My ArtPad Prize from Grainne - WHEEEEEE!
Wednesday, 21 September 2005 08:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
siguneHere is the story I won in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
_vocalion_'s ArtPad contest. Grainne wrote a Sue of my making into Chapter Two of HBP, and the result is as delicious as chocolate with hazelnuts. Enjoy!
An Uncommon Flower:
“Spinner’s End” Revised
by
Grainne
Dedicated to Sigune, who kindly lends her to well-established talents to the ephemeral world of ArtPad.
***
Disclaimers:
The Bromleys officially belong to Sigune (although I’m not sure if she’ll want Bromelia back); all other major characters in the story belong to JKR. The beginning of the second section, up until Bromelia’s arrival, is transcribed almost directly from the canon (I have changed the verb tenses and inserted some of Snape’s thoughts). Everything else is my own damn fault, including my poor imitation of Sigune’s sly humour and gorgeous writing style. I have inserted a few references to the words and works of a certain notorious wit, so in the event that the story fails to amuse, one can at least have fun finding where the Wilde things are.
Sue/Story Summary:
Bromelia Bromley has a spirit as irrepressible as her frizzy hair, a wardrobe any streetwalker would die for, amazing wandless powers, a head for Legilimency, and a penchant for fine Italian boots. What is this perennially perky and dreadfully determined anti-heroine doing in a grotty place like Spinner’s End? And, more importantly, will she be at all welcome on an evening when that street’s most enigmatic resident is already entertaining some unexpected female company? This is the tale of what happens when one Sue rushes in where most fan authors (rightly) fear to tread—Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Chapter Two.
An Uncommon Flower
***
“Flowers are as common in the country as people are in London.”
--Oscar Wilde
“I’ve no idea what he meant by that. I am extraordinary wherever I go.”
--Bromelia Bromley
***
Has there ever been a greater enemy to the up-market Italian boot than the cobbled street of backwater Britain? Especially as it is now, half-obscured by an unseasonable chilly mist, and slick because of it. Bromelia Bromley curses as, yet again, one of her three-inch heels skitters on the uneven surface and catches in a gap between cobbles, causing her to twist her ankle painfully.
“Merde!” When she must swear audibly, Bromelia tries to remember to do it in French.
She has a sneaking suspicion that she’s been given this assignment because she is still fairly new. When she joined up, she’d imagined working somewhere a bit more…well, not glamourous, exactly, but certainly somewhere a bit less blighted. She’s not sure that she’ll ever get the stench of this place—stale fish-and-chips, petrol fumes, rotting cabbage—out of her hair.
On the other hand, her usual complaint about the lack of action is no longer valid. She shivers, thinking of that poor little fox, and whispers a spell to ease the pain in her ankle. She then pats her unruly golden hair—frizzier than usual due to the mist, smoothes down the front of her blouse, and sets off toward the light in the window of the house on Spinner’s End.
Bromelia knows she is not supposed to interfere, but she doesn’t like the dark one, the one called Bella. She saw what that one did to the fox, heard the words of mistrust she uttered to her sister when she thought they were alone in the street. And besides, Bromelia wasted an entire afternoon in a Muggle library (when she could have been browsing the shoe department at Harvey Nicks) coming up with a good cover story, should the need arise for more direct contact. She won’t interfere. She’ll give them fifteen or twenty minutes and then, if they are still there, she’ll put herself in a position to better assess the situation. She grins. She keeps hearing that this one is a master Occlumens. She will see about that.
***
Narcissa looks up at Snape, her face eloquent with despair.
“Severus, I—I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and…” She closes her eyes and two large tears seep from beneath her eyelids.
Snape is disgusted to find that his cold heart lurches, only the tiniest bit, at this display. He then curses silently when he realizes the true motivation behind his feelings. She is like a bastardized version of Brynhild, he thinks. She has the right build, the right colouring, but none of the glorious sharp edges.
“The Dark Lord had forbidden me to speak of it,” Narcissa continues, her eyes still closed. “He wishes none to know of the plan. It is…very secret. But—”
“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak. The Dark Lord’s word is law.”
Narcissa gasps as though he has doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looks satisfied for the first time since she has entered the house.
“There!” she says triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!”
But Snape has gotten to his feet. He strides to the small window and peers through the curtains at the deserted street…wait…make that nearly-deserted. There is a figure approaching through the mist, a female figure. Snape blinks and looks again. No, now there is nothing.
Snape shakes his head to clear it. He must be going mad. He takes one more glance at the street and closes the curtains with a jerk. If there is a woman out there, it is likely only a whore, and there is no possible reason a whore would ever come to his house. He turns to face Narcissa, frowning.
“It so happens that I know of the plan,” he says in a low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.”
“I thought you must know about it!” Narcissa says, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus….”
“You know about the plan?” Bellatrix says, her fleeting expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “You know?”
“Certainly,” Snape says.
But, of course, he doesn’t. Oh, he could take an educated guess or two and land near the mark—the Dark Lord’s ultimate goals, after all, are few in number—but the details would be a bit more tricky to conjure up. Not to worry though; Snape is sure that between the fair and the raven-haired, between the desperate and the delusional, the sisters Black will provide him with all the details he needs.
“But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you imagine that I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”
“Severus,” she whispers, tears sliding down her pale cheeks, hands stretched out beseechingly. “My son…”
There is a sudden knocking at the door. This is no bird-like rapping, no furtive tapping, but a healthy knock of the kind rarely heard in Spinner’s End, even before the mill shut down. This knock has a horrible determined optimism about it.
Bellatrix hisses and whirls toward the source of the noise, her hand jumping to her wand. Narcissa pulls her hands back into her lap as if they’ve been slapped. She looks to Severus for guidance, fright evident on her porcelain features.
Snape puts one long, pale finger to his lips and glares at Bellatrix. So he did see someone in the street. Well, with any luck the stranger will go away and he will be able to salvage the moment, calm Bellatrix, and talk Narcissa back round to how the Dark Lord is planning to use the son, now that the father is useless.
But Severus Snape has no luck. After a moment of silence the knock sounds again, louder.
“Expecting someone, Snape?” Bellatrix says, her eyes narrowing.
“No.”
