The Writer's Retreat

Where is Sare?

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 22:10:28 GMT

She's at her new blog. Which isn't on lj, but there will be fic and interesting convo in the offing, so do check her out:

http://revsarey.wordpress.com

Where has Sare Gone?

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 20:25:20 GMT

Where has Sarey gone to? Wordpress. Go check her out at revsarey.wordpress.com ... It's likely she shan't be posting on lj anymore...

Much love,
Sarey

Have Parish, Will Travel

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 15:44:09 GMT

Hey, yall!

Yes, I'm starting a new position shortly - Vicar of Holy Apostles in the Town of Tonawanda, New York. :) I'm totally excited. It's a brand new parish - starting in the building of a parish that recently left the diocese. We were apparently just slightly too liberal for them. Well, I wish them well. (No, seriously, I do.)

There is a new website - it's nothing yet, but shall get more spiffier as the days march on. http://holyapostles.wordpress.com/ We have a domain reserved, but I haven't migrated things over yet to holyapostlesmission.org, but that's on the todo list.

Such a list, and yet, i haven't offically started working there yet. Still, better to get these things done early, than shoot yourself in the foot when they're not done as you arrive.

Anyway, I start February 1st and I'll spend the week before moving into the Rectory. :) I'm tentatively planning a house blessing for Saturday the 7th, but I'll keep you posted - and there will be an invite on Facebook.

And now, back to the job I presently have and need to finish.

Much love,
Sare

(Who honestly, is writing fic. Just not much.)

Anthropomorphic Personifications

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 21:07:54 GMT

So. I was watching the movie “Ghost Rider” the other day – made from a Marvel Comic, starring Nicholas Cage. According to Netflix, this movie belongs in the Horror genre, but I’m not so sure. Now, I’ll grant you that no one else seems to have this genre but me, but still I say this movie belongs in the ‘Cute Boys Being Theologically Sketchy’ genre. In case you are interested, other movies that also belong to that exalted state include Dogma, The Order, Interview with the Vampire, Queen of the Damned… I trust you are beginning to see a trend? Movies that might be compelling, amusing, or otherwise redeeming stories in and of themselves, but that use an outdated Christian mythology (or, if you will, Very Sketchy Yet Still Somewhat Accepted Theology) as anything from a plot device, to the foundation of the primary plot. Popular themes of outdated Christian mythology (or as I say, VSYSSAT) that crop up in Hollywood on a regular basis includes the following list: supernatural beings as unforgivable creatures, or abominations, (see: most vampire lore, though admittedly not the latest emo offering from Ms. Meyers – thank you, Ma’am, for small favors); demonic beings/possession vs. God’s chosen superhero – clergy, lay, or atheist; Armageddon/end of days; Angels accidentally falling in love (you never hear of dominions falling in love, however).

Now, this is not to say that I don’t get my share of calls for exorcisms – you know I do, just as you know I hand them off to someone who is actually qualified and called to do whatever it is one does when one performs an exorcism or cleansing. Watching this movie, however, got me to thinking. And for those of you who are not in the know, Ghost Rider is based on the Marvel comic of the same name about a young man who accidentally sells his soul to the devil in order to heal his father, who shortly thereafter dies of a completely unrelated accident. The terms of the contract: to be the devil’s bounty hunter, tracking down hellish escapees (because naturally, the devil has no power on earth – don’t tell Job), and sending them back. One could see how this might make a longstanding, though perhaps tedious comic. To liven it up a smidge, add a skeletal motorcycle, a flaming skull for a head, and – please note the quotes – “The Penance Stare”. Ahem. Apparently, the devil usually only hoodwinks those who are greedy enough to agree to his terms, not just young and stupid enough to think a contract signed in blood with a random creepy stranger is going to get your dad through an ugly cancer diagnosis. So, add the plot twist: the Ghost Rider, whose name, yes, is Johnny Blaze, has morals and a conscience and has never been motivated by greed, though sometimes by sheer stupidity. So does he only send back the escapees? No, naturally not. He uses his power for good – and I use that phrase in the loosest of senses. He gets all fired up in the presence of ‘evil’ (literally – his head turns into a ball of flames and he no longer resembles Nicholas Cage so much as a pet project from Industrial Light and Magic), and without lifting a finger, stares them down. In his eyes they experience all of the pain and suffering they have caused in their own lifetime, and simply by virtue of his stare, he acts as judge, jury and executioner, for the person keels over shortly thereafter.

Come to think of it, the Ghost Rider is reminding me of another skeletal rider on a pale steed who shall remain nameless.

And so the movie moves on with an unsatisfying romantic subplot, demonic henchmen that hide in the elements (though clearly the Ghost Rider himself is the missing element of fire), and some theological drivel about the superevil son of the devil (clearly he is not the Diet Coke of Evil) who is trying to open what seems to be the equivalent of a hellmouth, only without the vampires. Blah, blah, blah, guess who wins?

This is all well and good, but the point of the blog was to share my musings on this anthropomorphic personification of humanity’s perceived separation from God – also known as the devil.

You see, it dawned on me that in some ways we as a modern culture (and perhaps this has happened much earlier than I suspect– I haven’t researched it yet, but given works like ‘The Monk’ I imagine there has been quite a foundation for this, laid throughout all of history) have created a minor deity of this figure that in the old testament was merely one of court of the Almighty God, as it was understood in the myth of Job. Between the gospel account of John (written 60-80 years after the fact, and NOT as an eyewitness account), and the Revelation to John (different John, written even later), suddenly we have a devil, a Satan that looks a bit like Caesar and everything that Christians thought to be wrong in the world – a poser god that while obviously unimportant, gets blamed for everything inconvenient to lay at the feet of God, is actively working to undo the justice and peace of creation, and is someone/thing with something like parity to God.

