she yelped, sitting up with a whimper of pain. “You’re bleeding!” she said, pointing to a cut above Frankie’s left eyebrow which was emitting a steady trickle of sticky blood.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I’M BLEEDING! HELP ME MOZZIE I’M BLEEEEEEEEDDIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGGG!” he shrieked in hysterics before calming down with sudden ease. “Cool.”

And with that said, Frankie passed out.

Don't worry, Harmonizer. You'll be getting some ;) Teehee. Glad you were amused! =D That was the intent ^_____^ ♥

And now... ANOTHER FICLET!

Ghost of You

Disclaimer: I am the owner of Tristan, Boo, Mozzie and Nolan. Frankie and Riley belong to Nienna and Jose belongs to Boys Like Ama. Ghost of You is the title of My Chemical Romance's song and is not mine. Hogwarts is not mine, nor is the world of Harry Potter. However, the events of this short story are.

---------

She didn’t know and would never know the reason for her nickname. Nobody knew, actually. Everybody else just called her Boo because they’d known her as such or been introduced to “Boo”. Most didn’t even know her first name. Charolotte. Such a pretty, sophisticated name was unfitting of her. (It wasn’t that he didn’t find her pretty – mostly it was because she was best described as childlike and devious, quite unlike the name Charolotte.)

He mused over this as he watched her across the Courtyard. She reminded him of a cat, he noted. Such that as he watched her, she was basking in the glow of attention. She preferred it and he didn’t. Around her stood Riley and Leah, though he couldn’t hear what they were talking about and cared not to. Tipping his face up to the sun, he closed his eyes, relishing in the warmth it cast over his light skin.

When they were first years, they met. She stood at a tiny four-foot-one-and-a-half and he managed to stand at four-foot-eight. He preferred to sit by the fire and read and watch people while Boo loved to prance and sneak up on people and giggle. She had an instant popularity where his fan club wouldn’t notice him until his fourth and fifth year. Charolotte Remmington loved to sneak up on people or randomly chat up students she didn’t know. She carried a pocket mirror and lead students on late night excursions.

She scared him.

Charolotte was loud, obnoxious, and high-strung.

They didn’t become friends until they were partnered together in Transfiguration. Charolotte was terrible at that class eh excelled brilliantly. Through the course of helping her and slowly learning to talk with each other, friendship bloomed. He found her fun to listen and soon she was confiding in him and telling him everything.

When she needed advice, she came to him. If she liked a boy, she told him. If she was having a fight, she vented to him.

The next year, they returned to school. She was four feet three and he was four foot eleven. The height difference would remain and grow as would their friendship. But he would still remember the days before their friendship, when she scared him so greatly that he called her Boo.

“Tristan!” the tiny girl called, waving him over. “Stop being anti-social and come over here!”

Rising, the tall boy made his way to Boo, Leah, and Riley, oblivious to the flush in Leah’s cheeks. He’d learned to tune that stuff out. In the distance, he saw Mozzie, Nolan, Frankie and Jose walking from the lake and he waved them over as well.

Not even Boo would know that she was Tristan’s favorite ghost.

TRISTAN :eyebrows:

can't wait to read more
:shifty:

Lifesaver

Disclaimer: Getting used to this yet? St. Mungo’s is not mine, nor is the world of Harry Potter. Mozzie and Nolan are mine and Frankie still belongs to Nienna and Mozzie. The plot is mine, though Nienna helped me greatly =3 THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME PLAY WITH FRAKNIE!

Mozzie ran quickly down the hall, panting, her chest heaving. The owl had made it to her within moments and soon as she heard she took off. It was lying. It had to be. In a tightly clutched fist, she held the parchment, crumpling beneath her death grip. As she ran, a couple of her barrettes fell from her hair, clattering on the stone floor of St. Mungo’s, never to be seen again.

Nolan was already up in the room and he told her he’d keep her posted and not to come, but Mozzie never listened to him anyway. The only reason she hadn’t broken into tears was because she kept telling herself the parchment was lying. The words were mistaken. It was sent to her by mistake, from a different Nolan to a different Mozzie about a different Frankie and though it made absolutely no sense, it was keeping her from breaking in to sobs.

She passed by numerous Healers, bumping into a few who called after her, but she paid no mind to what they were saying and their words were merely a blur of noise to her. In her mind, she was calling to Frankie. You better be alive stupid! You are only allowed to die by my hand!

Unfortunately, Mozzie had no telepathic skills that linked her to Frankie, which would have come in handy a long time ago.

Pausing to catch her breath, she bent over, hands on her knees, gasping deeply, chest racking unevenly. In this moment of lapse her mind found the freedom of focus on running to send her tears down her cheeks. Righting herself, she rubbed the tears, but they continued to fall.

“Why… are you… so stupid?” she groaned to no one and everyone all the same.

Picking her pace, she continued to run, heading for the staircase leading her to the floor Frankie resided on. She wasn’t fast enough, she told herself. She had to be faster. She had to move faster. Why couldn’t she move faster? Why were her short legs so slow? Why couldn’t she fly?

Climbing the stairs, her legs ached and her chest burned. Mozzie was not a runner. She lived off of sugar and caffeine. Exercise was the death of her. It did her no good. It murdered her. She felt like she was being killed. This was only because the note was so drastic. Only because Frankie’s life was in dire edge.

Mozzie,
Frankie was taken to St. Mungo’s a few minutes ago. He had a bad accident and has quite a few broken bones and is currently unconscious. We don’t know about his stability right now but I’ll keep you updated. Stay home till I send for you alright?

Nolan

Like Mozzie would listen to Nolan.

Gulping in air, she walked down the hall, checking numbers on the doors. Where was his room? Where was his—OH OH THERE!

Throwing the door open, she marched in.

“Frankie Gavino YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH DON’T YOU?!” she snarled angrily. Oh well if he was unconscious. She had to yell at him! “YOU ARE SO STUPID! WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID? I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!”

“Mozzie!” Nolan’s sharp voice interrupted Mozzie’s stress relieving rant and he jumped up.

Shaking her head, she skirted around Nolan. “My best friend, Nollie. I know how to take care of him.”

Turning around, she took in her surroundings. Frankie was in a bed, bandaged up. His head was half covered, his rib cage bound, his arm was held up in a sling. Choking on air, she brought a hand to her mouth and felt the tears again.

”You’re so stupid!” she told him again, her voice angry and desperate.

Wake up! Wake up!

And his eyes flashed open.

“Frankie!” she cried, rushing to the side of his bed.

“Mozzie,” he said, facing her with a wide grin. “That was the BEST! It was so exciting! Thrilling! Falling out of a plane is amazing! You’ve got to try it!”

Groaning, Mozzie shook her head, wiping at the tears. “You nearly DIED!” she reminded him, her voice shaky. She was used to his stupid stunts but this was the worst. He’d truly, nearly died!

“Don’t cry!” he said, giggling. “Laugh Motzie! Come on and laugh!”

It was hard to resist the urge to push Frankie. “You… you… Frankie you are so stupid!” And then, relieved that he was even alive, she bent over him and kissed his cheek, pulling away to wipe her falling tears.