“Good. Then you’ll not mind if we give whoever it is a proper greeting,” Bellatrix says with an unbecoming leer. She takes a step toward the door, but Snape swiftly moves to block her. He draws himself up to his full height.
“Yes, I do mind,” he says imperiously. “This is my home, Bellatrix, and while you are in it you will do as I say. I will handle this. Now, if you do not wish to be seen, I suggest you go through to the kitchen.” He waves his wand at a section of bookshelf and a door reveals itself.
Bellatrix looks almost feral—her nostrils flared wide, rough patches of colour appearing on her cheeks, but Narcissa stands up and grabs her sister by the arm, tugging her toward the kitchen.
“Come on, Bella,” she whispers angrily.
“And don’t touch anything!” Snape warns, earning a nasty smile from Bellatrix. “For your own health,” he adds silkily, and her smile vanishes.
He walks unhurriedly to the door. He assumes that the stranger is lost—or perhaps injured and desperate. She might also be part of a scam. It makes no matter to Snape. Whoever she is and whatever the circumstances, the silly tart will pay for the trouble she is causing him.
***
It is only a door. Plain, unwelcoming, and exactly like all the others in the street, save the details of its wear. However, something about it gives Bromelia pause. She feels the familiar prickling sensation just behind her eyes, beneath her breastbone, and in the pit of her stomach—a slow uncoiling, a blossoming. A warning. There is powerful magic here. Brilliant—her first real test! She makes a fist and pounds merrily upon the darkened wood.
Several minutes (and rounds of knocking) later, the door opens a crack. Bromelia takes half a step back, looks up expectantly, and arranges her mouth into a sweet smile. When the crack does not widen, when the only thing she can see is a dark shadow and a length of unkempt hair, her confidence falters the tiniest bit. But she presses on. She knows that she who hesitates is one silly witch…or something like that.
“Good evening,” she says cheerily and waits for the door to open wider. There is a long pause, during which Bromelia hears him breathing, but still the crack does not widen. Open the door, you ninny, I need to see your eyes. She steps closer and repeats her greeting, a little louder this time.
“Good evening!”
“No, it is not,” he hisses suddenly. “Go away.”
The door slams shut.
Bromelia jumps; having the door slammed in her face wasn’t exactly part of her plan. However, she will not be so easily dismissed. She can tell from his voice that he is tense, irritated. She knits her elegant brows together and glares at the door, concentrating. She can’t pick up any additional emotions, but she can sense that he is still standing on the other side of the door, waiting to see what she’ll do. She raises her fist to knock once more.
No sooner has flesh touched wood than the crack—and the shadow—reappear.
“Are you lost, madam?” he says in a low, unctuous tone.
“No, sir,” Bromelia says brightly, trying to ignore the slight feeling of unease that has developed in the pit of her stomach. “My name is Bromelia Bromley, and I am here to ask for your support in encouraging your local council to turn the mill over to the National Trust so that it might be restored, preserved, and enjoyed by the public for generations to come.” She accompanies her speech with graceful hand gestures.
Bromelia thinks she hears a choking sound, but she also notes that the crack has opened a bit wider, so she presses on. Go on, open wide, you misanthropic gloomy-pants. Let me see those beady black eyes.
“The northern textile industry is a vital part of Britain’s story, and our architects and historians have determined that the mill here, while a bit run-down, is a lovely example of Victorian industrial architecture. With proper restoration and care, it could once more become a beacon of pride in this community. You may be aware, sir, of the National Trust’s success with a similar property in Cheshire—the Quarry Bank Mill and Styal Estate? It draws hundreds of thousands of visitors a year, and has brought a considerable economic boost to the region. And the National Trust makes a point of hiring locally, so you and your family…”
“Silencio!”
It happens so fast that Bromelia doesn’t even see the wand slipped through the crack. She finds herself, for the first time in many years, speechless—and, in effect, powerless. For all her skill at wandless magic, she’s never learned how to do nonverbals. She starts to think that this might, perhaps, represent a serious flaw in her magical education, but then the door opens wider and there is that pale face with the burning black eyes, the prominent hooked nose, the curtains of greasy-looking black hair, and the thin, sneering lips. Then she does see the wand, because it is pointed right at her chest, and then she sees nothing at all….
***
Snape peers quickly to the left and to the right, then drags the unconscious woman over the threshold. He props her roughly against the wall while he shuts and locks the door, then manages to half-drag, half-carry her over to the threadbare sofa. After he’s unburdened himself, he sinks into the armchair, his hands almost frantically running through his hair. He grabs the nearest glass of wine and downs it in one go.
Bromley? Can she be a relative? Her hair is similar enough in texture. But no, Brynhild has no natural siblings that he recalls, and she knew nothing of this house—London was their town. He tells himself that it is mere coincidence, that Bromley is a common enough surname. But what of her prattling on about the National Trust and the bloody mill? Has she any idea what that mill did to his family? But no, she can’t possibly, unless…unless she is more than she seems.
Snape studies her motionless form. Kinky, bottle-blonde hair, form-fitting Muggle clothing with ridiculous frills, boots that resemble weapons, a rather sweet little mouth gaudily painted with pink lipstick—really, she does seem to be dressed more like a whore than a preservationist, but what would he know? It’s not as if he has experience with such things. He wouldn’t go within spitting distance of a whore, and he’s never lived anywhere worth preserving. Except, of course, for Hogwarts.
The more pressing matter, though, is what he is going to do with her now, with that pathetic rat upstairs and the ruddy Black sisters mere feet away. Wormtail will be suspicious and Narcissa will no doubt take one look at the woman, wrinkle up her nose, and jump to all the wrong conclusions. As for Bellatrix, she’s so unstable Snape hasn’t a clue what her reaction will be, but he suspects that it will involve torture. Think, Severus, think. What possible explanation can there be for an unconscious, provocatively dressed young woman on your sofa?
***
Shik. Shik. Shik. Bellatrix runs the tip of her wand idly over the dusty tins stacked in the cupboard.
“Will you kindly stop that!” Narcissa says.
“What? You object to me having a peep in slippery Snape’s cupboards? I still don’t trust him, you know.”
“No, Bella, you can go through his rubbish bin for all I care, but that noise is driving me mad.” She glances nervously toward the door that leads to the front room. “Who do you think it is?”
“Guilty conscience, dear sister?”