Alternately, the devil is simply seen as some kind of malevolent keeper of the underworld, some kind of Hades perpetually missing his Persephone (which could make any husband cranky, really) and suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder with a focus on passive aggression.

And it’s so easy to see the threads of Roman and Greek mythology. It’s easy to see the threads of even more ancient Mesopotamian legend. It’s easy to see where Greek thought mingled in with the middle ages movement of Scholasticism. It’s easy to see were Enlightenment came in and where and when Science, Rationalism, Modernism, and Quantum Theory all started to affect how we tell ourselves stories of Those Things We Still Don’t Understand.

But where does that leave us? It may be that the old man in a toga on a cloud, the beautiful one in white with wings, the guy with red horns, and the aforementioned skeleton with a scythe on a pale horse are the only remaining anthropomorphic personifications left to us. Certainly, Justice has already been buried and sealed in her tomb. And perhaps there are good, rational, sociological reasons for this shift. But where does that leave us?

Perhaps now we can begin to look at our religious stories with new eyes. (As we were always meant to? As we always do anyway, whether we’re given permission or not?) Perhaps it is time to look at our stories and see what parts of them are trying to teach us the wisdom of the ages, and what part of them are cautionary tales to a danger that no longer exists.

...xposted at work blog...

"Bella's Lullaby" composed by Carter Burwell

Wed, 26 Nov 2008 17:52:06 GMT

One more reason for me to play, again. Beautiful music, man. Beautiful music. Our organist and I were having a conversation about this, and about my inclination to composing. (I know, you'd never know it about me - okay, perhaps a few friends could have guessed it was possible.)

Composing isn't something I'd ever received permission to do, permission being something very important to me, previously. But I've since realized that I don't require anyone's permission to be who I am. And who I am, you may not be surprised to know, is musical. And if I want to try my hand at composing on the piano (as opposed to just in my head), who is going to stop me? Only me.

And yes, it's true that I don't actually own a piano, but it's also true that there are no fewer than four of them in my workplace, and three of the four are grands. And one of them is really quite a nice stienway.

Of course, I'm rusty as all get out, but that is easily remedied. Really, it's about permission. Do I give myself permission to play imperfectly? Do I give myself permission to create? Do I give myself permission to learn and try new things?

It's funny. In voice, or on guitar, I can play - literally, play like a child would play with blocks. It's fun, it's liberating, it's joyful. On the piano... I think I carry so much baggage to the bench, I might need to meditate every time before I sit down. Just to get rid of the baggage.

All that to say, I can't wait for Hal Lenard to release the sheet music of this piece, which they say, will happen by the end of the year.

Yays.

Twittery!Joy

Tue, 11 Nov 2008 00:10:05 GMT

Twitter. Love twitter. Do you love twitter? Do let me know if you do and we'll follow each other. It'll be loverly.

Also, love Adam Ant.

And, love Severus. Am trying not to notice that current love interest looks a lot like Severus.

Also, love Cornish Pasties. Am going to go make some from scratch, right now. Dinner. Also love dinner. My dinner.

Oh, the joy of present mindedness.

Symmetry

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 23:05:49 GMT

Okay. This is cryptic, mayhap, but so it goes.

There was an appropriate symmetry to this convention, between this convention and the one in 2005.

And interestingly enough, the nausea came before I even knew that this symmetry would even exist. It's true that it was an angst-free encounter, (that I knew was coming, even though I didn't know it was coming) and yet I still clearly had 'difficulty stomaching' it, spontaneously, I'm guessing, in response to the vibes of the othe -God knows that I have a some what unfortunate talent of pcking up and absorbing other people's energy. An annoying habit sometimes, but very useful at other moments. After the moment of symmetry there was another bout of nausea, though perhaps it is now past.

So it goes. Bittersweet and beautiful is the growth we engage in as humans walking on our path.

OMFG

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 14:24:43 GMT

It is hard to know where to start, but as we have been given an hours worth of free time to process, I feel that I have plenty of opportunity to remove the horror from my psyche.

I was used to the fact that we blow the proverbial trumpet when we make our offering in front of everyone.

It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic that really got to me. As I am a Yankee, it is nor so much the civil war issues, though perhaps it should be, it is the scary triumphalism. And yes of is true that the tune itself I find familiar and comforting, but that makes the betrayl that much worse. The words are shockingly awful, and I can't help but to wonder .. Who thought that was a good idea?

Some of the people at my table knew the alternate lyrics about the union solidarity, and so occasionally we would sing those instead.

Still, I am off to Starbucks to help erase the horror.

Don't forget to check out Huw's blog about this.

Hmmm... Politics. Church politics.

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 19:41:38 GMT

Huw is also blogging this, with perhaps more insight and eloquence than myself, but so it goes. Anyway. On to the interesting bits.

So, first came the Roll of Shame. All those parishes that haven't gotten something in on time. Do we give them voice and vote? Just voice? Do we give V&V to just those who got their stuff in late?

Or shall we be Ones of Great Snark, and say "to hell with you."...?

Well, we said to hell with some if you. It was interesting, but you wouldn't believe how much time and energy went into that decision. The worst part was when the priests of those parishes (who it must be said, have V&V no matter what) had to get up and grovel, or refuse in front of the entire diocese to do so.

I like politics in theory, but really not in practice. Voting, yes. Legislation, no.

Which is why I am no longer the first alternate to General Convention. Because I have absolutely no interest in politics. :p. None. I was silly to have put my name in in the first place. All I can say is that I didn't know myself. Now I know myself better.

