Now for some fiction
Thursday, 23 June 2005 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
siguneThis week has so far been rather marvellous: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
_grainne_ (with The Pleasure of Your Company), _vocalion_ (with The Futility of Reason), larilee (with Overnight Sensation), seaislewitch (with Wand Stories), perselus (with Confessions of a Death Eater) and yours sincerely have all done well at Sycophant Hex’s Spring Faire Festival. I don’t know about you ladies, but I am still enjoying the fact… :-P
The Spring Faire has gently reminded me that I am a writer, too, so I thought that for the occasion I’d post a snippet of fiction. I have plenty of unfinished or discarded fragments of stories floating around on my computer, and what follows is one of them. It is only fair to warn you that it has not been beta-read – I never intended it for any fanfic archive.
Then why post it here at all? Consider it a glimpse into my fanfic kitchen. Before I start writing a character ‘for real’, I need to know all about them: their favourite food, the shoes they wear, the books they read (or if they read any); but also how they were as small children, as teens, as young adults, and who their family are and what their relation to them is. My reflections about characters tend to lead to drawings, but also to snippets of text; more often than not, these remain unused – they are just a kind of exercise in getting the voices or the tone right, and they become an invisible part of the background to other stories.
As She Likes It, my Spring Faire story, is more or less the official introduction of my OFC Brynhild Bromley. (Strictly speaking she had already made an appearance in The Good-Morrow, but there she remained anonymous.) She was a long time in the making – she was the first original character I invented, but I struggled with her for a very, very long time. She would probably never have made it into (virtual) print without the encouragement of my friend Potioncat, who managed to convince me that OFCs are nothing to be ashamed of if properly written. (Yes, I did need convincing; at that time I had not yet discovered Occlumency and its enticing Original Females…)
One day I found I had Brynhild pinned. She had a large family with a history; a broomstick obsession; hobbies; a record; an evolving dress style; a career; a distinct personality; and several pets (with names, temperaments and all). She was Severus Snape’s friend from childhood. Instead of pouring the details into a list, I shaped them into a sketch – an exploration of several characters at a given moment that also features Severus as a seven-year-old, his mother Septimia, Gunhilda von Bork, and winks to my other great passions, the Wilde family and Arthurian legend. Here it is, imperfect and sketchy.
1967
Brynhild first met Severus when they were both seven years old or thereabouts. Severus’ mother went through a marital crisis at the time; she came to the Bromley mansion on the moor to seek advice and comfort and a cup of afternoon tea. She was much younger than Brynhild’s mother, but they were friends.
Mrs Bromley’s maiden name was Gunhilda von Bork. She was a descendant of the sorceress Sidonia who had once brought down the ducal house of Pomerania, and her family had moved to England in the wake of the infamous Dark wizard Grindelwald. As such, Miss von Bork had in the thirties and forties spent many a day at the estate of Severus’ grandparents, the almost equally infamous DeQuinceys, who had been Grindelwald supporters from the first hour. During the war, and much against her parents’ wishes, Gunhilda had married one Berengar Bromley, a penniless Muggle-born wizard who promised to make her a grand lady in wizarding society if only she would back him up with the family capital, and who proved as good as his word. A keen businessman and ex-Quidditch professional, he had his eye on both the broomstick market and the Gringotts stock exchange; and when Devlin Whitehorn first unfolded his plan for the setup of a new racing broom company, Berengar was quick to join the venture and take care of the financial side of things. Nimbus, as their company was baptised, was a huge success. Within less than a decade, the swift and elegant Nimbus brooms became the undisputed favourites of professional Quidditch players and amateurs alike and left their competitors far behind. The firm thrived by the magic formula of Whitehorn’s creative brain and technical genius combined with Bromley’s wise financial management and acute business sense, and both men achieved considerable wealth through their enterprise.