Narcissa bites her lip and glares at Bellatrix. “I’d never expect you to understand what it is like to be a mother, Bella. There are loyalties, and then there are loyalties. You know that Draco is too young, too inexperienced for this task.”
“You dare to question the Dark Lord’s plan?”
“No! But I am questioning your belief that this is his true plan. Do you really think that this is anything more than a diversion, a punishment for our family’s perceived failures?” Narcissa leans toward her sister. “And as Severus has so aptly reminded us, Bella, for all your talk of my husband’s faults, you have also failed the Dark Lord of late.”
Bellatrix slams the cupboard door shut.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this!” she says savagely. “Why, this wallpaper alone will be the death of me if I have to stare at it much longer. I’m going to see what he’s up to.” She takes a step toward the door, then pauses and looks her sister in the eye.
“But you are right about one thing—Draco has not received the proper training. I shall attempt to rectify that over the remainder of the summer holidays.” Bellatrix turns away, pointing her wand at the door. She does not see the look of fear that mars her sister’s pretty face.
***
“Oho! What’s this?” Bella cackles as she bursts through the door. “Oh, Cissy!” she calls back over her shoulder. “You must come see this—it seems you are not the only one who is in need of a knight in slimy armour.”
Snape does not look up.
“I thought I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
“Oh, you’ve told us all sort of things this evening, haven’t you, Snape? But I’m still less than inclined to believe you, and getting even less inclined by the minute. Who is this person? And what in Salazar’s name is she wearing—is it…oh, no, that’s too much…is it a Muggle whore? ” She begins to laugh wildly.
“Severus?” Narcissa peers through the doorway. “What is going on? Who is she?”
Snape stands and faces the two women.
“She is none of your concern,” he says softly. “Merely a source of ingredients that arrived a day early.” He looks Narcissa in the eye. “I’m very sorry you had to see this, Narcissa. If you will wait in the kitchen a minute or two longer I will have her put in my workroom and we can continue our discussion. I believe you had some concerns about Draco?”
“Oh, my sister and I sorted that out during our little forced exile in that horrid place you call a kitchen, Snape,” Bellatrix says. “I shall be taking the boy in hand myself until he goes back to that excuse for a school. By that time he should be more than able to carry out the task the Dark Lord has set him. You’ll only be a hindrance to him. Come, Cissy, let’s leave and let Snape get on with his slicing and dicing. Frankly, I can’t stand a minute more of this Muggle dungheap.”
Narcissa follows her sister wordlessly, but she casts Snape a long look.
He hurries to show them out, and as she passes through the door, he whispers, “I shall keep an eye on him, nonetheless. And please don’t hesitate to contact me privately,” he flicks his eyes toward the back of Bellatrix’s head, “with any concerns.” She nods, almost imperceptibly, and the Black sisters fade away into the mist.
After they are gone, Snape goes to stand behind the sofa, gazing down at its unconscious occupant.
“Bromelia Bromley,” he murmurs. “What to do? What to do? And more importantly, will anyone miss you?”
Bromelia Bromley…Bromelia. A wicked smile creeps across his face. He points his wand at her for the third time this evening.
“Fioverus botanicus…Bromelia humilis!”
He tucks his wand back into his robes, bends down, and carefully lifts from the seat of the sofa a small earthenware pot, which contains a strange, spiky plant. Its stiff, waxy leaves are barbed along the edges, like razor wire, and they radiate from a central place, and all around this central place they are stained crimson, as if to draw one’s attention to the indecency that lies within—the little nest of pale, pink, fleshy petals that are thrusting forth, gaping open, offering themselves. Snape shudders.
“Wormtail,” Snape calls. “Wormtail, come here! I have something for you.”
A minute later the hidden door behind the armchair opens, and a small man steps into the room. His blinks his watery eyes and looks warily at Snape.
Snape walks briskly round the sofa and approaches the cringing man.
“Look what Narcissa’s brought you.”
The man’s head snaps up, his pointy nose twitching, his eyes wide.
“Now, don’t get too excited and wet yourself; she actually brought it for me. However, as I can’t stand the sight of the thing, I’m going to let you keep it in your bedroom.”
Snape holds the odd little plant out and the smaller man reaches for it with his mismatched hands—the one of grubby pink flesh and the other of shining silver. Snape snatches it back at the last instant.
“And don’t over-water it, like you did my philodendron,” he snaps. “It is a gift from Narcissa Malfoy, after all. I’d hate for her to enquire after it and have to tell her that it died.”
Wormtail glares at Snape with red-rimmed eyes, but he nods, and Snape gives him the plant. Wormtail clutches the pot to his chest, looking lovingly down at its contents.
“You may return to your room now—off you go, scurry scurry,” Snape says. He watches the pathetic figure turn and begins to climb the stairs. “Don’t over-water it,” he repeats menacingly.
***
It is a week later, and Snape sits across from Dumbledore in one of the upstairs guest rooms at the Hog’s Head. Between them, a fire blazes in the grate that would normally be cold and bare this far into the summer. Snape has already made his report and given Dumbledore the latest dose for his withered hand, but he knows that the old wizard wants something further from him. It is no accident that the headmaster has chosen to meet in this particular room—it is meant to remind Snape of what he’d once been, of what he’d once done, of what he still owes to the owner of the blue eyes. The blue eyes that are trained on him even now. The blue eyes that never leave him alone. Snape rises from his chair.
“Well, if there is nothing further…?”
“I am troubled by what you’ve told me of this visit, Severus. Do you think you managed to allay Bellatrix’s suspicions?”
“Bellatrix Lestrange is completely unhinged. Nothing I say will ever satisfy her, but I think I have managed to plant sufficient doubts in her mind about her own importance to the Dark Lord. She’ll keep her opinions of me quiet for now—at least outside of the family. I am more worried about the influence she’ll have on Draco.”
“Yes, that concerns me also.” Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully. “You say you were interrupted before you could discover the nature of Voldemort’s plans for the boy?”
“Yes,” Snape says, looking away from Dumbledore and into the fire.
“Well, never mind, Severus, never mind. I imagine we’ll get a hint of it soon enough, and it is probably better for you that you didn’t get involved. You’ve plenty on your plate as it is, and the last thing you need is to get caught in the middle of the Black sisters’ ‘good witch, bad witch’ routine. I know how prettily persuasive Narcissa can be, and Bellatrix knows that you can hardly resist a direct challenge. Why, they might have backed you into a corner, my dear boy, or ensnared you in some nefarious scheme! I’d say whoever caused that interruption has done you a real favor.”