And now our table argues about the count for the running book we're keeping on how many times one of our number goes to the microphone. I think I am going to lose...

Blogging at Convention

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 14:35:30 GMT

So. I am a negligent blogger at the best of times, and mostly for me it is about the fic. In fact you could say that I am here for the fic. You could say that, and you would not be wrong.

But as always, I am inspired by my friends. Really this is why I should always surround myself with friends- they are a constant source of inspiration and impetus. Also, of course, I should surround myself with only the best- one doesn't wish to be inspired to do anything but the highest thought of one's soul. (But I'm doing pretty well at that.)

And so, this intermittent blogger is blogging her experience at Convention, or so far as it is fit to print.

I do feel comforatable in saying that it is pretty cool this year, because I finally know a significant portion of my colleages, tho of course the delegation from the parish is always enough to provide the requisite amusement in a pinch.

And I am working on Shea's Slytyerin House scarf. Just in case you wanted to know.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

Le Sigh.

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 23:42:06 GMT

video.vh1.com

Why?

Because.

Neither exist: the technology, nor the man.

Two Word Meme

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 20:20:15 GMT

A fun survey I picked up from a member of my Autumn Book Group. More on this later. Two word answers, no more, no less…

1. Where is your cell phone? ...............On desk
2. Your significant other?....................completely imaginary
3. Your hair? ..................................pulled back
4. Your mother?...............................stressed out
5. Your brother?...............................what brother?
6. Your favorite thing?.......................good fic
7. Your dream last night?.....................no recollection
8. Your favorite drink?.......................Mate! Mate!
9. Your dream?................................Tony Stark
10. The room you’re in?......................My Office
11. Your ex?....................................Don't mention
12. Your fear?..................................absolutely unrepeatable
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years?....experiencing enlightenement
14. Where were you last night?.............knitting? knitting.
15. What you’re not?.........................many things
16. Muffins?....................................wheat? no.
17. One of your wish list items?............worm composter
18. Where you grew up?.....................Buffalo suburbs
19. The last thing you did?...................work blogged
20. What are you wearing?..................my dinner
21. Your TV?...................................8" screen
22. Your pets?.................................The Boys
23. Your computer?...........................Severus!Mac
24. Your life?..................................still unfolding
25. Your mood?...............................somewhat neutral
26. Missing someone?........................best friends
27. Your car?.................................All-weather Turtle
28. Something you’re not wearing?.......working watch
29. Favorite Store?..........................Home Depot
30. Your summer?............................Summer? Really?
31. Like someone?...........................several someones
32. Your favorite color?....................Periwinkle, mostly
33. Last time you laughed?.................just earlier
34. Last time you cried.....................this week
35. You are with?............................fictive muses
35. Who will re-post this?..................good question

Stranger than Fiction

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 18:53:38 GMT

You know, I was worried about this. The whole, 'Can I really keep up two blogs at once? A work blog and a personal blog?' I was right, I can't. Or, I couldn't. But not at all for the reasons I first supposed. Because what has occured was something that I hadn't considered at all: Nothing on either of them.

Now, sure, I go through periods of waxing and waning interest, attention, and energy. So it goes. But there was something else going on there, in and amongst the fact that the last two years of my life have been slightly more stressful and draining that I would have ever imagined, for reasons entirely personal and familial. And I've finally figured out my conundrum on the blogging issue, avoided so long because of my complete lack of energy to be introspective about it, as would be my norm. Anyway, the issue:

Where does work end and personal begin? Where does personal end and work begin? Boundaries. There are people from work (not staff, but members of the community for which I work) who read this blog, and they are welcome to do so. There are people who read this blog who are purely personal friends and compatriots in writerly and ficcly pursuits. Yet my work is a large part of my personal world view. And certainly, I am asked to give quite a bit of what I might otherwise consider something very personal to my work, particularly in preaching and theological reflection, to say nothing of getting to know other people and their stories.

Frankly, the issue reminds me of one of Huw's blogposts on God and Caesar, and my comments therein.

Which is interesting, because as I read the blogpost, I wasn't sure where I fell in that question of violated boundaries, and yet, as I wrote, I thought (behold, the introvert), and by the end of the post comment, I'd come away with a clearer understanding of how I felt about the topic.

And that is exactly what I'd been avoiding in this topic. To think, I must write. I know this. And yet, I avoid it when I am afraid of finding an answer that I think I might not like.

Well, I still don't have an answer, but I think I'm no longer afraid of working it out, in those ways that I do.

Random Sidenote: I need to update my lj icons.

Watch Sarey Whinge.

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 18:05:48 GMT

So.

Today is the 25th Wedding Anniversary of one of my co-workers. Yay for Holly & Patrick!

Yay, indeed. And after going upstairs to wish her a happy 25th and hear about her fun evening plans of a fabulous meal and a show, I came back downstairs, ready to start in on Sunday's sermon (don't get your hopes up, oh ye who attend my church - I'm preaching at the early service). But upon approaching my office with the door wide open, I saw the magic 8 ball...

My somewhat hazy thought was, "So, this is going to happen for me, right?" This, even as I thought, "You know, whether or not this happens - this, being happily married to someone I adore - the Magic 8 Ball is unlikely to have the insiders scoop on it."

I received the following response: "My sources say No."

"Second opinion," I muttered, picking up the bright pink Jesus which also functions as a magic 8 ball. I shook him hard and flipped him over, only to be told, "Beware of the lightening."

"Come on, Buddha!" I muttered. I picked up the white plastic Laughing Buddha, rubbed his tummy and flipped him over. "Life is suffering," the Buddha informed me.