Mrs Bromley had escaped the post-war censure relatively unscathed, shielded by her husband who had played no role in the Grindelwald case and testified that his wife hadn’t either, but the DeQuinceys were less fortunate – they were sent to Azkaban and their daughter was left behind parentless. When the Wizengamot had decided that little Septimia should be offered up for adoption, the Bromleys had volunteered to take her in. They were, however, judged unsuitable on the basis of Gunhilda’s family allegiance, and the little girl had gone to live with Hector and Amanda Bones instead. But their friendship remained, and at moments of difficulty when Septimia needed a surrogate mother or elder sister to talk to, she would turn to Gunhilda for support.
Septimia DeQuincey, now Mrs Snape, was a strange woman. She had an indefinable air of distinction about her, as well as an aristocratic kind of negligence that commoners might easily mistake for slovenliness. Her long black hair looked a little wild, and the dark blue robes she wore, that day in the drawing room of the vast Bromley house, were of good quality but several years outmoded; they probably dated from before her marriage and showed signs of wear. She seemed a bit absent-minded despite the definite purpose of her visit, and all the time while talking and listening she stroked her son’s hair as if on compulsion.
The boy reminded Brynhild of a well-trained puppy. He sat next to his Mama on the edge of the leather couch with his back ramrod-straight, his feet crossed and his arms by his sides and he did not move a muscle. His glossy black hair was gathered in a ponytail and he had large black eyes, just like his mother’s, and it seemed he did not need to blink. The few times he gave signs of life were when he glared in Brynhild’s direction as she bounced up and down, interrupted the grown-ups, grabbed several biscuits at a time or whirled around the room on an imaginary broomstick, all of which went unpunished. At the sight of such astonishing lack of manners or discipline, the boy would look up at his Mama with arched eyebrows and she, in turn, would whisper something in his ear that made him snigger. He himself said ‘No, thank you’ to everything he was offered unless his Mama explicitly told him he could accept. He seemed terribly boring. Brynhild was most annoyed when her mother asked her to take the puppy-boy upstairs and entertain him. She said so, but to no avail.
“It vill do you good to have somevun of your own age to play vith, Liebchen,” Mrs Bromley told her. Her four sons were years older than their little sister. “Go on, show Severus your toys.”
“I see lots of children at school every day and my toys are my own,” Brynhild said impudently. “And he’s dumb and I don’t like him.”
The boy narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Brynhild!” Mrs Bromley frowned. “Say you are sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Brynhild said mechanically. Then, after the kind of abrupt change of mind only children are capable of, she extended her hand and stated magnanimously, “You can look at my toys if you promise not to touch them.”
Severus exchanged a suffering glance with his mother, wordlessly begging her to tell him to stay, but she did not grant his unspoken wish. “Go on,” she urged, nudging him. “And be good. You are Brynhild’s guest.”
The boy could not ignore such direct orders and climbed off the couch to follow the girl, but he did not take her hand – at least his mother had not told him that, too, was necessary. So the ill-matched pair climbed two flights of staircases to the nursery, a room as large as an entire floor in the Snapes’ house, but Brynhild did not know that then. She bolted past her collection of puzzles and building blocks and games, her rocking horse and cart, her bears and dolls and miniature farm and tea set and fruit stall, straight towards the wooden chest that held her dearest treasure, the thing beside which all other contents of the room fell into nothingness. When she opened the lid, preparing to make Severus envious of her most splendid toy, she turned around and saw he was still standing in the doorway, looking as if his eyes could pop out any moment.
“Don’t stand there!” Brynhild commanded. “Come over here!”
He walked towards her reluctantly, taking in the rest of the room.
“Look!” she said, proudly displaying a toy broomstick in her arms. “It really flies. Do you want to try it?” She thrust the broom in his direction, but to her endless amazement – who on earth would forgo such an opportunity? – he backed away.
“No, thank you,” he said. She began to wonder if his vocabulary was limited to those three words.
“It’s all right,” she insisted. “It doesn’t go very high anyway.”