Frankie had begun laughing at Mozzie but as she kissed his cheek, his laughter sputtered away and his face was suddenly a horrid shade of red. “I.. I… M-Mozzie.. d-d… I… n….” His stutters failed as he nervously rubbed the visible hair.

Giggling, Mozzie smiled and crawled into his bed carefully, curling up to her best friend and taking his arm in hers, clinging to it.

“Don’t do anything that stupid again,” she whispered, nuzzling up against his shoulder. “You can’t leave me yet, okay? You’re not allowed to die while we’re still so very young.”

Thanks muchly! These characters are my babies so that means a lot ^___^

=/ I have no control over Mozzie's mind. Sorrrry xD

Glad you love em =D

Tristan is so rawr

You said it ;)


Everyone loves him. Do you blame them? <3333

Don't worry. Leah has more to look forward to ;)

GLAD YOU LOVE EM =D

He has a fan club going =D

EEEE I LOVE THEM TOOO THANK YOU

I already have it planned :lol:

I love them, too =D Teehee.

Isn't he? I love these kids =3


LOLOLOLOL Everyone is all "ZOMG TRISTAN" but totally said nothing about Boo, whom that ficlet was also about xD

*giggle*

You KNOW jumping out of a plane is the hottest thing
:shifty:

:lmao:
Awesome!!!!

Hehehe. I think they're all amusing reads. Boo and Mozzie must get along extremely well in your head.

i have to say you're stories are rather amusing, my dear Ashliekinicoo.

oh who am i kidding?

I LOVED THEM!!!!!!! *spins, screaming*

*thumbs up* nice job.

You Were the Last Good Thing About
This Part of Town

Disclaimer: Jamie Reiss is my character. Bucky belongs to Boys Like Ama and Tag is possession of Seeker_Seven. The lyrics (title) are from Fall Out Boy's Grand Theft Autumn.

The Ravenclaw Common Room was empty as Jamie slunk down in the middle of the night. He couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately and he knew very well that it was his own fault. He kept letting his mind wander and think of things he knew better than to think about and as a result his stomach had that queasy feeling again. Part of his mind chastised himself for that.

You know better than to let your mind wander to that. You need to get over it.

But it was hard to accept things. Jamie had never had to “accept things”. His life had always been stable. As stable as it could be. He never did have a father but there was nothing to get used to; his father walked when he was too young to even remember. So he was used to the lifestyle of Mummy, Robert-Christian, and he, and Amber for those few years she was around (she was nine years older than him). He’d never had to accept anything. He had everything he wanted. If he wanted a new book, Mummy got it for him. If he wanted to go to Theatre Camp during the summer, she allowed him to go. Robert-Christian had been the very bad, naughty child and as result Jamie, the very good, obedient child, was allowed his every whim.

He wasn’t really spoiled, though. It wasn’t as if he was receiving gifts he didn’t need, either. Usually he deserved it in some way. Jamie always did his chores and he always helped Mummy around the house and brought home enough good grades to make up for the years of Robert-Christian’s rotten marks.

Still, it wasn’t easy for the boy to accept that things were so far out of hand for him. (At least in his mind they were – you know how adolescent teenagers think.) And, selfish as the thought was, he couldn’t help but think that Bucky and Tag were his friends and should not be dating.

He sighed and attempted to run his fingers through his hair but attempted only in entangling his fingers in his curls. It took him a moment to fight his hair for the safe return of his hands and once he’d done so, he promptly shoved him into his pockets where they’d be safe with candy wrappers.

It was rather sad, the boy had to admit. That at sixteen he couldn’t even accept the concept of his two best friends being happy, even if it was with each other. He knew he’d been being childish, and selfish and even mean. Bucky had told him that, too. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for who you’ve turned into.” Then it stung. Now it didn’t hurt as much because he knew she’d been right.

But his stomach still churned whenever he thought of those together.

“Pull it together, James,” the boy told himself. “You’re their friend. You’re supposed to be there for them.”

So why was it so hard? Why couldn’t he simply be happy for his friends? Why did he have a cautious fear that Tag was going to hurt Bucky? And why did he find himself measuring all the girls up to her? Why was it that she had such a predominance in his life, even when she wasn’t around? And why did his stomach get all nervous about her? Or her and Tag?

Groaning, the boy bent over, elbows resting on his knees, head held in his hands. Argh! He didn’t like this level of complexity. He liked to understand things. Enigmas confused him and hurt his head and right now he was the biggest enigma in his life. What was wrong with him?

What was wrong with Tag and Bucky being together anyway? he asked himself.

Instantly, before he could formulate an answer, he replied with It’s all wrong. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.

Pausing his thoughts, the boy blinked at the floor, somewhat shocked by his mind’s answer. That was not the answer, he had to argue and shook his head lightly.

Bucky was just his best friend and he was just worried.

Standing, he reached into his cloak pocket and withdrew the Never Ending Bag of Chocolate, selecting a chocolate frog and opening it. As he popped it open, he heard the door to the boys dorm open. Turning around, he found Tag in the doorway. For a moment, the two stared at each other, as if shocked or alarmed.

Then Jamie nodded, as if an agreement had been made in silence.

They’re your friends. You can be happy for them.

“Want a frog?” Jamie asked his friend, his chest feeling strangely lighter.

EEEEEEEEEEP!

:glomp:

I feel terribly bad for Jamie. There must be someone out there for him. Who isn't Cora-Blue. :yes:

=/ Don't feel TOO bad. Everyone experiences unrequited love. At least he's managing to deal with it, right? That's good. While Bucky may be the only one he's interested in, he'll find someone. Ahahahahaha. And not Cora-Blue xD

Everybody loves Jamie Except for Bucky xD =D Mozzie is Mozzie and while I wish she'd be nicer to Fantasy, you know how she is ;)

Frozzie PWNs. LET'S SHIP FROZZIE. xD

LOLOLOL Two and a half? xD I hope you'll find time to finish them. I'm glad you like them though! =D Awww best selling? :blush: I wish. But I'm glad people are enjoying them and my characters.

-points to the next ficlet- You might recognize someone

We’re Still So Young, So Desperate For Attention

Disclaimer: Goooodness! So many characters in this one. I really like it, because of all the different things going on and the magical-ness of the night. I wish I could write this EXACTLY as I see it in my head because it's so beautiful.

Anyway. Tristan, Nolan, Mozzie, and Boo are mine. Ama has ownership rights over Zazu (thanks for letting me know how she'd respond ^_^) and Josefina (how I love her). Fantasy is the product of Fateylicious's imagination. Again, Frankie, Cyrus, and Riley are property of Nienna. Leah still belongs to Sacagawea. And introducing Ophelia, Simple_Spell's character.

The title comes from the lyrics of Panic! at the Disco's The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage.

I do not own Harry Potter; Hogwarts; or anything of J.K. Rowling's fictional world.

The Wireless Wizarding Network was playing something that could only be described as thrash-y garbage punk so loudly the entire courtyard could hear and feel the music pulse through their veins. In the days following exam completion, before the students of Hogwarts left for home, most things went unnoticed and exempt from the eyes of discipline. Late night parties were these kinds of things.