I snorted. "Unhelpful!" I informed them all.

But you know, just now I was reading in a scholarly commentary about Aragorn and whats-her-face, sheildmaiden of the house of Eorl. Eowyn, that's it. Anyway, the commentary was discussing love and duty, infatuation and devotion, and pointed out that love, if anything in our world, was inadvertent over intentional. We fall into love, after all, the commentator pointed out.

So it goes. And my track record for falling in love hasn't, so far, been anything like convenient, if by convenient I could be allowed to mean 'a remotely good idea, in any sense of the word'.

So it goes.

(I mean, come on: he only needs to be brilliant, creative, remotely attractive, and at least somewhat aware of the world around him. Honestly, am I asking too much?)

So it goes.

Mmmerk.

Sat, 10 May 2008 00:23:54 GMT

And, Grumble.

An entire scene of beautiful dialogue gone. Gone. Just the most fleeting of impresions remains.

Grumble.

At least I'd already finished the fic - this scene was a left over. But it was LOVELY! Damn.

Tis over on ff.net, for those who are interested and in the know. I know, I know. ff.net, is the lowest of the low, but I was feeling lazy, and that, my friends, seems to be where some of the good iron man movieverse fics reside. Now that we've written them.

Don't you love getting in at the bottom floor of a fandom? Only problem: there aren't already 3000 good fic for you to lose yourself in. You've actually got to produce.

Well, it's a good thing that Tony Stark just happens to be a sane, playboy, superhero version of my father (who, in case you wanted to know, explained to me the science behind the arc reactor, and his own research into the subject - which i'd heard about before - because, of course, he knows. Because, a slightly unhinged, remarried, non-superhero version of Mr. Stark, is Dr. Gordy), or else I'd have no 'in' to his character and wouldn't be able to write any passible fic at all, after only a few days. Usually takes longer than that for me to get inside a character's head.

Hell, it usually takes months. And then, if I'm a very good writer and an exemplary person in general, the muse shows up some months later.

Guess, I ask you, who stormed into my living room and asked about a certian ... um, well, he was upset about something i'd failed to write, even by the end of the fic. Yes, that's right. Muse!Tony. Who knew? I was just as shocked as anyone. I was writing back to someone who'd left a review, commenting about the proper placement of lemons (I had a later date in mind) and in stormed Mr. Stark, just a smidge upset with me for holding my stated opinion.

He would have thoroughly approved of the scene that I lost. He would have. It would have had the Stark Industries stamp of approval.

::sigh::

Maybe it'll come back?

The space between our ideal and our reality

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 18:47:31 GMT

So, I was reading Real Simple the other day...

Yes, I subscribe to Real Simple... and they were talking about decluttering your clutteriest spots, or some such something. This is a topic that I'm always interested in, though if you know me personally and have been to my physical space, you'll know that I've got a lot less stuff that I use to have. Anyway. I was reading, and there was actually a line that went something like, Unless you've been trying for some monastic ideal all the way along, you're like the rest of us: you've got too much stuff.

My jaw dropped, and I just bust out with laughter. This, of course, describes me perfectly. (The monastic ideal, bit. That's what describes me perfectly.)

I've got too much stuff, naturally. I mean, I'm an American, and even the poorest among us has got stuff coming out their ears, for the most part. (Forgive me in my sweeping generalization if you exist among the .2% of Americans that don't have a quantity of possessions that would boggle a certian 75% percent of our world's population. Clearly, I'm not talking about you, and I do know you exist.) Even though I recognize that I've got an incredible amount of stuff, and a dizzying array of interests and hobbies, all of which require specialist equipment... (Knitting needles don't take up much room, but the stash of yarn does, as does the stash of material for quiliting, and the powertools and spare lumber. And the powertools are heavy, much more so than yarn...) Even though this is true, I manage to make the most of 440 sq ft (plus balcony and attic storage), and though the space between my ideal and my reality is a gaping chasm, my ideal is something one might describe as zen emptiness. Of course, the space between layers of clutter and shit and zen emptiness is largely filled with storage solutions and denial, but it is also occasionally filled with Craig's List, eBay, Amazon Used, the church rummage sale, and occasionally, the Big Blue Garbage Can Outside - and from that last entry, you can imagine that I'm not talking about new acquisitions.

And so, as I was reading this Real Simple article, it dawned on me that I had already learned all of these tips and tricks from my uber-organized and Queen of Renewed Space, Rose, who also happens to be one of my sisters. And it dawned on me, too, that I'd simply begun to make some decisions in my own life that started to go beyond the Real Simple article. I looked into the principles of Feng Shui, and have taken it seriously. Not the lighter, flufflier quick fix stuff like put a growing plant in your 'money' corner, but rather, that every space we occupy is energetic, and that the energy flows - make sure you're doing what you can do to make it flow well. And, I've noticed that for me at least, there is just a feeling involved with being in a space were the energy is good. It feels differently than a space might otherwise. Beyond Feng Shui, I've thought a lot about how people in other countries live - people both poverty stricken and affluent - and how what I might buy has an impact - where it was produced, under what conditions. I think about sustainability, and global impact, about urban vs. suburban vs. rural. I think about all these things, and it helps to inform my own decisions that I make.