“I don’t like broomsticks,” he said, looking askance at the small vehicle. She did not know he had never seen one up close, had no idea how to operate it, and no intention of having a first try in front of a stranger.
“You’re weird,” Brynhild decided. She put the broom back into its chest and resolved to try something else. “Can you do magic?” she enquired.
“Of course I can,” the boy sniffed. “But I’m not going to do any for you.” She did not know that at age seven he was still waiting for his magic to make itself felt, and that his mother was actually beginning to fear the worst.
Brynhild rolled her eyes. She was quickly losing patience. “What games do you play, then?”
“I like books,” the boy said. “Do you have books?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, irritated at the suggestion that there was anything she might not have. “Over there.” She pointed at a closed cupboard. The boy walked up to it, opened it and let his eyes wander across the titles on the spines.
“That’s my favourite,” he said, gently touching a large, colourful tome bearing the legend The Deeds of King Arthur and his Noble Knights. “Mama reads it to me, and she does all the voices.”
“So which knight do you like best?” Brynhild asked.
“I don’t care for the knights,” the boy said disparagingly. “All they ever do is fight. They’re stupid.”
“But the book is about them.” Brynhild goggled at him. He was really quite incomprehensible. She watched him take the book from its shelf and opening it somewhere in the middle. That is when she saw him smile for the first time.
“I like Morgan le Fay,” he said. “She’s very clever and she never gets caught. And she does great magic. She sent a beautiful cloak to the Queen that would burn her when she wore it.” His eyes glittered. “When I grow up I want to be Morgan le Fay.”
“You can’t,” Brynhild said matter-of-factly. “She’s a girl.” She tugged the book from the boy’s hands and put it back. “And you can’t read here. You have to play with me. What do you have at home, besides books?”
He was silent for a while and seemed to study her face. Then he said, “Dolls. I have dolls.”
She laughed scornfully. “Dolls are stupid!”
“Not mine, they aren’t,” the boy said. He came so close to her that their faces nearly touched and his dark eyes bored into hers. “Mine come with pins.”
Before she could prevent it, he snatched a hair off her head and pocketed it, then quickly darted away, giggling nastily. Brynhild set off in hot pursuit.
“Give back!” she yelled. “That’s mine! Mine mine mine!”
To her horror the boy refused to obey her command. Instead he flew down the stairs, nearly slipped and fell on the polished parquet floor in the hall and finally stumbled into the drawing room where, under adult auspices, he would be safe.
Brynhild burst in seconds after him. He had already taken shelter in his mother’s arms and from that stronghold eyed the little girl malevolently.
“Mutti,” Brynhild appealed to her own mother, “that ugly Severus has taken a hair from my head and he says he’ll voodoo me! You must stop him, he’s wicked and he doesn’t listen to me.”
“Vell vell,” Mrs Bromley smiled at the boy, “you must be the only vun. I think ve shall invite you again – shan’t ve, Brynhild?”
Brynhild made her disapproval known by sticking out her tongue.
“Dearest, won’t you return that hair and make friends?” Mrs Snape asked her son, stroking his head again as one would a pet’s.
“I can’t give it back,” the boy said. “I threw it away in the hall.” He batted his large eyes and managed to look very innocent. But Brynhild did not believe him for a moment, and neither, she thought, did Mrs Snape, the corners of whose mouth curled in a most peculiar fashion.
Brynhild’s brow clouded. He played foul. Next time she saw his face, she would be armed against his tricks. He could count on it.
*-*-*
They don’t seem to be off on a good start, but it will be better one day…:-)
_grainne_ (with The Pleasure of Your Company), _vocalion_ (with The Futility of Reason), larilee (with Overnight Sensation), seaislewitch (with Wand Stories), perselus (with Confessions of a Death Eater) and yours sincerely have all done well at Sycophant Hex’s Spring Faire Festival. I don’t know about you ladies, but I am still enjoying the fact… :-PThe Spring Faire has gently reminded me that I am a writer, too, so I thought that for the occasion I’d post a snippet of fiction. I have plenty of unfinished or discarded fragments of stories floating around on my computer, and what follows is one of them. It is only fair to warn you that it has not been beta-read – I never intended it for any fanfic archive.