Snape glances back at the headmaster, his dark eyes mere slits in his face.
“I never said that it was a person, Albus,” he says softly.
“No, you didn’t,” Dumbledore admits, locking eyes with his former Potions master. “By the way, one of the newest members of the Order seems to have gone missing. Her flat was found undisturbed and her motorbike was still stored in a neighbor’s shed, but no one has seen her, and she’s failed to report back to Tonks.”
“I told you Beryl Bunbury was much too unreliable to be of any use to us. You should have left her in Shropshire.”
“It wasn’t Bunbury. It was a young woman called Bromelia Bromley.”
“Bromley?” Snape sits down abruptly, his thin lips pinched, his brow furrowed. Oh, bugger!
“Yes, Severus. And her last assignment was…well, it was you.”
“Me?” Double bugger!
“Yes. I can’t afford to have anything happen to you at this stage, Severus. I know you can handle yourself, but a little extra protection is never amiss. Tonks was supposed to do it, but she’s been a bit under the weather lately, so I sent Bromley.”
“I am so very glad, Albus, that you care enough the send only the best and the brightest,” Snape says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Now, Severus, I’m not going to lie and tell you that Order members were queuing up for the assignment, but it was actually a very logical choice. You’ve never met her and she excels at wandless magic and Legilimency, both skills that come in handy if one is attempting the surveillance of a wizard living in a Muggle environment. She is really quite an uncommon young woman, Severus. We expect great things from her.”
“She seemed common enough to me,” Snape mumbles.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You have seen her then?” Dumbledore looks piercingly at his former Potions master.
“I…look, I...damn!” Snape glowers at the older wizard for a moment or two longer, then draws himself up haughtily, smoothing the sleeves of his robes.
“You should have told me,” he says, rising. “If I am not made aware of a fellow Order member’s presence in my neighborhood, then I cannot be responsible for what happens to her.”
“Oh, Severus,” Dumbledore whispers, “what have you done?”
“It just so happens…” Snape pauses, a faint blush staining his cheeks.
“Severus...?”
“It just so happens,” he rushes on, “that there is nothing the matter with Miss Bromley that a few simple spells won’t cure.” He stalks quickly to the door and yanks it open. He looks back over his shoulder at his puzzled employer and adds, “Provided, of course, that she hasn’t succumbed to crown rot. Wormtail will insist on over-watering. Good day.”
*** THE END ***
Notes:
The Quarry Bank Mill and Styal Estate: Real! http://www.quarrybankmill.org.uk/
Fioverus botanicus… : Fake. My slapdash Latin/Spanish (Splattin?) spell, meaning, “Assume the true botanical form of…”
Bromelia humilis is just one of the many species of this plant that I found through a Google image search. I liked its colouring and the implied wordplay… Bromelia humilis/humiliate Bromelia…eh?
As for the Wilde things, I imagine you spotted them all, so all I’ll do here is admit to terribly misquoting the man (except at the beginning) and turning good old Bunbury into a woman.
***
I think Grainne and I have different opinions about what constitutes “poor imitation” :-). I am (to switch to a Wildean mode) utterly delighted with my prize and thrilled to be the recipient of a custom-made humorous tale – and to have finally discovered why on earth she did research into National Heritage projects for a story about my silly Sue (she had announced the fact and I really didn’t have a clue).
As for the Sue, I have to confess she hasn’t been created specifically for this story. Once upon a time I was dead serious about her. I don’t have the scars, but at least the sketches to prove it. Bromelia popped onto the page amid my very earliest Snape doodles, and some of my first fanfic plans evolved around her. She was to have rooms in the same house that served as Snape’s London hideout, and they were supposed to, you know, fall for each other, for what else is the purpose of a Sue?
Bromelia as a Hogwarts first year student
I assure you that Bromelia as I conceived her was every bit as horrible as she appears in Uncommon Flower - but I took her too seriously ever to come up with anything remotely as humorous as Grainne’s delicious tale. I wouldn’t have thought of sweeping her ‘speshul powahs’ under the carpet in a few swift moves, and somehow it never crossed my mind how infinitely irritating and abhorrent Snape would find her… Ah, the days of my Suethordom – I was so innocent and ignorant then :-D. It was only when I stumbled across Rugi and Gwena’s hilarious Tough Guide to Harry Potter that I saw how many clichés I had heaped one upon the other while inventing Bromelia. I blushed for shame and got rid of the dame.
(How she evolved into Brynhild is another story – I have basked enough in Grainne’s spotlight for today…)
Adult Bromelia – at one point she worked as an air hostess. Um.
I was so amazed and thrilled to see that Grainne crafted a funny, witty, clever story around this abomination. I am very thankful for it, because now at least the sprightly horror has served a great purpose – she has saved Snape from a very dangerous situation (though not quite in the manner she had imagined) and has been the butt of a number of good jokes. What more can a character aspire to? Thank you so much, Grainne!
Oh, and I wonder if you will let me borrow Beryl Bunbury. There are distinct possibilities in her profile. :-)
_vocalion_'s ArtPad contest. Grainne wrote a Sue of my making into Chapter Two of HBP, and the result is as delicious as chocolate with hazelnuts. Enjoy!“Spinner’s End” Revised
by
Grainne
Dedicated to Sigune, who kindly lends her to well-established talents to the ephemeral world of ArtPad.
***
Disclaimers:
The Bromleys officially belong to Sigune (although I’m not sure if she’ll want Bromelia back); all other major characters in the story belong to JKR. The beginning of the second section, up until Bromelia’s arrival, is transcribed almost directly from the canon (I have changed the verb tenses and inserted some of Snape’s thoughts). Everything else is my own damn fault, including my poor imitation of Sigune’s sly humour and gorgeous writing style. I have inserted a few references to the words and works of a certain notorious wit, so in the event that the story fails to amuse, one can at least have fun finding where the Wilde things are.