Many kids were gathered in the courtyard for a late night bash. The terracotta ground was covered by kids pulsing and bobbing to the beat of the music, lead by none other than Boo Remmington. It was loud with music and laughter. The tall columns and archways were decorated with strings of white fairy lights. From where they could, paper lanterns hung, lit with a small flame. The moon shone brightly through the somewhat cloudy sky, casting its silver light on the dancing students.

Tristan stood away from his normal spot at the fountain where a gathering of Seventh Years had collected in the shallow waters and were jumping and splashing around, water flying all over and wetting the nearby students. Lurking in the shadows not far from him was Zazu, who Tristan spotted out of the corner of his eye. In a jovial mood, he turned to her, a smug smirk on his face and arched a brow.

“Fancy seeing Queen Zazu here,” he teased in a low voice. “Doe she care to dance.”

To his shock, the small girl turned to him and smiled. (The Ice Queen had smiled). "Don't be silly, Mister Storme. Ice Queens don't dance."

In another section, Mozzie was holding onto Frankie’s arm to keep him from running and playing with the fire? What fire? Fantasy stood off the terracotta grounding in the grass with her wand, doing a show with a band of fire. The fire twisted and curled, coiled and waved in a dazzling show.

“You can’t go play with the fire. You’d burn yourself!” Mozzie said, pulling the boy back.

“But it’s caaaaaalling me!” Frankie whined in response. “Seeee? It says ‘You can play too!’ Oh let me play!”

Nolan laughed as he danced (yes danced!) near them with Josefina, Leah, Riley, and Justine, Cyrus not far from them. Boo stood a few meters away, thrashing the hardest. Jose had a very Hispanic flair to her movements, her hips wiggling in the way that only she could move, her body drawing the music into her veins.

“C’mon, Frankie!” Nolan called. “Listen to the music!”

“Yeah! Show us those moves of yours Frankie,” Jose said, shocking herself.

As if the music could distract Frankie from the bright lights, he turned and dragged Mozzie from the crowd around Fantasy to their friends, to join the dancing. It figured that neither of them could actually dance. They mostly jumped around, shaking their body. But the point was, they were having fun.

A bold Leah departed from the group to approach Tristan shyly. He watched her for a moment, her cheeks tinted pink even in the more shadow-y part of the Courtyard. “Would… you like to come dance with us?” she asked, her voice slightly squieaky and breathless.

A smile crossed Tristan’s face. “I’ll save you a dance,” he said, and winked.

Squeaking happily, Leah skipped back to her friends, rejoining them with a large grin on her face. Tristan chuckled. It was strange what he noticed when he actually paid attention.

Ophelia wasn’t far from Boo, her own dancing style equally flamboyant and dangerous. People had to stand away from her to avoid being injured and she clearly enjoyed it. They all did. All attention focused on themselves. Everyone was paying heed to each other.

Somehow, the night was magical. Whether it was the fairy lights or the music, or the joys of having a party and exams being over. Somehow, everyone felt closer to each other, even to those they disdained. The magic of friendship overpowered them, heightening emotions and sensations. That was the glory of the night. The silver light of the moon made them giddy and the music urged their bodies to move in ways they had imagined impossible. People spoke with students they hadn’t known existed and tested their boundaries with old enemies.

The dancing would last well until sunrise when the last few students would straggle to bed, bleary eyes blurry, limbs sore from their movement. The giddiness would fade as they slept and a new giddiness would take over. Excitement of going home would replace that which had urged them to branch out the night before. But no one would forget, and even the most sour Ice Queens would remember with a sort of fondness the night where the limits ceased and boundaries blurred into non-existance.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Frankie is a Pyrofanatic

I could totally see Leah fainting if Tristen said he would save her a dance and then run back and tell her friends. Well probably most girls would

*clap and claps and claps*

AWESOMEEE!

Geeeez i miss Jamie.

I'm quite amused by your titles ^_^

Mozzie makes me giggle.

I meant to read last night but you know how my internet was behaving. I really love the descriptions and everything is worded soooooooo prettily. Did you proofread? ;) Cause it looks like it.


I should have given you a reply other than a smile because Zazu just gave me an answer.

"Don't be silly, Mister Storme. Ice Queens don't dance."

these are really cute :D
keep it uppp!
liaa

Why thank you!

Yet again, I've failed to type up my ficlet.

Oh college, woe is I at your behold. -must write sometime-

Oh haiiii there, guys! o: After a rather long hiatus, I have come to retrieve my ficlets and start them up again! :3 Having quite a few beloved characters who I don't play often means they're usually pretty chatty in my head, heeheehee.

I'm kicking off my hiatus end with a ficlet I've written about a newer character of mine named Poppy who may or may not make her way to Snitchseeker in the future. As I'm awfully fond of her, though, I try to do a lot of writing, so you may see some more of her in the future.

ALSO. I have a pretty new banner. -licks it-

SO. We begin. Everybody, please welcome Lady Poppington to Snitchseeker. -bows-

[Please note that Nikola Kovac and Greer are not my characters and are, in fact, the property of one Miss Schmangie, aka Oesed. Boule aka Boulevard Brandywine, future ruler of Antartica, is possession of Ama. Or maybe the other way around. But they're really fun! Night Turns to Day comes from the lyrics of The All-American Reject's Time Stands Still]


Night Turns to Day

The words written seemed cold and callous, as if spoken in a cool and collected manner. Swift. For that matter, Poppy could actually hear her mother’s voice in her mind, speaking these words in an off-hand tone: succinct and matter-of-fact. They seemed brittle and void of emotion, rather clinical, to be right. Apathetic, nonchalant. A tone akin to “by the way.”

Calmly, Poppy took in the words and let them sink beneath the surface and register. A numb sensation cooled her body and cut off all feelings for the moment as these words bounced about and collided in her mind. Faintly, This cannot be real resounded in the young girl’s mind, but her denial was incredibly short lived. When her mind began to process and comprehend, her resilient façade shattered.

At first, the tears were anguished and dismayed, filled with what seemed to be an inconsolable pain. Shaky arms wrapped tight around her torso, as if she may have needed to keep everything from falling apart. After a few minutes of their warmth, though the sobs ceased and she realized they would do no good. Crying had no powers and what was done was done. Nothing could change that. The dull sensation muted her feelings again, leaving her to feel as though she was on auto-pilot, her reaction, perhaps, mechanical and feigned.

Drawing her index fingers beneath her eyes, Poppy dried her tears and neatly folded the letter. Once she had placed it upon her bedside table, the eleven-year-old closed her eyes and silently said a good-bye to Daddy and willed him on to a better place. Her chest constricted, but that was that. Nothing she could wish or pray or hope would bring him back and from the way her mother’s letter was written, it sounded as if she, too, had accepted such a cold fact. Life went on and life ended and unfortunately, Otto Bradshaw’s life had come to an abrupt end.

Uncertain quite as to how she managed, Poppy penned to her mother a response that was careful and slow to be written, filled with sincere sentiments and deepest apologies for being away at the time. She made sure to tell her mother how she loved her and how she wished she could be there for her. Though she couldn’t quite feel it, she also mentioned how agonizingly terrible she felt. Something was cutting off her sensation of feelings, she realized, for she knew, somehow, that she felt awful, that she was sad, but whatever the barricade was kept this at bay. No tears shed upon the parchment and what trembles and shivers had captivated her body earlier were gone, leaving her writing tidy and calm. A school owl carried the letter back to her home and with the owl, Poppy sent her grief.