Then why post it here at all? Consider it a glimpse into my fanfic kitchen. Before I start writing a character ‘for real’, I need to know all about them: their favourite food, the shoes they wear, the books they read (or if they read any); but also how they were as small children, as teens, as young adults, and who their family are and what their relation to them is. My reflections about characters tend to lead to drawings, but also to snippets of text; more often than not, these remain unused – they are just a kind of exercise in getting the voices or the tone right, and they become an invisible part of the background to other stories.
As She Likes It, my Spring Faire story, is more or less the official introduction of my OFC Brynhild Bromley. (Strictly speaking she had already made an appearance in The Good-Morrow, but there she remained anonymous.) She was a long time in the making – she was the first original character I invented, but I struggled with her for a very, very long time. She would probably never have made it into (virtual) print without the encouragement of my friend Potioncat, who managed to convince me that OFCs are nothing to be ashamed of if properly written. (Yes, I did need convincing; at that time I had not yet discovered Occlumency and its enticing Original Females…)
One day I found I had Brynhild pinned. She had a large family with a history; a broomstick obsession; hobbies; a record; an evolving dress style; a career; a distinct personality; and several pets (with names, temperaments and all). She was Severus Snape’s friend from childhood. Instead of pouring the details into a list, I shaped them into a sketch – an exploration of several characters at a given moment that also features Severus as a seven-year-old, his mother Septimia, Gunhilda von Bork, and winks to my other great passions, the Wilde family and Arthurian legend. Here it is, imperfect and sketchy.
Brynhild first met Severus when they were both seven years old or thereabouts. Severus’ mother went through a marital crisis at the time; she came to the Bromley mansion on the moor to seek advice and comfort and a cup of afternoon tea. She was much younger than Brynhild’s mother, but they were friends.
Mrs Bromley’s maiden name was Gunhilda von Bork. She was a descendant of the sorceress Sidonia who had once brought down the ducal house of Pomerania, and her family had moved to England in the wake of the infamous Dark wizard Grindelwald. As such, Miss von Bork had in the thirties and forties spent many a day at the estate of Severus’ grandparents, the almost equally infamous DeQuinceys, who had been Grindelwald supporters from the first hour. During the war, and much against her parents’ wishes, Gunhilda had married one Berengar Bromley, a penniless Muggle-born wizard who promised to make her a grand lady in wizarding society if only she would back him up with the family capital, and who proved as good as his word. A keen businessman and ex-Quidditch professional, he had his eye on both the broomstick market and the Gringotts stock exchange; and when Devlin Whitehorn first unfolded his plan for the setup of a new racing broom company, Berengar was quick to join the venture and take care of the financial side of things. Nimbus, as their company was baptised, was a huge success. Within less than a decade, the swift and elegant Nimbus brooms became the undisputed favourites of professional Quidditch players and amateurs alike and left their competitors far behind. The firm thrived by the magic formula of Whitehorn’s creative brain and technical genius combined with Bromley’s wise financial management and acute business sense, and both men achieved considerable wealth through their enterprise.
Mrs Bromley had escaped the post-war censure relatively unscathed, shielded by her husband who had played no role in the Grindelwald case and testified that his wife hadn’t either, but the DeQuinceys were less fortunate – they were sent to Azkaban and their daughter was left behind parentless. When the Wizengamot had decided that little Septimia should be offered up for adoption, the Bromleys had volunteered to take her in. They were, however, judged unsuitable on the basis of Gunhilda’s family allegiance, and the little girl had gone to live with Hector and Amanda Bones instead. But their friendship remained, and at moments of difficulty when Septimia needed a surrogate mother or elder sister to talk to, she would turn to Gunhilda for support.