Sue/Story Summary:
Bromelia Bromley has a spirit as irrepressible as her frizzy hair, a wardrobe any streetwalker would die for, amazing wandless powers, a head for Legilimency, and a penchant for fine Italian boots. What is this perennially perky and dreadfully determined anti-heroine doing in a grotty place like Spinner’s End? And, more importantly, will she be at all welcome on an evening when that street’s most enigmatic resident is already entertaining some unexpected female company? This is the tale of what happens when one Sue rushes in where most fan authors (rightly) fear to tread—Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Chapter Two.
***
“Flowers are as common in the country as people are in London.”
--Oscar Wilde
“I’ve no idea what he meant by that. I am extraordinary wherever I go.”
--Bromelia Bromley
***
Has there ever been a greater enemy to the up-market Italian boot than the cobbled street of backwater Britain? Especially as it is now, half-obscured by an unseasonable chilly mist, and slick because of it. Bromelia Bromley curses as, yet again, one of her three-inch heels skitters on the uneven surface and catches in a gap between cobbles, causing her to twist her ankle painfully.
“Merde!” When she must swear audibly, Bromelia tries to remember to do it in French.
She has a sneaking suspicion that she’s been given this assignment because she is still fairly new. When she joined up, she’d imagined working somewhere a bit more…well, not glamourous, exactly, but certainly somewhere a bit less blighted. She’s not sure that she’ll ever get the stench of this place—stale fish-and-chips, petrol fumes, rotting cabbage—out of her hair.
On the other hand, her usual complaint about the lack of action is no longer valid. She shivers, thinking of that poor little fox, and whispers a spell to ease the pain in her ankle. She then pats her unruly golden hair—frizzier than usual due to the mist, smoothes down the front of her blouse, and sets off toward the light in the window of the house on Spinner’s End.
Bromelia knows she is not supposed to interfere, but she doesn’t like the dark one, the one called Bella. She saw what that one did to the fox, heard the words of mistrust she uttered to her sister when she thought they were alone in the street. And besides, Bromelia wasted an entire afternoon in a Muggle library (when she could have been browsing the shoe department at Harvey Nicks) coming up with a good cover story, should the need arise for more direct contact. She won’t interfere. She’ll give them fifteen or twenty minutes and then, if they are still there, she’ll put herself in a position to better assess the situation. She grins. She keeps hearing that this one is a master Occlumens. She will see about that.
Narcissa looks up at Snape, her face eloquent with despair.
“Severus, I—I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and…” She closes her eyes and two large tears seep from beneath her eyelids.
Snape is disgusted to find that his cold heart lurches, only the tiniest bit, at this display. He then curses silently when he realizes the true motivation behind his feelings. She is like a bastardized version of Brynhild, he thinks. She has the right build, the right colouring, but none of the glorious sharp edges.
“The Dark Lord had forbidden me to speak of it,” Narcissa continues, her eyes still closed. “He wishes none to know of the plan. It is…very secret. But—”
“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak. The Dark Lord’s word is law.”
Narcissa gasps as though he has doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looks satisfied for the first time since she has entered the house.
“There!” she says triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!”
But Snape has gotten to his feet. He strides to the small window and peers through the curtains at the deserted street…wait…make that nearly-deserted. There is a figure approaching through the mist, a female figure. Snape blinks and looks again. No, now there is nothing.
Snape shakes his head to clear it. He must be going mad. He takes one more glance at the street and closes the curtains with a jerk. If there is a woman out there, it is likely only a whore, and there is no possible reason a whore would ever come to his house. He turns to face Narcissa, frowning.
“It so happens that I know of the plan,” he says in a low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.”
“I thought you must know about it!” Narcissa says, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus….”
“You know about the plan?” Bellatrix says, her fleeting expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “You know?”
“Certainly,” Snape says.
But, of course, he doesn’t. Oh, he could take an educated guess or two and land near the mark—the Dark Lord’s ultimate goals, after all, are few in number—but the details would be a bit more tricky to conjure up. Not to worry though; Snape is sure that between the fair and the raven-haired, between the desperate and the delusional, the sisters Black will provide him with all the details he needs.
“But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you imagine that I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”
“Severus,” she whispers, tears sliding down her pale cheeks, hands stretched out beseechingly. “My son…”
There is a sudden knocking at the door. This is no bird-like rapping, no furtive tapping, but a healthy knock of the kind rarely heard in Spinner’s End, even before the mill shut down. This knock has a horrible determined optimism about it.
Bellatrix hisses and whirls toward the source of the noise, her hand jumping to her wand. Narcissa pulls her hands back into her lap as if they’ve been slapped. She looks to Severus for guidance, fright evident on her porcelain features.
Snape puts one long, pale finger to his lips and glares at Bellatrix. So he did see someone in the street. Well, with any luck the stranger will go away and he will be able to salvage the moment, calm Bellatrix, and talk Narcissa back round to how the Dark Lord is planning to use the son, now that the father is useless.
But Severus Snape has no luck. After a moment of silence the knock sounds again, louder.
“Expecting someone, Snape?” Bellatrix says, her eyes narrowing.
“No.”
“Good. Then you’ll not mind if we give whoever it is a proper greeting,” Bellatrix says with an unbecoming leer. She takes a step toward the door, but Snape swiftly moves to block her. He draws himself up to his full height.
“Yes, I do mind,” he says imperiously. “This is my home, Bellatrix, and while you are in it you will do as I say. I will handle this. Now, if you do not wish to be seen, I suggest you go through to the kitchen.” He waves his wand at a section of bookshelf and a door reveals itself.
Bellatrix looks almost feral—her nostrils flared wide, rough patches of colour appearing on her cheeks, but Narcissa stands up and grabs her sister by the arm, tugging her toward the kitchen.
“Come on, Bella,” she whispers angrily.
“And don’t touch anything!” Snape warns, earning a nasty smile from Bellatrix. “For your own health,” he adds silkily, and her smile vanishes.
He walks unhurriedly to the door. He assumes that the stranger is lost—or perhaps injured and desperate. She might also be part of a scam. It makes no matter to Snape. Whoever she is and whatever the circumstances, the silly tart will pay for the trouble she is causing him.
It is only a door. Plain, unwelcoming, and exactly like all the others in the street, save the details of its wear. However, something about it gives Bromelia pause. She feels the familiar prickling sensation just behind her eyes, beneath her breastbone, and in the pit of her stomach—a slow uncoiling, a blossoming. A warning. There is powerful magic here. Brilliant—her first real test! She makes a fist and pounds merrily upon the darkened wood.