I think about my own love-hate relationship with monastacism, which I won't go into detail about here, but be sure I've got such a relationship. Anyone who's followed along for any length of time knows one or two good reasons why I wouldn't go over well in a convent, and as far as Taking Holy Orders, well, I've done that twice now, and I'm still not a monastic. (But feel free to address me as The Holy Reverend Mother anytime you like, if you can do so with a straight face.) And while the strict regimine of prayer is probably idea number one that I love, strong community is idea three, but number two is a complete lack of stuff. I believe they call it voluntary poverty. Now, anyone can embrace voluntary poverty, or a complete lack of stuff. You don't have to take monastic orders to do this thing. But like all things in life, I think it might be slightly more difficult when it isn't required of you, and when you're not getting unconditional support from a strong community around you to do it and maintain it. Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps this is not true for everyone, or even just a small pocket of people, but I will take a stand and say that it is true for me, and that I just don't believe it's not true for anyone else.

I remember a conversation with my boss just last week. It came out that I do, in fact, exist in an apartment that boasts very nearly 440 sq feet (plus balcony & attic storage), and while his first reaction was just short of shock (the dear man), his second was something like wistfulness. He muttered something along the lines of how nice it might be to live more simply in such a space. I was sort of shocked, as I don't really think of myself as living simply at all. I've got entirely too many books, too many hobbies, and too much furniture to even mimic living simply in such a space. If I lived in 3000 sq ft, sure it might look like I was some sort of displaced buddhist plainclothes monk, but as it is... Not so much.

And yet, it's all relative, isn't it? Yesterday found me walking through the large mall nearest me, an endeavor I avoid for the most part, but I had to make a trek to the Apple Store, so I had to brave the Galleria. Ah, the mall. It's a consumer wonderland. It's a zen emptiness nightmare writ large. And as I succumed to the lure of a new tea shop, and read the descriptions of the Chinese symbolism on the beautiful cast iron tea pots that called my name (though I did resist), I imagined this beautiful tea set and how it might be best displayed - in an empty room with open windows, on a small low table surrounded by cushions with no electronics, no clutter, no crap lying about. And I imagined how it might be displayed in my home: squished inbetween my English bone china tea pot and my Bolivian coffee pot, both of which I use, mind you, but just one more among many. And I thought, yes it's beautiful, yes it would be useful, but do I need it?

I bought tea instead.

All this to say, that I've been thinking about this clutter thing for a while now. I've been thinking about how much stuff I've got for a fair number of years. I've been building up and wearing away, in turns, the amount of stuff I own, or maintain, depending on your view. I've flirted with the 'monastic ideal,' studied the principles of feng shui, and learnt at the feet of my sister who is fearless in the face of clutter and able to dispose of just about anything. I've looked long and hard at what I actually do, what my values are, what I need for survival, for sanity, and to be able to flourish, and I've laid a cold and beady eye on all that remains. I've changed my habits as a consumer. And when I read things like that article, it dawns on me that I've already taken the first steps that it is describing. (1 - realize you've got more shit than you need and begin to deal with the stuff that you clearly have absolutely no use for, what so ever.) And I've taken the second and third steps. (2 - there's ancient wisdom about how your space affects your life. Learn up on it, start to apply it. 3 - Differentiate between the person who presented you with something and the thing they presented to you.) And maybe even the fourth and fifth steps. (4 - put your life in a global context, because that's the context you actually exist within. 5 - Take a good hard look at your life, your activities, your assumptions, and your possessions. What do they say about your values? Do you like what you see?)

And now? Now I feel like I've probably gathered all the tools one might need to live a simple and organized life (beautiful and just-so, I believe I once called it). Now, I just need to do it, which is probably the most challenging bit.

Sarey's Five Essentials for 'Decluttering'. (Can you call a major life shift like this, 'decluttering'?)

Realize you've got more shit than you need and begin to deal with the stuff that you clearly have absolutely no use for, what so ever. In this case, 'deal with' is the painless euphemism for sell/donate/throw away, or otherwise get rid of.

There's ancient wisdom about how your space affects your life. It's ancient, and more importantly, enduring for a reason - there's a serious amount of validity to it, and whether or not it's been proven by modern science is completely besides the point - it's been proven by centures of human experience. Learn up on it, start to apply it.

Differentiate between the person who presented you with something and the thing they presented to you. Feel free to sell/give away/donate what you no longer wish to have in your space. And don't forget that even family heirlooms are maintained by you - at some point you'll give them up. Do you only wish to declutter when you die, or do you wish to reap the rewards of decluttering in this lifetime?

Put your life in a global context, because that's the context you actually exist within. At what price do you own your stuff? Is that the price you're willing to pay? If these questions make no sense, continue your research on the price of consumerism, and the ethics of consumerism.

Take a good hard look at your life, your activities, your assumptions, your spending habits, and your possessions. What do they say about your values? Do you like what you see? When you've finished doing this, do it again. And again. And again. And next year, do it again and again. And the year after that, and the year after that, and the year after that. If at any point you don't like what you see, do something about it. After all - it's your life. You can change it, if you wish. In fact, you're the only one who can.

Good Friday

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 18:04:32 GMT

So, my rector preached the best sermon I've heard from him yet. You can find a text copy of it on his blog, here: Cam's Good Friday Sermon .

The following entry will make much more sense if you take five minutes and go read the sermon. I promise you that it will be worth your while.

So, we had a conversation afterwards and after I told him that, in fact, this was the best I'd heard from him, etc, and I talked to him about what I see as my calling, or dharma, if you will. He knows this already, and you probably have put two and two together, but surprise: I write. I need to write. I'm called to write. It's my dharma to write. And I don't do near enough of it. Okay, whinging aside, I mentioned to him that part of what I see that writing is to be is to use my storytelling and my own imagination to write what the world could be like, should we, the human race, make an effort. And while I didn't say it outright, I was thinking: fiction. Novels. SciFi. Romance. Magial Realism. Even fanfic, really. Really, all those things I do when I'm not at work.