She was not allowed to cry and she told herself that she would save her grieving for private moments. Those when she was by herself, cut off from the rest of the world. From this point, Poppy told herself, everything would grow better and she would heal and they would move on because for the living, life went on.


After a week, though, if anything, everything had grown worse. Zombies were a muggle term that Poppy was only barely aware of, but by now, she could place herself in their position. The way she moved through her day was vague and disjointed. Memories fractured and she found her mind dwelling with darkness. No actual thoughts came to mind, but more images. Her father, certainly. Otto Bradshaw was the parent that Poppy had once been closest to. At night, when the sun would begin to set, he and his only child would go for walks and talk about everything. Nothing was off limits to them and Poppy had always felt a sense of open honesty and a foundation of trust.

Perhaps the reason Poppy and her mother were not nearly as close was because of the homeschooling. With Flora acting as her daughter’s teacher, mother, and best friend, the two were often at each other’s throats, or silently feuding by not speaking to the other. Poor Otto was often the go-between and Poppy knew that it had probably worn on him. Flora always expected Otto to side with her and Poppy felt cheated and betrayed if he didn’t side with her and in the end, everyone would end up in a sticky situation. A nibble of guilt wiggled in her mind and she wondered, very briefly, if she had contributed stress to her father’s heart attack, but quickly, her mother’s brusque voice was in her mind, telling her to think not of it.

What is done, Poppy, is done and to wonder and ponder will do nothing to bring back your father. I hope your studies are going well. Just because you are a first year does not mean you can slag off and the death of your father is not reason enough to slow in your academic forthcomings. As a Hufflepuff, I expect for you to be at the top of your game at all times; Ravenclaws are not the only ones who excel.

Though these words had not been spoken but instead written in response to Poppy’s last letter, the young Hufflepuff heard them in her mind just as though they had been voiced. Crossing her legs beneath her, Poppy closed the curtains around her bed and swallowed thickly. Crying was forbidden. She shivered and wrapped her blanket over her shoulders and curled into it. What she wanted most was for her mother to acknowledge it. One line in one letter was hardly justice enough to her father. If Poppy had not known better, she would have thought that her mother was content with this. Briefly, another thought crossed her mind and instantly, Poppy was very ashamed and quickly pushed it from mind. Wishing it had been her mother instead was wrong, very wrong.

Poppy decided that she was a terrible child.

Unfortunately, she had no one to talk to. Her mother refused to let Poppy even dwell upon it, to even briefly think upon it. Socially awkward and with few friends, she had found few to confide in, especially about a topic so heavy as this. Besides, how did one even bring it up? “Oh, by the way, my name is Poppy and my father just died.” The longer she went without saying it out loud, the more the stab hurt when she thought about it. A diary was useless to her, because all she wanted was to say the words and have them go away. What she needed was a friend.

Her only confidant had left.

This, Poppy decided, was terribly pathetic.


Two weeks. Fourteen days since Daddy and the nights had grown longer. In bed she sat, with homework unfinished in her lap. Sleeping was becoming harder and harder to fall into and at night, she grew more and more restless. While the other girls were snuffling and sighing in their sleep, Poppy sat in her little poster-bed world, trying to keep everything in. Her father, her mother, her hopeless feelings, her anxieties, her lack of friends, her irritability, her lack of sleep, her emotional state, her stress. Not sleeping caused everything to feel as if it was piling atop her back, weighing down upon her shoulders and trying to break her. Perhaps trying was not the right word, because Poppy was certain that she already was broken.

Mummy would not accept this.

You’re thinking too much, Poppy. If you think about things less, you will sleep more. Focus on your studies. What is giving you problems in class? Set your mind to that – it will help you cope, you will be able to sleep, and you’ll improve at your worst class.

What Poppy hadn’t the heart to tell Flora was that everything was giving her problems. Potions and History of Magic and Astronomy and Transfiguration. Her wand seemed not to be working and her brain not functioning. No matter how she tried, though, she could not cope. Not that way her mother wanted her to. Blatantly, Flora passed over and ignored Poppy’s inquiries and consolations. This segment of their lives, to the widowed mother, did not exist. If one ignored the problem, its life would drain away and it would cease to exist.

Poppy knew better.

The elephant would always be between them, despite so many miles between them.

Even when she finished her homework, or gave up on it, and rest her head upon her pillow, sleep evaded her. Instead, her mind buzzed and crackled and fragmented thoughts passed through. Snippets of conversations the girls had been having before they went to sleep. Pieces of information she’d been trying to study. Her father’s voice. Tiny voices of fear. Fear that maybe she was going insane. All of this swirled in her mind and kept her awake.

That night, sleep did not come until three a.m.


Three weeks passed and Poppy realized it was not a phase. Sleep had fled her and she was left at night, in the silence of everyone else’ slumber. She had found that when she was the only one awake, she was far more conscious of her actions and every little squeak her bed made or the ruffle of the pages of her book. Perhaps the focus of being quiet was what made everything sound so loud. Even her lashes seemed to make noise. Did they hear her heart? Could they hear how loudly, how strong it pounded? How would she explain that, if they could?

Too much free time made her mind run.

Sleep occurred more frequently when the sun was up and she threw herself into her little sanctuary. Closing the curtains around her, Poppy would curl up on her bed and fall into a heavy sleep for a few hours. Now days, though, that was all she was getting. If anything, she was sleeping less and less each night, rather than more and more. All she wanted was some sleep. Was that so much to ask? How was she supposed to make her brain shut up, to stop running and asking questions? All she really wanted was for everything to be right again.

But right was buried six feet under.

Poppy ached. Mentally, she was weary. Physically, she’d been growing weary. Lack of sleep made her even quieter than normal and she feel languid and heavy. In class, she struggled to not dose off and when she did sleep, dreams involved Otto and Flora. Nightmares which made her skin crawl made her fear sleeping, even when she craved it. The memories she dreamt were, many times, worse than the nightmares, because she woke up breathless, feeling unrested, as if the whole time she was sleeping, she was actually conscious and burning energy.

She was going insane. Poppy knew it.


Four weeks. Twenty-eight days ago, the letter had arrived and since then, she had collected five more. Five letters described mundane days. Mundane days were filled with Flora burying herself further and further under her work. She detailed to her daughter paperwork she had to fill out and articles read and the sort of foolish people who called customer service. By now, Poppy could read through this. Her mother’s façade was as bad as hers had been, for those few moments before the truth set in. Neither of them was okay, and Poppy wondered if her mother was worse. No sign of grieving had taken place and to the young girl’s horror, her mother now mentioned a man.

He’s a charming man. Very sweet and suave. We met in the tavern a couple nights ago and have met up every night since. When we’re together, we talk a lot. Though he’s younger, he makes me feel younger, so everything is fine. This weekend, we’re going out for dinner. Doesn’t that sound fun, Poppet? You’d love him, I’m sure. Maybe you can meet him when you come home at Christmas.