Several minutes (and rounds of knocking) later, the door opens a crack. Bromelia takes half a step back, looks up expectantly, and arranges her mouth into a sweet smile. When the crack does not widen, when the only thing she can see is a dark shadow and a length of unkempt hair, her confidence falters the tiniest bit. But she presses on. She knows that she who hesitates is one silly witch…or something like that.
“Good evening,” she says cheerily and waits for the door to open wider. There is a long pause, during which Bromelia hears him breathing, but still the crack does not widen. Open the door, you ninny, I need to see your eyes. She steps closer and repeats her greeting, a little louder this time.
“Good evening!”
“No, it is not,” he hisses suddenly. “Go away.”
The door slams shut.
Bromelia jumps; having the door slammed in her face wasn’t exactly part of her plan. However, she will not be so easily dismissed. She can tell from his voice that he is tense, irritated. She knits her elegant brows together and glares at the door, concentrating. She can’t pick up any additional emotions, but she can sense that he is still standing on the other side of the door, waiting to see what she’ll do. She raises her fist to knock once more.
No sooner has flesh touched wood than the crack—and the shadow—reappear.
“Are you lost, madam?” he says in a low, unctuous tone.
“No, sir,” Bromelia says brightly, trying to ignore the slight feeling of unease that has developed in the pit of her stomach. “My name is Bromelia Bromley, and I am here to ask for your support in encouraging your local council to turn the mill over to the National Trust so that it might be restored, preserved, and enjoyed by the public for generations to come.” She accompanies her speech with graceful hand gestures.
Bromelia thinks she hears a choking sound, but she also notes that the crack has opened a bit wider, so she presses on. Go on, open wide, you misanthropic gloomy-pants. Let me see those beady black eyes.
“The northern textile industry is a vital part of Britain’s story, and our architects and historians have determined that the mill here, while a bit run-down, is a lovely example of Victorian industrial architecture. With proper restoration and care, it could once more become a beacon of pride in this community. You may be aware, sir, of the National Trust’s success with a similar property in Cheshire—the Quarry Bank Mill and Styal Estate? It draws hundreds of thousands of visitors a year, and has brought a considerable economic boost to the region. And the National Trust makes a point of hiring locally, so you and your family…”
“Silencio!”
It happens so fast that Bromelia doesn’t even see the wand slipped through the crack. She finds herself, for the first time in many years, speechless—and, in effect, powerless. For all her skill at wandless magic, she’s never learned how to do nonverbals. She starts to think that this might, perhaps, represent a serious flaw in her magical education, but then the door opens wider and there is that pale face with the burning black eyes, the prominent hooked nose, the curtains of greasy-looking black hair, and the thin, sneering lips. Then she does see the wand, because it is pointed right at her chest, and then she sees nothing at all….
Snape peers quickly to the left and to the right, then drags the unconscious woman over the threshold. He props her roughly against the wall while he shuts and locks the door, then manages to half-drag, half-carry her over to the threadbare sofa. After he’s unburdened himself, he sinks into the armchair, his hands almost frantically running through his hair. He grabs the nearest glass of wine and downs it in one go.
Bromley? Can she be a relative? Her hair is similar enough in texture. But no, Brynhild has no natural siblings that he recalls, and she knew nothing of this house—London was their town. He tells himself that it is mere coincidence, that Bromley is a common enough surname. But what of her prattling on about the National Trust and the bloody mill? Has she any idea what that mill did to his family? But no, she can’t possibly, unless…unless she is more than she seems.
Snape studies her motionless form. Kinky, bottle-blonde hair, form-fitting Muggle clothing with ridiculous frills, boots that resemble weapons, a rather sweet little mouth gaudily painted with pink lipstick—really, she does seem to be dressed more like a whore than a preservationist, but what would he know? It’s not as if he has experience with such things. He wouldn’t go within spitting distance of a whore, and he’s never lived anywhere worth preserving. Except, of course, for Hogwarts.
The more pressing matter, though, is what he is going to do with her now, with that pathetic rat upstairs and the ruddy Black sisters mere feet away. Wormtail will be suspicious and Narcissa will no doubt take one look at the woman, wrinkle up her nose, and jump to all the wrong conclusions. As for Bellatrix, she’s so unstable Snape hasn’t a clue what her reaction will be, but he suspects that it will involve torture. Think, Severus, think. What possible explanation can there be for an unconscious, provocatively dressed young woman on your sofa?
Shik. Shik. Shik. Bellatrix runs the tip of her wand idly over the dusty tins stacked in the cupboard.
“Will you kindly stop that!” Narcissa says.
“What? You object to me having a peep in slippery Snape’s cupboards? I still don’t trust him, you know.”
“No, Bella, you can go through his rubbish bin for all I care, but that noise is driving me mad.” She glances nervously toward the door that leads to the front room. “Who do you think it is?”
“Guilty conscience, dear sister?”
Narcissa bites her lip and glares at Bellatrix. “I’d never expect you to understand what it is like to be a mother, Bella. There are loyalties, and then there are loyalties. You know that Draco is too young, too inexperienced for this task.”
“You dare to question the Dark Lord’s plan?”
“No! But I am questioning your belief that this is his true plan. Do you really think that this is anything more than a diversion, a punishment for our family’s perceived failures?” Narcissa leans toward her sister. “And as Severus has so aptly reminded us, Bella, for all your talk of my husband’s faults, you have also failed the Dark Lord of late.”
Bellatrix slams the cupboard door shut.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this!” she says savagely. “Why, this wallpaper alone will be the death of me if I have to stare at it much longer. I’m going to see what he’s up to.” She takes a step toward the door, then pauses and looks her sister in the eye.
“But you are right about one thing—Draco has not received the proper training. I shall attempt to rectify that over the remainder of the summer holidays.” Bellatrix turns away, pointing her wand at the door. She does not see the look of fear that mars her sister’s pretty face.
“Oho! What’s this?” Bella cackles as she bursts through the door. “Oh, Cissy!” she calls back over her shoulder. “You must come see this—it seems you are not the only one who is in need of a knight in slimy armour.”
Snape does not look up.
