Hogwarts, and Cold!
Nov. 19th, 2007 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unforthI remembered what I meant to write about on Saturday. It's been a funny thing to learn about alternations in my cold tolerance. The AC/Heating unit in my apartment, which was adequate to keep the room tolerable in the summer, is not so capable in cold weather. It is only really able to increase the ambient temperature of my room to approximately 10 degrees warmer than the outside temperature. This is, perhaps unfair - the temperature at the ceiling is, I'm sure, quite what it should be. But since I spend all my time sitting on the floor or lying on the floor, and cold air sinks, well, it's been tough. Fortunately, the weather hasn't been too terribly cold so far, and during the days the thermometer on my clock indicates a temperature in the mid to high 60's - but two nights ago my apartment hit 60 degrees, and I fear what will happen if the weather gets much colder. Thank god I'm not in someplace like Binghamton, I'd die even this early in the season!!
On the plus side, it's done wonders for my cold tolerance to spend so much time in such an environment; last week I wandered around Yokohama with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
caspiangray in a tank top and got shocked looks, including one woman who gasped "genki!" (how healthy!, basically) when she saw me; I've gotten similar since, because the outside temperature, especially when I'm walking and moving, just doesn't feel that cold. :)
It should be noted that the lack of a post yesterday was precisely as it appeared: yesterday, I slacked utterly and did not write! The first I missed since early October. Ah well. In truth, I felt no remorse, and I think it just goes to prove that every one needs a break from time to time. The flip side of this is that today, I wrote 2400 words in 40 minutes, which computers to 60 words a minute. I was rather shocked by this; I knew I typed quickly, but I'd never have credited that I could compose intelligent (or even intelligible!) prose at that speed. I guess it's all the practice and the fact that this is a story that I know. :)
I did, however, find myself thinking about my relationship – for it truly was such – rather more often than I would ever have imagined I might. Thinking of myself as a quiet, rational sort of person, I’d not have thought that some many of my idle moments would be given over to thinking about a boy. I always had thought that thinking about boys was meant for sillier, stupider, less elite minds than my own – minds, I supposed, like Katrina’s. Now, I was forced to acknowledge that indeed, my high opinion of myself had to be reconciled with my new interest, and that I would in the future be very unfair indeed to pass judgment on those who, at least from time to time, lost themselves in sighing over the other sex.
Indeed, the days after the Quidditch match, I found myself turning constant 180 half-circles. On the one hand were feelings of happiness and pleasure and what I was increasingly willing to acknowledge might be the first hints of a deeper affection. On the other hand, though, were all those dark feelings that reduced me to tears on Sunday night. And, as the week proceed and my date on Saturday came close, these two states seemed to grow increasingly close together, and my flips between them more rapid, until I was quite convinced, in my heart, that I couldn’t possibly proceed past Saturday without acquainting Marcus with the selfish circumstances that had prompted me to at first to approach him.
To say that I was petrified with what might be the result of this confession was surely an understatement. Thinking about it could be positively dangerous, too, for if it wandered in to my mind while I was in the midst of some other activity I was virtually guaranteed to grow inattentive and make some drastic mistake. This is how, on Wednesday morning, I found myself reporting to the infirmary with my hands bleeding from severe Mandragora bites and blood leaking from my ears where my muffs had started to slip and the sound of its cries to reach my ears. I was there again on Thursday afternoon, having forgotten that my cauldron, though cleaned, was still at the 143.2 degree temperature that had been imperative for the brew to thicken properly, and I set both my hands on it to carry it away. This had been particularly mortifying, for though Guillermo Patil and Katrina both had joined Advanced Potions, it was Marcus himself who had been more than solicitous enough to accompany me to the nurse, and he was very concerned as he looked on my blistered palms and tear streaked face, not comprehending that his presence and care were only serving to increase my discomposure.
That evening, I received another letter from him, though I was spared having to produce a response due to the ointment smeared on my hands which rendered writing quite impossible. How the letter had found its way into my Quidditch locker quite defied the imagination, but its sender was still quite clear; I got the feeling, looking at it, that I was supposed to have received it several days sooner, and felt bad that my reply would be delayed.