Christmas sounded dismal. Cracking open the curtain of her bed, Poppy peeked out towards the window. Unfortunately, the Common Room hadn’t a good view of the outside. Heavily, she sighed. What she wanted, that she could have, was her mother to come back. The mother before the tragedy. This mother… this cold and calculating woman… Poppy did not recognize her. In fact, this Flora scared Poppy more than anything.

What also scared her was that Poppy no longer recognized herself. Had her hair dulled or did she just not recognize the bright red in her reflection? Her eyes, had, she knew that; the clear blue appeared more of a clouded blue-gray now. Was this deterioration? Maybe she was being dramatic. She was only eleven years old. There was no way she could be crumbling apart already. Perhaps this was melodrama. Could it maybe be hormones?

The morning birds were singing. She found them comforting as she finally managed to fall asleep an hour before classes.

Six weeks had passed excruciatingly slowly and Poppy was fearful to realize her body was somehow growing used to this habit of not sleeping. While the girls all changed for bed and washed their faces and chattered for a few moments, Poppy would feign along and crawl into bed as they did. After a while, the chatter faded and gave way to snores and sleepy noises. Poppy listened from within her closed curtains, her wand keeping alight her dark sanction as she scribbled to catch up on homework and read drawl passages that could not tire her. Dawn would peak in their windows while the morning birds sang her to sleep. The noises of the girls rousing and readying for class, a few hours later, was often what woke her.

Dragging. Heavy. Fatigued.

Greer was lovely and fun, if not sometimes oblivious and tactless. Though she asked Poppy about the rings around her eyes, she never delved deeper into the subject and Poppy found herself strangely relieved. Though she wanted to be able to talk about it, she was also afraid. Admitting it out loud made everything true, and even if she knew very well the truth, a faint sliver of hope held out, clinging to the idea that all of this was a terribly bad dream. Such a foolish plea was probably what kept Poppy from crying so much. That as well as knowing that if tears shed, someone would find out and question and questions were not what she desired.

Acting was a lot easier than Poppy had ever imagined. After she climbed out of bed, she would brush her bright red hair and tidy her uniform. Preoccupying herself with straightening her pleats and tie were enough to get her by until class, when her head would buzz with incomprehensible lectures and notes that she later did not recognize. When Greer told a joke or Boule was obnoxious, she found laughter feasible and making it sound believable was not hard. Eleven-year-olds were too dense to see through each other and they still maintained a mentality that the world revolved around them. Poppy understood that no one was purposely not seeing through her. Instead, she took this as a compliment, that she had successfully fooled them all with superb skills of acting.

Maybe she would become an actress when she grew up. Poppy mulled over this instead of taking notes in History of Magic. Whatever they were studying, she could not even recall, though it was written upon the blackboard at the front of the room. While the Professor babbled, she tended to fantasies of creating new characters to exist within. Perhaps she could do that now, she wondered? Could she reform herself into someone likable and strong, who slept and did not carry a heavy heart?

This would be difficult.


Eight weeks later, Poppy knew the truth.

She was not strong, but weak. Sensibility only carried one so far and evidently, Poppy’s sound reasoning had failed her eight weeks prior. While still her heart remained too stony for grief and her mind could not begin to figure out how to go about it, Poppy knew that something had to change. In bed, her legs felt restless and two months of confining herself to her curtain-shielded bed was boring and old. Change was mandatory and all she’d done for the past sixty-one days was give up and stop trying. What she had believed was herself holding up well was really a crumbling reserve.

In sixty-one days, she had yet to figure out what she was to feel. Her mother had now mentioned another man and cocktails and discussed work as if it was all that existed in her world. Poppy knew that it was. Nothing about Flora sounded relaxed and calm and Poppy was certain that her mother was purposely distracting herself from the death, from the past funeral, from the relatives and their unwelcome well wishes.

Emotions conflicted and duked it out, trying to decide what she was to feel. Anger? Was she allowed to be angry that her mother was already consorting with other men? Upset? Was it fair that she was upset that her mother was not grieving, was not helping her to grieve, was offering no consolation and was flirting with men much younger than Otto had been? Disappointed? Was it selfish of Poppy to be disappointed in her mother, to feel that she had been failed by the only woman she had to look up to in her life? A mother’s job, Poppy believed, was to help her child and if her child was hurting, the mother was to take care of her and help to cease that hurt. Flora had done nothing of this sort. Mostly, though, Poppy felt lonely unsettled. Without her closest parent, without friends, without proper communication besides she and the widowed Mrs. Bradshaw, Poppy felt positively alone and wondered if anyone could even begin to understand what she was going through.

Four weeks of sleepless nights left Poppy unstable. Her emotions were thin and her will continued to crumble. As of late, her tears had come to probe, to test the surface and see if they were yet allowed, but Poppy adamantly refused. Autumn’s air was chilly and Poppy felt it in her bones. Chilled to the core, she was always uncomfortable.

Finally, she heeded her body and crawled out of bed. Using her finger to mark her place in a heavy muggle novel, she crawled from bed and into a fluffy robe and slippers. Quietly, she made her way through the late-night sleeping world, cautious to not make a sound, least she wake a light sleeper. Into the Common Room she made her way, freezing with her eyes upon messy dark hair.


Two ocean blue eyes later and Poppy had, strangely, found herself a companion of the night in Nikola Kovac. Both awkward and without social talent, they kept each other company. Some nights they spoke and others they sat together and read. Poppy would do her homework and sometimes ask him for help. Chatter was usually light and used to ask questions and familiarize themselves with each other or else prattle about unimportant topics. What Poppy enjoyed most was the comfort, for she was not alone. Though her sleeping schedule was different and stressful, she took comfort in knowing that she could have someone to sit with at night and talk to. He was nice and charming, in his own, unique way. Like she, he was a bit on the socially awkward side of the line and for this, she could relate to him easily.

In a moment of dare, Poppy mentioned her mother and her stress and how much she missed her father. That night, Nikola mentioned his mother. Their conversation skirted the topics and spoke little of the dead, but Poppy found herself comforted, because she could tell herself that she was not the only one. Though speaking of it hurt and made it all real, she was also able to let everything out. In ten weeks, she’d shed no more tears but now they fell, a hurricane whipping through her. Emotional and weak, she gave in and let the tears fall from her eyes, scalding her cheeks while sobs raked through her tiny body. In awkward nature, Nikola patted her back and said nothing, but Poppy did not mind. Nothing needed to be said.

She grieved for the rest of the night and when she finished, she politely thanked the boy and apologized to him. Poppy had never meant to make him uncomfortable and she hoped dearly that he would be in the Common Room again the next night. If she had managed to scare him away, she would hate herself. Because, she thought, perhaps she’d found a friend. Formed a bond between them? At any rate, he had eased the suffering and with her tears cried, she found herself able to sleep less restlessly that morning. When she woke, she could not remember any dreams, but she did know they were not plagued of nightmares and memories.

For the first time in seventy days, she felt better. Not yet good, but better than worse.

It's nice to know that the ball of awkwardness that Nikky Poo actually managed to help someone. Mmhmm.