Septimia DeQuincey, now Mrs Snape, was a strange woman. She had an indefinable air of distinction about her, as well as an aristocratic kind of negligence that commoners might easily mistake for slovenliness. Her long black hair looked a little wild, and the dark blue robes she wore, that day in the drawing room of the vast Bromley house, were of good quality but several years outmoded; they probably dated from before her marriage and showed signs of wear. She seemed a bit absent-minded despite the definite purpose of her visit, and all the time while talking and listening she stroked her son’s hair as if on compulsion.
The boy reminded Brynhild of a well-trained puppy. He sat next to his Mama on the edge of the leather couch with his back ramrod-straight, his feet crossed and his arms by his sides and he did not move a muscle. His glossy black hair was gathered in a ponytail and he had large black eyes, just like his mother’s, and it seemed he did not need to blink. The few times he gave signs of life were when he glared in Brynhild’s direction as she bounced up and down, interrupted the grown-ups, grabbed several biscuits at a time or whirled around the room on an imaginary broomstick, all of which went unpunished. At the sight of such astonishing lack of manners or discipline, the boy would look up at his Mama with arched eyebrows and she, in turn, would whisper something in his ear that made him snigger. He himself said ‘No, thank you’ to everything he was offered unless his Mama explicitly told him he could accept. He seemed terribly boring. Brynhild was most annoyed when her mother asked her to take the puppy-boy upstairs and entertain him. She said so, but to no avail.
“It vill do you good to have somevun of your own age to play vith, Liebchen,” Mrs Bromley told her. Her four sons were years older than their little sister. “Go on, show Severus your toys.”
“I see lots of children at school every day and my toys are my own,” Brynhild said impudently. “And he’s dumb and I don’t like him.”
The boy narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Brynhild!” Mrs Bromley frowned. “Say you are sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Brynhild said mechanically. Then, after the kind of abrupt change of mind only children are capable of, she extended her hand and stated magnanimously, “You can look at my toys if you promise not to touch them.”
Severus exchanged a suffering glance with his mother, wordlessly begging her to tell him to stay, but she did not grant his unspoken wish. “Go on,” she urged, nudging him. “And be good. You are Brynhild’s guest.”
The boy could not ignore such direct orders and climbed off the couch to follow the girl, but he did not take her hand – at least his mother had not told him that, too, was necessary. So the ill-matched pair climbed two flights of staircases to the nursery, a room as large as an entire floor in the Snapes’ house, but Brynhild did not know that then. She bolted past her collection of puzzles and building blocks and games, her rocking horse and cart, her bears and dolls and miniature farm and tea set and fruit stall, straight towards the wooden chest that held her dearest treasure, the thing beside which all other contents of the room fell into nothingness. When she opened the lid, preparing to make Severus envious of her most splendid toy, she turned around and saw he was still standing in the doorway, looking as if his eyes could pop out any moment.
“Don’t stand there!” Brynhild commanded. “Come over here!”
He walked towards her reluctantly, taking in the rest of the room.
“Look!” she said, proudly displaying a toy broomstick in her arms. “It really flies. Do you want to try it?” She thrust the broom in his direction, but to her endless amazement – who on earth would forgo such an opportunity? – he backed away.
“No, thank you,” he said. She began to wonder if his vocabulary was limited to those three words.
“It’s all right,” she insisted. “It doesn’t go very high anyway.”
“I don’t like broomsticks,” he said, looking askance at the small vehicle. She did not know he had never seen one up close, had no idea how to operate it, and no intention of having a first try in front of a stranger.
“You’re weird,” Brynhild decided. She put the broom back into its chest and resolved to try something else. “Can you do magic?” she enquired.
“Of course I can,” the boy sniffed. “But I’m not going to do any for you.” She did not know that at age seven he was still waiting for his magic to make itself felt, and that his mother was actually beginning to fear the worst.
Brynhild rolled her eyes. She was quickly losing patience. “What games do you play, then?”