“Dear Delia,” it read, “I am delighted to hear that my plans regarding Christmas are agreeable to you. The countryside is so beautiful in the wintertime when the snows have set in, I should love for you to see it.” My heart skipped. I couldn’t recall for certain, but it seemed to me that it was the first time he had used that word before me, and even in this innocent context it made me happy to see. Oh, but was I ever bad off! I continued reading. “Although I must confess I am not entirely certain that you have not. I find it odd really; while I find myself very much enamored, I do not know you so well.” I dropped the letter. Imagine my feelings, on having felt my heart rush at the benign suggestion that he would love for me to see the country, how I must have felt to read him say out right that he was enamored with me!! Joy and shame crowded so close to each other that I nearly swooned, and I did sit down heavily on Quidditch bench, one hand smearing ointment over my mouth as I covered it, gasping in amazement. The bitter taste that now greeted me brought me back to my senses, and I carefully picked the letter up from where I had dropped it. I do not know you so well,” I read again, “I imagine, unless you have a great deal of luck with divination, the feeling is somewhat mutual.” It was true, certainly, that with events happening so frequently, and with our limited time together, we had hardly spoken at all about ourselves, and then usually only in anecdotes. I realized that I didn’t even know his age, though I knew his school year.
“Perhaps, though, we could remedy this situation? I should be glad to say a few things about me, to introduce myself properly as I should be ashamed to have not done before. Perhaps this shall inspire a similar act in response? A boy can only hope.
“My name is Marcus Relious, as you may well know. I am 18 years old. My father is William Relious, and my mother, when still a maiden, was Cordelia Black. That is why I drew on that name as I did at the dance. She was taken by the scarlet fever when I was six. But I should not wish to sadden you or seek pity for this. I have fond memories of her. My father remarried soon after and my stepmother, Alexandra, has never treated me as anything less than her own son. I have three half-sisters, Emily, age 11, Christine, age 9, and Victoria, Age 1. I also have more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I have parchment to list. My pet – which I know you believed to be a hedgehog – is in fact a gnarl, and his name is Boggle. The similarity is undeniable, but gnarls are fairly intelligent little things, and their quills are able to absorb and store potions and administer them with but a prick.
“What else is there? I enjoy flying a good deal, but I also enjoy horseback riding, hunting and travel. Oddly enough, and I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, I also enjoy cooking; although that is hardly the sort of thing I talk about a great deal. I think that I would never hear the end of it from the other WAP boys.
“My best subject is charms, although I am a good hand at transfiguration as well. As to being Head Boy, well…it was not something I really sought out. I’m not really one for fame or glory. I enjoy spending time with and helping those I care about much more than I like yelling out and enforcing rules.
“But again, I am going on and on; about myself no less! Perhaps I should instead inquire if there is anything you would like to know about your talkative suitor? I should love to answer anything you would wish to know. I am rather worried that I am going about this poorly or will at any moment write something that is not the right sort of thing to write. As I said before, I am not so familiar with how one should, well…how one should suit, I suppose. If I ever do say something you dislike, please tell me. I think that otherwise I might go sick with worry.
“I look forward, with great anticipation, to Saturday when we may have our rendezvous,” he concluded, “Sincerely, Marcus.”
So solicitous! So proper! So fine a lineage, so fine a family, such felicity! The battle I felt within myself as I read these words would have quite astonished the man himself. I felt, surely, that he didn’t truly understand the extent to which he had captivated me himself, nor did he have the least inkling of my less-than noble feelings. It hurt me deeply to imagine that this kind and caring soul had been twitched about, pulled, prodded, at the ministrations of myself and Katrina. How unworthy we both were of his care! I resolved in myself at that moment that if he would still consider me for a moment after he knew of my ill-usage, that I would do everything in my power to protect him from any other harm, anything else that might hurt his innocence, his trust, his sincerity. No one but myself would ever be permitted to hurt him again, and I would never permit myself to do so in the future, if he would but forgive me for my past transgressions. No, I would construct myself as a wall, I would put myself between him and all of the cruel yet common inclinations of the world, and if it was all I did in my life I’d have done good enough deed by protecting such a wonderful man as would make me content. Yet too I dreaded more than ever the meeting on Saturday, for I very much feared that the betrayal of the trust of one so fine was an irretrievable mistake.
Thus it was that I sat down on Friday to pen my reply, my feelings a veritable storm a-sea, and tried to think how I could reply to this message without betraying anything of the conflict I felt. I wanted to tell him of myself as I asked, too, but as I picked up my and tried to think what to say, I could think of nothing to recommend myself. What had I done with my life, truly? I had always been such a selfish, self-centered creature; all that had ever interested me was potions, and everything that I had ever done had been to secure my own ability to continue to pursue this interest. With a sigh, I set out to present myself and this embarrassing truth as truthfully as I could; I couldn’t even bring myself to try to acquit myself of this crime.