“I thought I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
“Oh, you’ve told us all sort of things this evening, haven’t you, Snape? But I’m still less than inclined to believe you, and getting even less inclined by the minute. Who is this person? And what in Salazar’s name is she wearing—is it…oh, no, that’s too much…is it a Muggle whore? ” She begins to laugh wildly.
“Severus?” Narcissa peers through the doorway. “What is going on? Who is she?”
Snape stands and faces the two women.
“She is none of your concern,” he says softly. “Merely a source of ingredients that arrived a day early.” He looks Narcissa in the eye. “I’m very sorry you had to see this, Narcissa. If you will wait in the kitchen a minute or two longer I will have her put in my workroom and we can continue our discussion. I believe you had some concerns about Draco?”
“Oh, my sister and I sorted that out during our little forced exile in that horrid place you call a kitchen, Snape,” Bellatrix says. “I shall be taking the boy in hand myself until he goes back to that excuse for a school. By that time he should be more than able to carry out the task the Dark Lord has set him. You’ll only be a hindrance to him. Come, Cissy, let’s leave and let Snape get on with his slicing and dicing. Frankly, I can’t stand a minute more of this Muggle dungheap.”
Narcissa follows her sister wordlessly, but she casts Snape a long look.
He hurries to show them out, and as she passes through the door, he whispers, “I shall keep an eye on him, nonetheless. And please don’t hesitate to contact me privately,” he flicks his eyes toward the back of Bellatrix’s head, “with any concerns.” She nods, almost imperceptibly, and the Black sisters fade away into the mist.
After they are gone, Snape goes to stand behind the sofa, gazing down at its unconscious occupant.
“Bromelia Bromley,” he murmurs. “What to do? What to do? And more importantly, will anyone miss you?”
Bromelia Bromley…Bromelia. A wicked smile creeps across his face. He points his wand at her for the third time this evening.
“Fioverus botanicus…Bromelia humilis!”
He tucks his wand back into his robes, bends down, and carefully lifts from the seat of the sofa a small earthenware pot, which contains a strange, spiky plant. Its stiff, waxy leaves are barbed along the edges, like razor wire, and they radiate from a central place, and all around this central place they are stained crimson, as if to draw one’s attention to the indecency that lies within—the little nest of pale, pink, fleshy petals that are thrusting forth, gaping open, offering themselves. Snape shudders.
“Wormtail,” Snape calls. “Wormtail, come here! I have something for you.”
A minute later the hidden door behind the armchair opens, and a small man steps into the room. His blinks his watery eyes and looks warily at Snape.
Snape walks briskly round the sofa and approaches the cringing man.
“Look what Narcissa’s brought you.”
The man’s head snaps up, his pointy nose twitching, his eyes wide.
“Now, don’t get too excited and wet yourself; she actually brought it for me. However, as I can’t stand the sight of the thing, I’m going to let you keep it in your bedroom.”
Snape holds the odd little plant out and the smaller man reaches for it with his mismatched hands—the one of grubby pink flesh and the other of shining silver. Snape snatches it back at the last instant.
“And don’t over-water it, like you did my philodendron,” he snaps. “It is a gift from Narcissa Malfoy, after all. I’d hate for her to enquire after it and have to tell her that it died.”
Wormtail glares at Snape with red-rimmed eyes, but he nods, and Snape gives him the plant. Wormtail clutches the pot to his chest, looking lovingly down at its contents.
“You may return to your room now—off you go, scurry scurry,” Snape says. He watches the pathetic figure turn and begins to climb the stairs. “Don’t over-water it,” he repeats menacingly.
It is a week later, and Snape sits across from Dumbledore in one of the upstairs guest rooms at the Hog’s Head. Between them, a fire blazes in the grate that would normally be cold and bare this far into the summer. Snape has already made his report and given Dumbledore the latest dose for his withered hand, but he knows that the old wizard wants something further from him. It is no accident that the headmaster has chosen to meet in this particular room—it is meant to remind Snape of what he’d once been, of what he’d once done, of what he still owes to the owner of the blue eyes. The blue eyes that are trained on him even now. The blue eyes that never leave him alone. Snape rises from his chair.
“Well, if there is nothing further…?”
“I am troubled by what you’ve told me of this visit, Severus. Do you think you managed to allay Bellatrix’s suspicions?”
“Bellatrix Lestrange is completely unhinged. Nothing I say will ever satisfy her, but I think I have managed to plant sufficient doubts in her mind about her own importance to the Dark Lord. She’ll keep her opinions of me quiet for now—at least outside of the family. I am more worried about the influence she’ll have on Draco.”
“Yes, that concerns me also.” Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully. “You say you were interrupted before you could discover the nature of Voldemort’s plans for the boy?”
“Yes,” Snape says, looking away from Dumbledore and into the fire.
“Well, never mind, Severus, never mind. I imagine we’ll get a hint of it soon enough, and it is probably better for you that you didn’t get involved. You’ve plenty on your plate as it is, and the last thing you need is to get caught in the middle of the Black sisters’ ‘good witch, bad witch’ routine. I know how prettily persuasive Narcissa can be, and Bellatrix knows that you can hardly resist a direct challenge. Why, they might have backed you into a corner, my dear boy, or ensnared you in some nefarious scheme! I’d say whoever caused that interruption has done you a real favor.”
Snape glances back at the headmaster, his dark eyes mere slits in his face.
“I never said that it was a person, Albus,” he says softly.
“No, you didn’t,” Dumbledore admits, locking eyes with his former Potions master. “By the way, one of the newest members of the Order seems to have gone missing. Her flat was found undisturbed and her motorbike was still stored in a neighbor’s shed, but no one has seen her, and she’s failed to report back to Tonks.”
“I told you Beryl Bunbury was much too unreliable to be of any use to us. You should have left her in Shropshire.”
“It wasn’t Bunbury. It was a young woman called Bromelia Bromley.”
“Bromley?” Snape sits down abruptly, his thin lips pinched, his brow furrowed. Oh, bugger!
“Yes, Severus. And her last assignment was…well, it was you.”
“Me?” Double bugger!
“Yes. I can’t afford to have anything happen to you at this stage, Severus. I know you can handle yourself, but a little extra protection is never amiss. Tonks was supposed to do it, but she’s been a bit under the weather lately, so I sent Bromley.”