PAMS. ^___^

I have failed to catch up and read the older Ficlets, but I really must do that as well. Just finished reading Poppy's little story, and now I completely understand why Sammy is always so eager to read your stories! :bow::bow:

This was SOO good; the writing, of course, was beautiful. But you got a good idea of Poppy when you read it, and at least for me - I felt so bad for her. I love it! ^_^ Very awesome, Ashliee! :glomp:

P.S, The banner is PRETTY! <3

I'm in love with him. I am. :3 BESIDES the point. xD Haha, it is rather nice, isn't it? Poppy is grateful to him for it. :P Haha.

Eeeep you. -clings- I HAS MOARS FOR YOU! o:

You... make me squeal and swell with priiiiide. ^_____^ Hopefully one day you get through the others. :3 -wriggles- But... Sammy is always eager to read? o: You guys flatter me so much. :blush: :blush: :blush: Eeeeeep.

Thank you soooo much. ^_____^ Eeeee! I'm er... glad you felt bad for her? XD That sounds awful LOLOL but. My task was accomplished. To make people empathize with my characters is what I strain to do. :D So. Thank you! :glomp: And thank you for enjoying and reading and commenting! :33

P.S: EEEEP THANK YOU. :3 I was vair proud of it. :33 <333



Eeeee, your guys' comments are always loved and welcomed ^___^ Thank you soooo much. :33



MMMMHM.

So. My next story requires a weeee bit of explanation?

Mozzie has, for a long time, been a favorite RP character of mine. She was born to my m ind paired with her best friend Nolan, which makes sense, as the two of them have been with each other since birth. They came along well before Tristan and Boo and even "Mozzie's Crew" and thus, Mozzie has existed in many situations and time lines. At present, I view her in three different alternate-universes.

In the first, Mozzie fell in love with her another close friend of hers, Frankie, and you have probably read a couple of the stories in here about them. Their future was messy and I may write about some of it, one day. Lizzie has since sort of denounced that Frankie? XD And thus, their lives together exist as an alternate universe. :lol: Secondly, involves Mozzie and Quentin. Within this universe, Mozzie falls for Quentin and he for her. Their future, though, remains to be played. =3 The third Mozzie is the one I play on SS. Frankie was before her time when she came to SS and as for Quentin... I donno where he is? :3 ANYWAY. This Mozzie is young and runs the Leaky Cauldron and may or may not have ever met Quentin. Her closest friends are those from Hogwarts, as well as co-worker Gavin, his girlfriend George, and Tristan.

One day, I'll write of her. For now, Mozzie of alternate-universe two comes to you in One Mistake From Being Together. This ficlet was actually started in my mind while I was bored at work. :3

[Credits: Mozzie and Nolan are mine. Quentin, again, is claimed by Mozziethe creation of Austin and Arielle is owned by Oesed. In fact, originally, Arielle was not meant to be in this story, but she... came to me? D: And inserted herself? Bahaha! The title of the story comes from Metro Station's song Seventeen Forever]

One Mistake From Being Together

A ball. Contemplation had wrinkled her nose when Mozzie had first learned of this ball Now, though, a bud of excitement had planted itself within her stomach and continued to grow. The dress she planned to wear was spunky and paired well with her favorite, worn pair of Converse hi-tops. Aqua was such a bright, happy color that Mozzie imagined only good could come of it and this masquerade-themed ball. Unlike other girls Mozzie had overheard, she had no fear of finding no date and showing stag. While others would be accompanied by one, Mozzie would go with many.

How many was yet to be determined, as Mozzie was still in the process of bullying her friends into attending.

Arielle, of course, would be attending, because Mozzie’s best friend would pass up no chance to doll herself up, show off and earn herself some attention. Boo and Inez never missed parties or festivities and always backed Mozzie up. Nolan, of course, would go, because if he didn’t, certain doom awaited him. That Tristan had agreed to come without any reluctance should have surprised Mozzie, but after being dragged to so many of her courtyard parties, she assumed he had grown accustom to large dances. At the very least, he must’ve grown used to standing on the edge of the crowd with Quentin.

Quentin, whom was Mozzie’s next target.

He had Advanced Arithmancy while she was in Advanced Charms. In order to meet him after class, she’d fleed class early to make sure she was across the hall when he first walked out of class. The look on his face, at first, resembled mild shock but quickly returned to its usual blank state. A nod was his signal of greeting and Mozzie did her best to mimic his nonchalant appearance, as if waiting for him after class was something she did often.

“Mozzie,” greeted the boy calmly, his blue eyes clear and level.

She greeted him back in the same manner, cooly uttering his name. “Quentin.”

After, neither said anything at first. The last few students from the classroom trickled out and made their way past Mozzie and Quentin, leaving the two alone in the corridor. One brow arched over Mozzie’s dark eyes and she tipped her head at her friend in curiosity. “How was class?” she finally asked, feeling a bit lame, as she tipped her head towards the closed door.

Quentin shrugged. “Not bad,” was his only comment.

Mozzie honestly thought him insane. Why anyone would continue on with Arithmancy went beyond her. Ravenclaw or not, she had never fully grasped the class. Numbers and she did not get along very well. Ancient Runes was a perfectly useless class she was good at, but Arithmancy was dumped the moment she had the chance to. Nolan, of course, had kept it. Boys and their logical thinking minds. Hmph.

“Right. Well.” Might as well carry on, Mozzie told herself. Neither she nor Quentin was any good at small talk, really, so perhaps it was just as well that she skip that as it was. There was no point in wasting breath on speech that would never impact them and would be forgotten just as soon as it was said, right? The only sign that Mozzie ever gave if she was awkward or nervous was when she reached upward and tugged on her right earlobe and she doubted, as she did it, that Quentin had any idea of that quirk of hers. For that matter, what Quentin knew of Mozzie in little details, she had no idea of, but assumed it a small amount.

“Saturday. What’re you doing?”

With ease, Quentin lifted one eyebrow. He was not a fool and Mozzie knew this. She should just have forced him, the way she had everyone else. Granted, Quentin, though very much a part of their group, had never been quite like everyone else. Bullying him into stuff, though possible, was not as easy as with others. Despite this, she kept her face arranged in calm fascination, as though she did not mind whether or not he came to the ball.

Because she didn’t.

She just hoped he would. Because they always did stuff like this in a group and he was part of the group.

Yes, she assured herself. This was the motive behind her actions.

“The night of the ball, I presume?” asked Quentin, brow still arced into his dark fringe.

Mozzie’s lips pursed. She’d not expected him to just jump on it like that. Curious. Continuing to play it cool, Mozzie nodded and allowed a smile to light up her face as she tipped her head to the side again. Quentin attended the impromptu parties she threw so she figured there would be no difficulty in getting him to agree to come to the ball. His presence was needed for her to be able to have fun. Maybe she’d even get him to dance. Hmmm. Inez once let slip that the older boy could ballroom dance, which Mozzie found absolutely ah-dor-able.

“That’d be the night, yes,” affirmed the girl.

“Mmm.” Quentin paused then glanced over at Mozzie. “I may be busy.”

Her jaw dropped.

“But… you… you can’t be… no!” she sputtered, eyes widened. “Quentin, you have to go!”