“Dear Marcus,
“Your guess on my ignorance of country winters is quite correct, for my family has lived in London for several generations. With the usual prejudice of city folks, my parents see little to draw one outside of London’s fine boundaries.” I had yet to admit to him, I realized, the state of my families affairs, and thought with a queasy feeling that it would only be fair to ensure that he realized that not only was I a low, selfish, self-interested girl, but I was all of that and I lacked a dowry. But not in a letter. On Saturday, I would explain it all, and allow him to pass his judgment on me when he knew all. “Winters in the city are beautiful, but I suspect it is in a very different way. Hogwart’s winters are interesting and beautiful also, are the winters at your home more like that?
“As for more about me, well, I know you know my name is Delia Prince. My father, Agathon Prince, is the only son of the Prince family at the moment. He was married to Dijana MacNair soon after they graduated from school. Soon after my brother, Alasdair,was born. He is 20 years old now and works as an adjunct at the Ministry of Magic. My family are very much of the old blood, Slytherin, sort, and I don’t fit in that well, but I do my best to be a daughter of whom they can be proud. When I’m home, I find I frequently pretend to stereotypes that I don’t feel, but in truth I feel, personally, that people should be judged on their merit rather than on their blood.” And, I thought gloomily, my merit was terribly poor indeed.
“As for my interest, well, I am sad to admit I have surprisingly few. I am normally a very quiet person – hard to believe, I imagine, for anyone who has only come to know me this school year – and I enjoy reading and studying a great deal. I am, as all know, most skilled in the area of potion brewing, but it is important to note that I also love brewing, and would be most sad if somehow it was forbidden to me. I also enjoy flying. Outside of such interests, though, I fear I am very two-dimensional, which saddens me now. Mostly, I spend my time on the brewing of potions and the study of potions. I have, in fact, suffered through several poisonings and more than one explosion. They make life more interesting.
“I find that recently I have been developing an interest in muggles, as well. This is fairly new to me, and would surely shame my parents, for, while I respect people for their talents, I never gave much thought to muggles before. However, the war has shown me that muggle affairs can have a profound effect on the wizarding world, and so I have been devoting myself more assiduously than before to the study of their ways.
“I apologize that I can think of nothing else! I suppose that is because I have had so few close friends, I’ve never had to think on how to recommend myself to others before.
“I look forward to tomorrow greatly, Delia.”
And, setting my pen down, I sent the letter forthwith before I could glance at and be disgusted with myself and my own inadequacies. I had two other letters that needed to be written, one to Hogsmeade to enquire after the gift I hoped to give Marcus, and ther other to my family to inform them of my thoughts on Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to compose either until I knew how Saturday unfolded. Classes were done for the day, and as it was Friday, I had little work that couldn’t be put off until the following days. I went about my duties mechanically, and my mind wandered through fancies both delightful and detestable of what the next day had in store.
On the plus side, it's done wonders for my cold tolerance to spend so much time in such an environment; last week I wandered around Yokohama with
caspiangray in a tank top and got shocked looks, including one woman who gasped "genki!" (how healthy!, basically) when she saw me; I've gotten similar since, because the outside temperature, especially when I'm walking and moving, just doesn't feel that cold. :)It should be noted that the lack of a post yesterday was precisely as it appeared: yesterday, I slacked utterly and did not write! The first I missed since early October. Ah well. In truth, I felt no remorse, and I think it just goes to prove that every one needs a break from time to time. The flip side of this is that today, I wrote 2400 words in 40 minutes, which computers to 60 words a minute. I was rather shocked by this; I knew I typed quickly, but I'd never have credited that I could compose intelligent (or even intelligible!) prose at that speed. I guess it's all the practice and the fact that this is a story that I know. :)
I did, however, find myself thinking about my relationship – for it truly was such – rather more often than I would ever have imagined I might. Thinking of myself as a quiet, rational sort of person, I’d not have thought that some many of my idle moments would be given over to thinking about a boy. I always had thought that thinking about boys was meant for sillier, stupider, less elite minds than my own – minds, I supposed, like Katrina’s. Now, I was forced to acknowledge that indeed, my high opinion of myself had to be reconciled with my new interest, and that I would in the future be very unfair indeed to pass judgment on those who, at least from time to time, lost themselves in sighing over the other sex.
Indeed, the days after the Quidditch match, I found myself turning constant 180 half-circles. On the one hand were feelings of happiness and pleasure and what I was increasingly willing to acknowledge might be the first hints of a deeper affection. On the other hand, though, were all those dark feelings that reduced me to tears on Sunday night. And, as the week proceed and my date on Saturday came close, these two states seemed to grow increasingly close together, and my flips between them more rapid, until I was quite convinced, in my heart, that I couldn’t possibly proceed past Saturday without acquainting Marcus with the selfish circumstances that had prompted me to at first to approach him.