“I like books,” the boy said. “Do you have books?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, irritated at the suggestion that there was anything she might not have. “Over there.” She pointed at a closed cupboard. The boy walked up to it, opened it and let his eyes wander across the titles on the spines.
“That’s my favourite,” he said, gently touching a large, colourful tome bearing the legend The Deeds of King Arthur and his Noble Knights. “Mama reads it to me, and she does all the voices.”
“So which knight do you like best?” Brynhild asked.
“I don’t care for the knights,” the boy said disparagingly. “All they ever do is fight. They’re stupid.”
“But the book is about them.” Brynhild goggled at him. He was really quite incomprehensible. She watched him take the book from its shelf and opening it somewhere in the middle. That is when she saw him smile for the first time.
“I like Morgan le Fay,” he said. “She’s very clever and she never gets caught. And she does great magic. She sent a beautiful cloak to the Queen that would burn her when she wore it.” His eyes glittered. “When I grow up I want to be Morgan le Fay.”
“You can’t,” Brynhild said matter-of-factly. “She’s a girl.” She tugged the book from the boy’s hands and put it back. “And you can’t read here. You have to play with me. What do you have at home, besides books?”
He was silent for a while and seemed to study her face. Then he said, “Dolls. I have dolls.”
She laughed scornfully. “Dolls are stupid!”
“Not mine, they aren’t,” the boy said. He came so close to her that their faces nearly touched and his dark eyes bored into hers. “Mine come with pins.”
Before she could prevent it, he snatched a hair off her head and pocketed it, then quickly darted away, giggling nastily. Brynhild set off in hot pursuit.
“Give back!” she yelled. “That’s mine! Mine mine mine!”
To her horror the boy refused to obey her command. Instead he flew down the stairs, nearly slipped and fell on the polished parquet floor in the hall and finally stumbled into the drawing room where, under adult auspices, he would be safe.
Brynhild burst in seconds after him. He had already taken shelter in his mother’s arms and from that stronghold eyed the little girl malevolently.
“Mutti,” Brynhild appealed to her own mother, “that ugly Severus has taken a hair from my head and he says he’ll voodoo me! You must stop him, he’s wicked and he doesn’t listen to me.”
“Vell vell,” Mrs Bromley smiled at the boy, “you must be the only vun. I think ve shall invite you again – shan’t ve, Brynhild?”
Brynhild made her disapproval known by sticking out her tongue.
“Dearest, won’t you return that hair and make friends?” Mrs Snape asked her son, stroking his head again as one would a pet’s.
“I can’t give it back,” the boy said. “I threw it away in the hall.” He batted his large eyes and managed to look very innocent. But Brynhild did not believe him for a moment, and neither, she thought, did Mrs Snape, the corners of whose mouth curled in a most peculiar fashion.
Brynhild’s brow clouded. He played foul. Next time she saw his face, she would be armed against his tricks. He could count on it.
They don’t seem to be off on a good start, but it will be better one day…:-)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Thursday, 23 June 2005 10:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 10:13 am (UTC)I think I am a bundle of repressed wickedness (LOL).
no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 10:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 12:48 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading my thingies, Lisa!
no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 10:47 am (UTC)What an interesting first meeting for the pair. The above line seems exactly like something Snape might have said as a child. At what age will we first meet them again in "Purity"?
Is that a new icon I spy? I love it! The nose has a three-dimensional quality, as if it is trying to poke out of the frame.
no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 01:00 pm (UTC)The 'poking' of the icon's nose is an unexpected side effect that suddenly appeared when I cut this fragment from a large drawing. Poor Snape. I always snigger when you have him kiss in your fics, and he is so aware of the impracticality of his large nose :-)...
no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 02:03 pm (UTC)You must have an extremely interesting cd-collection.
:-D
no subject
Date: Friday, 24 June 2005 02:16 pm (UTC)Je bent wel anoniem, maar iemand anders kon het toch niet zijn, denk ik...
Kuus, zuus (who ROTFL!)