He had to! The panic that swelled in her belly was due to Quentin going against all orders and expectations, of course. Quentin had to be there, or else the whole atmosphere would be wrong and she wanted him to go! She wanted to see him all dressed up and to make him dance and how could he not go? Her lips tugged into a pout for all of five seconds before she regained control and forced it, instead, to a look of mere disappointment.

Mozzie really wanted Quentin to come to the ball, though. That much, she knew. With a masquerade theme, she knew it would be fun and elegant and elaborate and enigmatic and beautiful and fun and exciting and why was he not going?! How could he possibly be busy on such an important night? Never mind that the Night Class would be there, mingling with the rest of Hogwarts, but she would! Er… and the others, too, of course.

“Quentin…”

The boy shifted awkwardly and Mozzie secretly took pleasure in his squirming. Served him right, for ruining her dream.

“Mozzie,” the boy stated simply, his voice a soft plea. Mozzie felt her stomach constrict. “You know I… don’t do all of that. And all the people there.”

“I’d be there,” she insisted.

A half-smile hooked itself upon Quentin’s lips and Mozzie felt, now, her heart tighten as well. Ugh, what was that about? She almost narrowed her eyes; Quentin seemed to realize the power behind that smile of his. That sweet, half-upturn of his mouth and the way his face turned to utmost serenity and looked just so cute. He probably knew very well and used it as a weapon! If that was true, then Mozzie felt it best not to let him know that it worked. What justice could exist there, anyway? No boy should ever have the power of a half-smile to use over a female. Beside, the power waned once the boys knew of it. Then, it was no longer sweet and cute; it then became cocky and arrogant and that was not sweet.

Merlin, she babbled even in her own mind

“That’d certainly be a nice incentive,” the boy allowed and Mozzie felt now her throat seize up.

What was with these body parts of hers? Why did they feel the need to betray her? Cheeks shaded a light pink, Mozzie smiled with bravado and fluttered lashes heavy in mascara.

“I’d love it if you were to go and keep me company, Quentin,” she wheedled. “After all, surely Nolan and Arielle are going to consummate their clandestine love for one another and Georgie will probably, gag, go off and flirt with Hugo and be sick with him if I don’t deter her. Boo will probably be all territorial over Tristan so who’s going to keep me company?” Now the pout on her lips was feigned, but looked just as real as it had earlier.

A chuckle that sounded one part nervous, two parts amused tumbled from Quentin’s half-smiling lips and he shook his head gently as Mozzie twirled a lock of her longer hair around her index finger. Half the time, Mozzie was unaware of her habitual flirting habits and this time, she was aware only of the fluttery lashes. The way she leaned in and nibbled nervously on her lower lip and glanced up from beneath her lashes were all unnoticed by the oblivious girl. All that mattered was that she persuade him and wheedle him into showing up at the ball.

“You drive a good bargain,” laughed Quentin, his voice soft and his smile now full, but only briefly. Instantly, it was gone, leaving Mozzie wishing it had lasted just a moment longer. “But… it depends. Homework and stuff.”

Vague. Mozzie harrumphed in her mind and pursed her lips.

“It’ll be fun,” she promised in earnest.

Quentin sighed, and it wasn’t the sort of sigh that one does when annoyed, but more like a defeated sigh. The sign that Mozzie was getting to him. The girl wiggled. When this task had become important to her, she wasn’t quite for certain, but once she had a goal in mind, her goal was to be obtained. Mission Quentin at the Masquerade seemed to be slowly taking off. Curiously, Mozzie noted that somehow, she was now merely a few inches from Quentin. How did that happen? Her breath hitched in her throat and suddenly, her coy charade fell from her face and her cheeks lit up just a smidge. On his mouth, Quentin wore a crooked smile as he looked down at her.

Oh.

This was very reminiscent, she realized, of just a few days ago. Her innards seemed to squirm as she brought the memory to attention; the tickling, the flushes, the accidental pinning down, the awkward tension, the flopping of her stomach. Mozzie felt herself growing short of breath again and had to look away from Quentin and stumble backwards, away from him just a step or two. Because whatever that was, was intense. The locked eyes and the memories and that smirk on his lips and her cheeks were red. Both hands pressed to the sides of her face, as if to quell the flush. Eyes on her feet, Mozzie struggled to catch her breath and regain composure. Rearranging her face was next to impossible and she was dismayed at her inability to appear nonchalant or even flirty. Instead, she just felt… like she’d run a mile, non-stop. When had her heart began to pound against her ribcage?

“Uhm…” both said, awkward, as they shuffled.

“Right. Uhm,” Mozzie carried on, determined to move past this, to brush over it.

Of course, she was only caught off guard, she knew, was because Quentin was beautiful and now and then, she allowed herself to get caught up in that. Yes. His eyes were intense at times and his hair, in its manner of casual disarray, carried her mind to thoughts that were improper to think about of just a friend. Like how lovely it’d be to run her fingers through it or how cute he looked when his cheeks bore a flush. Thinking of the night in the Common Room sent her pulse racing because Quentin had not seemed like Quentin at that moment. Of course there was nothing between them and obviously no reason to send her heart on a race like that.

Goodness, Mozzie, get a grip on yourself, the girl chastised herself. You can’t look at Quentin like one of those boys, because even if you were fool enough to fall for him, he could never possibly feel the same to you.

Mozzie could not find excuse for the way her stomach seemed to drop as she reminded herself of the last fact.

Fact: Morzella O’Niel was not to fall for her male friends.
Fact: Quentin Girard’s eyes were the clearest blue she’d fallen into.
Fact: Mozzie and Quentin were in no way made for each other.

Each thought was preceded by fact, so, obviously they were. Fact, that is.

Composure finally regained, Mozzie lifted her chin in the hair and offered Quentin a brilliant smile.

“You should at least check it out,” she told him, returning to her task of wheedling. This time she refused to let her eyes meet the smirk on his lips, lest she fall into that trap again. “At least for me.” Flutter, flutter, flutter agreed her lashes. “Besides, you could have fun. And… it’d be lovely to have you there.”

The chuckle that came from Quentin, though, sent Mozzie’s heart momentarily soaring. Only momentarily.

“I’ll try. For you, Mozzie, I’ll try.”

Mozzie did not try to decipher the meaning behind the manner in which her stomach dived and spiraled towards her feet.

“Great,” she told him, nibbling on her lower lip again.

“Great,” he echoed.

In silence that was one part awkward, two parts lovely, they stood with each other, looking anywhere but at the other’s eyes. Finally, Quentin gripped the strap of his bag, hoisting it on his shoulder. “Well… I’ve gotta get going… library…”

“Oh, yes, yes, don’t let me keep you…”

“I’ll see you later…? At dinner?”

“Yeah! Oh, yeah, go on, go on…”

Awkward farewells bid, Quentin turned and began to walk away. Mozzie’s eyes remained on his retreating back and when he turned the corner, she backed into the wall and pressed her back against it, letting her head fall back a bit. A cross between a moan and a groan fell from her lips. What exactly had that been? Ugh. By now, Mozzie was more than used to pretty boys; besides Quentin, Nolan, Tristan and Ollie all fell into this category. Rarely was she even phased by their pretty hair or lovely eyes or the boyish look they wore in their pretty little faces. So what had that been? Much force was required to swallow down the feeling in her throat. Boys and Mozzie were friends. In fact, few boys had ever struck her fancy, beyond friendship.