And he was thinking: Sermon.

He said as much, and he pointed out that I don't do any storytelling in my sermons. And I realized that I looked at sermons as a genre apart, and one I was none too good at, considering my ability in other genres. He pointed out that I could make the genre into whatever I wanted, and that I really needed to not be him. (Sure, easy to say and easy to agree with, but the truth of the matter is that, of course, some part of me says, "Wow, he does it really well, I want to be like him. He's really inspiring, and I think he's got it right; I want to be like him.")

So, I'm thrown for a loop:

a) the sermon was good and challenging, and hopeful (in that way that hearing it gives me hope for the church as an institution - if we can bust out with stuff like this, there is hope for us yet), and really set me to thinking about what traditions are unhelpful in our church and in our culture, and how deeply ingrained some of the unhelpful stuff is. And what, exactly do I want to do about that? Yes, I'm only one person, and no I feel absolutely NO CALL to be a politician and change the church or the world in that way, but I do feel called to be a storyteller, and so how do I propose to change the world in that way?

b) I think I might need to integrate my storytelling with my preaching. It's the bud of an idea, but beyond it, I'm utterly and completely at a loss. For some reason I find repugnant the idea (a possibly good suggestion of Cam's) to read some Barbara Brown Taylor and see how she does it. Maybe it's just the flush confusion of the moment. ...But I know that I have a tendancy to absorb the voice of another author and then, if I wish, parrot it back with something like precision. That can come in handy if you write fic (not that I've done it in a while with fic, mind you). And I don't want to do that with the Rev. Taylor. (If I'm going to copy someone, dammit, it's going to be Rev. Miller!) But I am, after all, trying to find my own voice. (Erm, I suppose that would be, Rev. Gordy's voice.) I feel like I've done that, to a certain extent, in my fic. Granted, it only took me 15 years to do get to that point. But I wouldn't mind being able to do it over night - to find my voice more or less instantly - with my sermons. Really, I wouldn't.

So, it's Good Friday. And there's pain, there's angst, there's an eyes-wide-open look at ourselves and the world. There is confusion, a broad path, a cross-roads, and provisions for the way forward, though which particular way forward has yet to be discerned.

It's Good Friday. And somehow, it feels like our world has been living in Good Friday since the first Human bashed the second Human with a big rock to steal his fire. And it feels, somehow, like it will remain Good Friday until we can all, somehow, decide to use rocks only for building and not for bashing, whether or not we agree with one another. Only then will Easter be true in the here and now sense, which of course is how we generally celebrate it, either here and now or proleptic and escatalogical (a tiny taste in the here and now that tells something of the after-life experience), neither of which seem true. Only then will Easter not be a false prophet in the truest sense: if the prophesy doesn't come to pass, it wasn't true. Until then, to celebrate Easter like we've done it, we managed it, we've fought the good fight and won, won, won - that seems like vacationing along the banks of Denial and taking a dip when it gets too hot out.

And until then, there is much to think about, and much to be written.

...And I'm still in my cassock. It's a 'paint it black' sort of day. I'm still gonna eat, tho. A food-less Sarey is an unconscious Sarey.

FIC: A Quiet Embrace HG/SS

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 02:13:58 GMT

Title: A Quiet Embrace
Author: Sare Liz
Rating: PG-13, for vague references to adult situations
Warnings: Resolved angst. Hermione’s age could be in dispute. Let’s say she’s of the age of consent, shall we?
Disclaimer: Well, no, I didn’t create the characters. Were you confused?
Series: none
Continuity: OotP only. Pre-war.
A/N: This story is a departure from my normal, if I’ve got one. And it makes much more sense if you have “Get Me Through December” by Natalie McMaster playing softly in the background while you read.

It was very quiet. The dungeons - his dungeons, really - were actually quite quiet without the hissing flame underneath the bubbling cauldrons and the turning of pages, the clink of glass bottles, the quiet murmur of voices repeating recipes, and the under girding and somehow palpable sound of resentment, annoyance, fear or conceit, depending on your house affiliation. Somehow she'd never noticed before, not that she was considering it too deeply at the moment.

It was just that it was so quiet. Her ears ached for a moment, ached for something to break the soundlessness, and it made her shiver.

And then there was sound. Blessed, soft, real sound. The shifting of cloth, a coat jacket sleeve against robes, fingers gently buttoning her shirt back up. She felt completely immobilized, though not numb. Or perhaps she had been so over stimulated that she'd circled back around to numb. She shivered as her tie was straightened. She could hear the sound of her own almost gasping breath as she started to breathe again. It had never dawned on her that she'd been holding it all inside.

Soft hands pushed her gently into the large chair behind the desk, and it was then that she seemed to wake. Blinking, she came back to herself and looked at her companion for the first time since they had separated. He did not meet her eye, but buttoned his own collar, the inner shirt first, and then the outer coat.

For the first time, she keenly smelled the acridic scent of the snuffed candles of the ritual that was even now finishing in a different part of the castle. He had done that too, when she hadn't the presence of mind to help him.

She licked her lips, sucking in the bottom one, considering the situation from an angle she hadn't, while planning. For the first time, she thought about her partner as a potentially vulnerable individual also needing care.

She stood up, thinking that it was cold, being away from him, even for this small amount of time. Her movement caught his eye, and their gaze was riveted together for a moment.

"Our part of the ritual is over?"

The moment was lost with her words, and a hard mask came back over his eyes with his clipped positive response.

In turn she reached out and took his hand, pulling him over to sit in the chair she had vacated. He seemed slightly confused by her actions, his own movements momentarily clumsy as if he wasn't sure where his body was supposed to be going, even with her guidance. Nevertheless he complied without comment and when she sat with him, perched sideways across his lap, his arms fit around her comfortably and instinctively, holding her.