To say that I was petrified with what might be the result of this confession was surely an understatement. Thinking about it could be positively dangerous, too, for if it wandered in to my mind while I was in the midst of some other activity I was virtually guaranteed to grow inattentive and make some drastic mistake. This is how, on Wednesday morning, I found myself reporting to the infirmary with my hands bleeding from severe Mandragora bites and blood leaking from my ears where my muffs had started to slip and the sound of its cries to reach my ears. I was there again on Thursday afternoon, having forgotten that my cauldron, though cleaned, was still at the 143.2 degree temperature that had been imperative for the brew to thicken properly, and I set both my hands on it to carry it away. This had been particularly mortifying, for though Guillermo Patil and Katrina both had joined Advanced Potions, it was Marcus himself who had been more than solicitous enough to accompany me to the nurse, and he was very concerned as he looked on my blistered palms and tear streaked face, not comprehending that his presence and care were only serving to increase my discomposure.
That evening, I received another letter from him, though I was spared having to produce a response due to the ointment smeared on my hands which rendered writing quite impossible. How the letter had found its way into my Quidditch locker quite defied the imagination, but its sender was still quite clear; I got the feeling, looking at it, that I was supposed to have received it several days sooner, and felt bad that my reply would be delayed.
“Dear Delia,” it read, “I am delighted to hear that my plans regarding Christmas are agreeable to you. The countryside is so beautiful in the wintertime when the snows have set in, I should love for you to see it.” My heart skipped. I couldn’t recall for certain, but it seemed to me that it was the first time he had used that word before me, and even in this innocent context it made me happy to see. Oh, but was I ever bad off! I continued reading. “Although I must confess I am not entirely certain that you have not. I find it odd really; while I find myself very much enamored, I do not know you so well.” I dropped the letter. Imagine my feelings, on having felt my heart rush at the benign suggestion that he would love for me to see the country, how I must have felt to read him say out right that he was enamored with me!! Joy and shame crowded so close to each other that I nearly swooned, and I did sit down heavily on Quidditch bench, one hand smearing ointment over my mouth as I covered it, gasping in amazement. The bitter taste that now greeted me brought me back to my senses, and I carefully picked the letter up from where I had dropped it. I do not know you so well,” I read again, “I imagine, unless you have a great deal of luck with divination, the feeling is somewhat mutual.” It was true, certainly, that with events happening so frequently, and with our limited time together, we had hardly spoken at all about ourselves, and then usually only in anecdotes. I realized that I didn’t even know his age, though I knew his school year.
“Perhaps, though, we could remedy this situation? I should be glad to say a few things about me, to introduce myself properly as I should be ashamed to have not done before. Perhaps this shall inspire a similar act in response? A boy can only hope.
“My name is Marcus Relious, as you may well know. I am 18 years old. My father is William Relious, and my mother, when still a maiden, was Cordelia Black. That is why I drew on that name as I did at the dance. She was taken by the scarlet fever when I was six. But I should not wish to sadden you or seek pity for this. I have fond memories of her. My father remarried soon after and my stepmother, Alexandra, has never treated me as anything less than her own son. I have three half-sisters, Emily, age 11, Christine, age 9, and Victoria, Age 1. I also have more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I have parchment to list. My pet – which I know you believed to be a hedgehog – is in fact a gnarl, and his name is Boggle. The similarity is undeniable, but gnarls are fairly intelligent little things, and their quills are able to absorb and store potions and administer them with but a prick.
“What else is there? I enjoy flying a good deal, but I also enjoy horseback riding, hunting and travel. Oddly enough, and I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, I also enjoy cooking; although that is hardly the sort of thing I talk about a great deal. I think that I would never hear the end of it from the other WAP boys.
“My best subject is charms, although I am a good hand at transfiguration as well. As to being Head Boy, well…it was not something I really sought out. I’m not really one for fame or glory. I enjoy spending time with and helping those I care about much more than I like yelling out and enforcing rules.
“But again, I am going on and on; about myself no less! Perhaps I should instead inquire if there is anything you would like to know about your talkative suitor? I should love to answer anything you would wish to know. I am rather worried that I am going about this poorly or will at any moment write something that is not the right sort of thing to write. As I said before, I am not so familiar with how one should, well…how one should suit, I suppose. If I ever do say something you dislike, please tell me. I think that otherwise I might go sick with worry.
“I look forward, with great anticipation, to Saturday when we may have our rendezvous,” he concluded, “Sincerely, Marcus.”