So why did Quentin make her feel all twisted up inside now?

“Asking Quentin to the dance, huh?”

The purr made Mozzie jump and pull away from her wall. Wheeling around quickly, pulse quickened again, Mozzie found herself facing… Arielle. The brunette blinked with curiosity at the blonde, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Apparating was not permitted within Hogwarts and, besides, Arielle was not old enough. So. Where had she come from?!

“What are you doing here?” Mozzie countered, swiftly avoiding the question.

Arielle smirked. “The Hospital Wing is one floor up, Miss O’Niel. But my, you certainly seem a peaky mix of pale and flushed. What is it? A fever? Have you got Quentin Fever?”

Mozzie O’Niel prided herself on the fact that though she wore her emotions on her sleeve, she was able to control them, most usually, and while her instinct was to widen eyes with a gasp, she instead raised her brows and blinked.

“Riiiiight. And you’ve got Disco Fever.” To back the deadpan statement, Mozzie struck a quick, disco pose, before she rolled her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Arielle, too, rolled her eyes. “Don’t play naïve, Mozzie. You know that I know you well and I knew you were lying when you told the Professor you were ill. I didn’t expect you to come to wait on Quentin.” One perfectly arched brow inquired in Mozzie’s direction. “Why didn’t you tell me you were asking Quentin to the ball?”

“Merlin’s Pants! I was not asking him as a date,” Mozzie told her friend, narrowing her eyes, as though this action would make Arielle believe her. Illogically, this was what Mozzie hoped. “All I was doing was ensuring that he’ll be there. Just like I did with the rest of you.”

A derisive snort responded and Mozzie reveled that her friend could look so beautiful, even with her face scrunched up like that. “You know that’s a lie. When you checked in with Nolan, it went like ‘You. Saturday. Ball. Or I beat you up’ and forced him into agreeing. And with me, you just knew. But Quentin? I heard you wheedling that boy.”

Now Mozzie rolled her eyes and huffed. “You’re taking things out of context, Arielle,” explained the girl. In some ways, she told herself, this was true. “Poor Nolan has to be bossed into everything he does and I knew you would never turn down a ball anyway. Quentin is different, you know that. He’s gotta be persuaded and lured. That’s not something I can effectively do around anyone else.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sigh.

“Look, Arielle. There’s a reason for it, okay? Now, you can drop it.”

Arielle wore a smirk.

“Look, Mozzie. I’m your best friend. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

A frustrated cry came from Mozzie as she stomped her foot upon the floor. “I am telling you the truth,” insisted the choppy-haired girl and the truth was that she was not even sure of the truth. As far as she knew, the words she spoke were honest, but the turmoil in her stomach begged to differ. She raked her hand through her hair and the varied lengths stood up and rumpled. Merlin, she felt awfully confused and muddled now.

Arielle continued to wear a knowing smile as she studied her friend which did not at all help to soothe Mozzie.

Why was she even confused?

“Arielle, I know where you’re going with this. And no. Just, no.”

A carefully sculpted arch appeared in Arielle’s brow, complimenting that smile of hers. “Oh?” was her languid, feigned question. A silken purr wrapped around her voice. “And where’s that? Do tell me, Mozzie.”

Another heavy sigh. “You need to stop trying to pair Quentin and I together, Arielle. Because it will never happen.”

Arielle feigned a snort. Mozzie knew it was feigned and the smirk dancing on the girl’s lips gave her away. “Mozzie!” She continued in that purring voice. “I was heading nowhere in that direction. However… if you were thinking it… maybe there’s a reason?”

Arrrgh. “Merlin! Arielle! Instead of trying to pair me off with someone clearly incompatible with me, why don’t you just relieve your frustrations and go snog Nolan like I know you want to!”

Mozzie knew just how to get Arielle off her back. Much as she loved her friend, it was a well known fact that Arielle, like everyone else of their group, was vain and self-centered. To change the topic to her gave Mozzie a few moments to get away or to train the conversation far, far, far from her and Quentin, because the very discussion of the two of them was making her stomach churn in a manner that was one part pleasant and two parts unpleasant.

Why had she felt the desire, again, to kiss him when they had stood so close together?

Why did she relish in their shared, private moments?

Why did she want to know what he was thinking?

Why did she want to collect his smiles?

Why did he toy so much with her emotions?

And why was she so confused and wanting to cry?

Drawn from her internal conflictions, she caught Arielle’s voice again, sharp and haughty. Actual words were not forming, but she caught snippets of her speech: Nolan, child, never, how disgusting, frustrations. Mozzie raised her eyes to Arielle’s and felt her brows tug down over her nose. Just what was Arielle going on about now? A churning in her stomach told her that her scheme had failed to deter Arielle.

“I think what’s going on is you trying to pair Nolan and I off with the feelings you’ve got for Quentin. In fact, you probably don’t even believe that Nolan and I would make a good pair, but you just need to vent out your inner-relationship-frustrations so you take it out on us!”

Dead-panned, Mozzie stared at Arielle. “You are preposterously absurd,” said the girl in a haughty voice, lifting her chin into the air. “Once again, I must remind you that nothing exists between Quentin and I and you really ought just give up on us. However, the way you and Nolan bicker and tussle about, one would already assume. In fact, there are others who assume. They’ve whispered about it. Wonder why you get less male attention, eh, Arielle?” Mozzie spoke in a flippant nature and she shrugged her shoulders with the same air, batting her lashes at her friend. “One day, and I await this day, you will give in to us and yourself and snog the daylights out of poor Nolan. Merlin knows he’ll never make the first move.”

Truth. In the expanse of their friendship, which dated back to days of pre-birth, Nolan had never initiated relationships of any kind with a female. Mozzie always had to covertly help him or else the female herself was assertive. What Mozzie had learned was that Nolan was awfully fond of the sorts of girls who carried themselves and were assertive. After all, he was her friend, right? Sigh. If only this time she could make things work, because Nolan and Arielle would be awfully cute with each other. If only they would actually admit their feelings and stop running from them. Such actions did no good for either of them. Lying to one’s self never worked; the truth would inevitably come out.

“And one day, you’ll stop pushing your feelings for Quentin onto me and Nolan,” said Arielle, her voice airy. “Then, you’ll finally snog the daylights out of him and the world will rejoice, for you’ll no longer be trying to pair us off to keep your mind off of your own feelings. Merlin!”

Mozzie felt her insides twist. “That is such a crock of mousse and you know it,” said Mozzie.

But the way her stomach churned suggested that maybe the lies were not coming from Arielle after all.

TASHLIE

I already commented on this via MSN and as you know, I found it rather adorable, especially since Mozzie is soooo in denial. Yes, the Arielle in me is cackling. And yes, I do wonder how she inserted herself in your story considering that she's supposed to be locked up in my head! hahaha. *checks to see if she is still there*

I swear my characters don't like me sometimes. :D

PAMS. <3