She sighed, her head resting on his shoulder, eyelevel with a part of his neck that, beneath many layers of fabric, held a mark that matched her mouth.

"Thank you," she said.

"We should be thanking you," he said quietly, with neither venom nor reverence, but with a sort of hollow numbness himself. "Every member of the Order should be on their knees thanking you, Hermione. You were the only who could do it, and you should have never had to."

She picked her head up from its comfortable spot and looked at him more clearly.

"Yes, and it might have been awful. Really, it should have been awful, I'm surprised the ceremony wasn't compromised. I thought it was going to be unbearable, and really, it… it was beautiful."

Her head sunk back down to its home. There was just something so right about how she was right now. She was in the perfect position with the perfect man, and it just felt so physically right she might not want to move for days. If only…

"So, thank you, Severus." Her hand clutched at his robes almost spasmodically. "Please, please let me call you Severus, if only for right now."

She felt his cheek rest on the top of her head as one of his hands rubbed calming circles on her back. "Hush. You will call me Severus when you need to." A moment passed before he spoke again. "I trust you with that, Hermione.

"I will understand if you choose to leave the class and have a potions tutor. The Headmaster did not suggest it before, I'm sure, in order to keep the ritual pure, but he will. I would think it wise if you did so."

"But I…" her head shot up so she could meet his eyes, and his hands stilled on her back, but kept their tight hold on her. She wasn't sure what she expected to see in his eyes. Dismissal, perhaps, but there was only compassion, and perhaps pain. "I don't want to."

His smile was small, and his eyes did not change. "It's up to you."

Truer words had yet to be spoken.

Of all of the choices before her, the only one she knew a definitive answer to was where she wanted to be for the next half hour, and so she stayed in his arms, so warm and comforting. She sat mostly in silence, not worrying whether or not she would feel this sort of comfort again from him, of if she wanted to, or if the entire event had scarred her for life, or what this meant about anything, if it meant anything at all. These were all things she would ponder later, in the coming days, in the aftermath of the downfall of Voldemort, when all emotions were high regardless of their source.

It would be a hundred little things and a handful of big ones that would convince her by the end of the year what the general course of the next would take. As would be the way with so many others, she would, in that long series of life-savoring moments, step out and do precisely what her heart most fondly desired, happily and joyously bucking any convention that dared infer she ought not so to do. In that long series of life-savoring moments that inevitably follows when death and freedom are mingled so closely in a life, she would indeed live to the fullest the life given her.

The End.

FIC: Rearrange HG/SS

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 01:49:43 GMT

Hm. So. Lots of interesting things have been going on. More on that later. But one of the upshots for you was that I was sifting through my fic for this ship, reorganizing my file folders, and rereading to see what was finished, unfinished, a perpetual WIP, you know - same old, same old, and I came across this one. And I don't think I ever posted it. And I have no idea when I wrote it, but here you go - one of a few I'll be posting, should time permit. Consider them a little Valentine's Day Prezzie.

Title: Rearrange
Author: Sare Liz
Rating: PG
Pairing: SS/HG
Continuity: DH+bezoar, EWE.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Of course they don’t belong to me.
Author’s Note: This is not the first fic that has been spawned by the entirely wonderful U2 song, “The Fly” – see end note for lyrics. No, this is not the only fic I've written inspired by this song, but possibly the only one for this fandom. ...No, that might not even be true. Hm.

He saw her as they walked in. Severus had long ago instituted a system of inner honesty, and so he had to admit to himself that he hadn’t noticed her as just one among many. He had noticed her. Her. Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin, First Class, Knight of the Realm, Auror and Social Activist, and she was dancing on the arm of her latest.

Of course, he had his latest on his arm, so it was possible he was being unfair in his contempt, but that rarely stopped him from feeling it anyway.

He continued to escort his date into the ballroom and almost instantly they stepped out on the dance floor. She was an excellent dancer and a charming conversationalist. Three years older than him and the owner of her own small wizarding business, she was a fair catch and they had been dating on and off for a year now. The sex was good and her children were grown and gone. He supposed he ought to be happy. Albus would have been encouraging him to settle down at this point, had Albus still been alive to encourage. The portrait of the former Headmaster was currently encouraging him to do just that, actually, but encouragement from the magical imitation of a dead person didn’t count, in Severus’ opinion.

It was strange though – he did occasionally have minor fantasies of something approximating domestic bliss. It wasn’t something to which he was morally opposed, at least in theory. But it was the rare moment like this – like seeing her across the room – that the dissatisfaction grew within him, made him restless for something he didn’t have, for something he’d nearly had, once upon a time.

Off the dance floor now, sipping a glass of red wine each when who but Saint Potter should walk up, smiling like they were old friends. Charming young Potter was desirous to be introduced to his lovely date, who blushed at the compliments. Then he begged a dance, to which Severus shrugged, wondering what was going on, and not daring to hope that it was the obvious diversion it seemed to be.

But then she walked up. His heart caught in his throat for an instant and he blessed Potter, though only for an instant.

“Will you dance with me, Snape?”

Even as he stood and offered her his arm, he recalled his words uttered in a cold fury all those years ago, those words forbidding her to use his first name, to ever assume such intimacy with him again. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed… cumbersome and awkward now.

They danced in silence for a while. Her dancing had improved.

“Where do you think we went wrong, Snape?” she asked quietly as they waltzed.