“I am so very glad, Albus, that you care enough the send only the best and the brightest,” Snape says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Now, Severus, I’m not going to lie and tell you that Order members were queuing up for the assignment, but it was actually a very logical choice. You’ve never met her and she excels at wandless magic and Legilimency, both skills that come in handy if one is attempting the surveillance of a wizard living in a Muggle environment. She is really quite an uncommon young woman, Severus. We expect great things from her.”
“She seemed common enough to me,” Snape mumbles.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You have seen her then?” Dumbledore looks piercingly at his former Potions master.
“I…look, I...damn!” Snape glowers at the older wizard for a moment or two longer, then draws himself up haughtily, smoothing the sleeves of his robes.
“You should have told me,” he says, rising. “If I am not made aware of a fellow Order member’s presence in my neighborhood, then I cannot be responsible for what happens to her.”
“Oh, Severus,” Dumbledore whispers, “what have you done?”
“It just so happens…” Snape pauses, a faint blush staining his cheeks.
“Severus...?”
“It just so happens,” he rushes on, “that there is nothing the matter with Miss Bromley that a few simple spells won’t cure.” He stalks quickly to the door and yanks it open. He looks back over his shoulder at his puzzled employer and adds, “Provided, of course, that she hasn’t succumbed to crown rot. Wormtail will insist on over-watering. Good day.”
Notes:
The Quarry Bank Mill and Styal Estate: Real! http://www.quarrybankmill.org.uk/
Fioverus botanicus… : Fake. My slapdash Latin/Spanish (Splattin?) spell, meaning, “Assume the true botanical form of…”
Bromelia humilis is just one of the many species of this plant that I found through a Google image search. I liked its colouring and the implied wordplay… Bromelia humilis/humiliate Bromelia…eh?
As for the Wilde things, I imagine you spotted them all, so all I’ll do here is admit to terribly misquoting the man (except at the beginning) and turning good old Bunbury into a woman.
I think Grainne and I have different opinions about what constitutes “poor imitation” :-). I am (to switch to a Wildean mode) utterly delighted with my prize and thrilled to be the recipient of a custom-made humorous tale – and to have finally discovered why on earth she did research into National Heritage projects for a story about my silly Sue (she had announced the fact and I really didn’t have a clue).
As for the Sue, I have to confess she hasn’t been created specifically for this story. Once upon a time I was dead serious about her. I don’t have the scars, but at least the sketches to prove it. Bromelia popped onto the page amid my very earliest Snape doodles, and some of my first fanfic plans evolved around her. She was to have rooms in the same house that served as Snape’s London hideout, and they were supposed to, you know, fall for each other, for what else is the purpose of a Sue?
Bromelia as a Hogwarts first year studentI assure you that Bromelia as I conceived her was every bit as horrible as she appears in Uncommon Flower - but I took her too seriously ever to come up with anything remotely as humorous as Grainne’s delicious tale. I wouldn’t have thought of sweeping her ‘speshul powahs’ under the carpet in a few swift moves, and somehow it never crossed my mind how infinitely irritating and abhorrent Snape would find her… Ah, the days of my Suethordom – I was so innocent and ignorant then :-D. It was only when I stumbled across Rugi and Gwena’s hilarious Tough Guide to Harry Potter that I saw how many clichés I had heaped one upon the other while inventing Bromelia. I blushed for shame and got rid of the dame.
(How she evolved into Brynhild is another story – I have basked enough in Grainne’s spotlight for today…)
Adult Bromelia – at one point she worked as an air hostess. Um.I was so amazed and thrilled to see that Grainne crafted a funny, witty, clever story around this abomination. I am very thankful for it, because now at least the sprightly horror has served a great purpose – she has saved Snape from a very dangerous situation (though not quite in the manner she had imagined) and has been the butt of a number of good jokes. What more can a character aspire to? Thank you so much, Grainne!
Oh, and I wonder if you will let me borrow Beryl Bunbury. There are distinct possibilities in her profile. :-)
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Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 01:54 pm (UTC)Has there ever been a greater enemy to the up-market Italian boot than the cobbled street of backwater Britain? Especially as it is now, half-obscured by an unseasonable chilly mist, and slick because of it.
Move aside "Call me Ishmael". If there has ever been a finer opening line to a story, I would like to know of it.
Two words Grainne: Submit this.
And as for Bromelia, Sigune, even your conceptual rejections are better than most fanficcers' finished products.
What a lovely treat to wake up to! :-)
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Date: Thursday, 22 September 2005 08:41 am (UTC)The whole story is brilliant - I wouldn't have dared to dream it would be so ... complete. Also, Grainne is being FAR too modest in the claims she makes for it; I couldn't have written anything of the kind if I tried - so far for 'poor imitation'. When I set her the task I thought, "Goodness, what am I asking?" but she returned triumphant :-).
As for Bromelia, I must say that Grainne takes the credit for all the charm she possesses. She would have been a dead bore in my hands.
PS: You've got to love Bellatrix and the wallpaper!
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Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 02:23 pm (UTC)I want a contest I can win. :-( Everybody is winning cool stuff but me.
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Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 02:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 22 September 2005 08:53 am (UTC)I think Uncommon Flower proves that in the hands of a good author, even a Sue can be a great read. I'm delighted.
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Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 08:32 pm (UTC)I much prefer your Bromelia, visually; that dolly site could learn a thing or two about hair from you. I imagine young Bromelia acidentally swatting Snape in the nose with one of those big poufs, and I can just see adult Bromelia saying, "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remain in your seat with your seatbelt fastened...OR ELSE!"
And I, for one, would love to hear more about how Bromelia became Brynhild, if you'd care to share.
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Date: Wednesday, 21 September 2005 11:00 pm (UTC)RE: I second this!
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Date: Thursday, 22 September 2005 09:07 am (UTC)Bromelia's hair is the only thing I still like about her - though, well, after reading her in your story, I find her a lot more attractive *grins*. Still, I couldn't possibly improve on, or even equal, what you did with her, so I'd better leave her in her 'Uncommon Flower' shape.
If you're curious about it, I will post Bromelia's transformation. I just wasn't sure anyone would be interested in my OFC.
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Date: Friday, 23 September 2005 03:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Monday, 26 September 2005 08:24 pm (UTC)