So solicitous! So proper! So fine a lineage, so fine a family, such felicity! The battle I felt within myself as I read these words would have quite astonished the man himself. I felt, surely, that he didn’t truly understand the extent to which he had captivated me himself, nor did he have the least inkling of my less-than noble feelings. It hurt me deeply to imagine that this kind and caring soul had been twitched about, pulled, prodded, at the ministrations of myself and Katrina. How unworthy we both were of his care! I resolved in myself at that moment that if he would still consider me for a moment after he knew of my ill-usage, that I would do everything in my power to protect him from any other harm, anything else that might hurt his innocence, his trust, his sincerity. No one but myself would ever be permitted to hurt him again, and I would never permit myself to do so in the future, if he would but forgive me for my past transgressions. No, I would construct myself as a wall, I would put myself between him and all of the cruel yet common inclinations of the world, and if it was all I did in my life I’d have done good enough deed by protecting such a wonderful man as would make me content. Yet too I dreaded more than ever the meeting on Saturday, for I very much feared that the betrayal of the trust of one so fine was an irretrievable mistake.
Thus it was that I sat down on Friday to pen my reply, my feelings a veritable storm a-sea, and tried to think how I could reply to this message without betraying anything of the conflict I felt. I wanted to tell him of myself as I asked, too, but as I picked up my and tried to think what to say, I could think of nothing to recommend myself. What had I done with my life, truly? I had always been such a selfish, self-centered creature; all that had ever interested me was potions, and everything that I had ever done had been to secure my own ability to continue to pursue this interest. With a sigh, I set out to present myself and this embarrassing truth as truthfully as I could; I couldn’t even bring myself to try to acquit myself of this crime.
“Dear Marcus,
“Your guess on my ignorance of country winters is quite correct, for my family has lived in London for several generations. With the usual prejudice of city folks, my parents see little to draw one outside of London’s fine boundaries.” I had yet to admit to him, I realized, the state of my families affairs, and thought with a queasy feeling that it would only be fair to ensure that he realized that not only was I a low, selfish, self-interested girl, but I was all of that and I lacked a dowry. But not in a letter. On Saturday, I would explain it all, and allow him to pass his judgment on me when he knew all. “Winters in the city are beautiful, but I suspect it is in a very different way. Hogwart’s winters are interesting and beautiful also, are the winters at your home more like that?
“As for more about me, well, I know you know my name is Delia Prince. My father, Agathon Prince, is the only son of the Prince family at the moment. He was married to Dijana MacNair soon after they graduated from school. Soon after my brother, Alasdair,was born. He is 20 years old now and works as an adjunct at the Ministry of Magic. My family are very much of the old blood, Slytherin, sort, and I don’t fit in that well, but I do my best to be a daughter of whom they can be proud. When I’m home, I find I frequently pretend to stereotypes that I don’t feel, but in truth I feel, personally, that people should be judged on their merit rather than on their blood.” And, I thought gloomily, my merit was terribly poor indeed.
“As for my interest, well, I am sad to admit I have surprisingly few. I am normally a very quiet person – hard to believe, I imagine, for anyone who has only come to know me this school year – and I enjoy reading and studying a great deal. I am, as all know, most skilled in the area of potion brewing, but it is important to note that I also love brewing, and would be most sad if somehow it was forbidden to me. I also enjoy flying. Outside of such interests, though, I fear I am very two-dimensional, which saddens me now. Mostly, I spend my time on the brewing of potions and the study of potions. I have, in fact, suffered through several poisonings and more than one explosion. They make life more interesting.
“I find that recently I have been developing an interest in muggles, as well. This is fairly new to me, and would surely shame my parents, for, while I respect people for their talents, I never gave much thought to muggles before. However, the war has shown me that muggle affairs can have a profound effect on the wizarding world, and so I have been devoting myself more assiduously than before to the study of their ways.
“I apologize that I can think of nothing else! I suppose that is because I have had so few close friends, I’ve never had to think on how to recommend myself to others before.
“I look forward to tomorrow greatly, Delia.”
And, setting my pen down, I sent the letter forthwith before I could glance at and be disgusted with myself and my own inadequacies. I had two other letters that needed to be written, one to Hogsmeade to enquire after the gift I hoped to give Marcus, and ther other to my family to inform them of my thoughts on Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to compose either until I knew how Saturday unfolded. Classes were done for the day, and as it was Friday, I had little work that couldn’t be put off until the following days. I went about my duties mechanically, and my mind wandered through fancies both delightful and detestable of what the next day had in store.