“The one place we went wrong?” he asked, somewhat incredulously, knowing full well they had made mistake after mistake with one another. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m at a place in my life where I’m asking,” she answered. “I’m evaluating the past and stepping into the future. Only I want to make sure I’m choosing the right path. So I’m asking. Will you answer?”

Severus happened to catch sight of her date out of the corner of his eye. He seemed deeply engaged in conversation with Lady Potter, his back to the dance floor.

“Has he asked you to marry him, then?” He turned her and danced them out of the line of sight of Ginerva and her conversation partner.

“No, but I think he will this evening, later.” She paused before continuing on. “Won’t you answer my question? Was I just too young? Was it too soon after the war? Were we just too different for one another? I’ve thought about it, but I’d like to have your insights, if you’re willing to share them.”

“You were too young. It was too soon after the war. We were too different for one another. And I was too much of an unforgiving bastard to you. It was too soon after you’d taken your NEWTs. We might have done better if we’d had some time – you, time to actually experience your transition to adulthood, me to experience my first moment of freedom since my transition to adulthood.”

She looked at him hard and he looked back unflinchingly. “Do you really believe that? That we would have done better if we’d waited? That we… might still be together, if we hadn’t rushed into it?” She had an intriguing look on her face.

“I did mean it, though it might not be true. If we’d waited, I might not have even consented to such a relationship. I almost didn’t as it was.” He watched her raise an eyebrow and give him a small, sexy smile. “Yes, but you can be very convincing when you choose to be. And persistent.”

As they continued to dance and Hermione continued to sport a contemplative look on her face, Severus caught another glimpse of her date.

“It seems our clandestine conversation will be over soon. Your date seems to be growing anxious without you. I heard he’s a muggle. I commend you for telling him before the wedding.”

She looked sharply at him. “I haven’t said yes, yet.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Since we’re in such a sharing mood, will you humor my fit of curiosity and tell me why you aren’t more enthusiastic?”

“I have already told you.”

“Ah yes. Questioning many things in your life. The road not taken. Very existential. You get an ‘O’ for introspection,” Severus responded, affecting his tone with boredom he didn’t feel.

“The next thing I know, you’ll be awarding points to Gryffindor,” she said, her tone arch, but somewhat flirtatious.

“I did so just the other day,” he pointed out, dancing past the Minister and his reputed and much younger mistress.

“Well done, Snape, you have grown as a person. I’d heard rumors, you know.”

“Vicious things, rumors. Don’t believe any of them.”

“Well, it turns out they’re true this time.”

“Well, yes, they usually are.”

She laughed, and it was a deep throaty sound that shot straight down his spine.

“I’d heard other rumors, too. I hear you’re likely to be wed soon. Congratulations on finding a woman you can stand.”

The shiver turned cold. “I’d found a woman I could stand once before.”

“Oh? Yes, but I wasn’t counting Lily,” she said softly, her tone turning from one of bantering to that of compassion.

“Neither was I.” He met her eyes and sunk deep in them, find understanding, though he wasn’t willing to bet on it without Legilimency.

“And is the rumor true?”

“I, too, have not yet decided.”

“And what is holding you back?”

“The same thing that his holding you back,” he countered.

She laughed again, and he could see that something had changed in her demeanor, but perhaps for his benefit. “I seriously doubt that reminiscing about what might have been with the brooding headmaster of your alma mater is what is holding you back.”

He closed his eyes momentarily and just took a moment to breathe. It felt good. Opening them back up again, he saw her looking at him warily. “Join me for breakfast tomorrow,” he said softly, watching her eyes grow round and crinkle again, this time because of her smile. “I have a half-ten portkey to Rome, just for the day. Aside from a short meeting, we could spend our time talking in picturesque and distinctly warmer climes.” He left unsaid that he believed they had quite a bit to talk about.

“I will join you. Thank you. And the password?”

His heart clenched. It was due to change at 7 A.M. as it always did on Saturdays, but he couldn’t tell her the new password until he knew her intentions. He refused to thusly damn himself. He wasn’t looking for a quick shag, or to be someone’s little piece on the side. “What will you tell your dear muggle when he asks you to marry him this evening?”

The dance was over, and he was slowly, ever so slowly, escorting her off the dance floor as they spoke.

“I will regret to inform him that I’m just not sure it’s going to work out between us. And then I will kiss him goodbye.” She paused and looked up, catching his eye and looking away. “And what will you tell your beloved?” she asked softly.

They were nearly upon Lady Potter and the muggle. “That it has been enjoyable. That it is now over.”

Hermione stopped their progress and turned to him. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and as she leaned close to his ear, his hands automatically slipped to her waist to steady her. She felt so familiar, even though it had been years.

“What is your password, Severus?” she asked, the soft sibilance of his given name sending tiny sparks through his body, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in quite some time.

“Insufferable Know-It-All,” he answered just as softly before stepping back, bowing, and walking away.

The End.

End Note:
“The Fly” by U2

It’s no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
It’s no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
They say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by the moon
You know I don’t see you when she walks in the room.

It’s no secret that a friend is someone who lets you help
It’s no secret that a liar won’t believe anyone else
They say a secret is something that you tell one other person
So I’m telling you, child:

“Love, you shine like a burning star falling from the sky, tonight.”
A man will beg, a man will crawl
On the sheer face of love
Like a fly on the wall.
It’s no secret at all.

It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest
It’s no secret ambition bites the nails of success
Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
They all kill their inspiration then sing about their grief

“Love, you shine like a burning star, falling from the sky, tonight.”
A man will rise, a man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from the wall
…it’s no secret at all

“Love, you shine like a burning star, falling from the sky, tonight.”
“Love, you shine like a burning star, falling from the sky, tonight.”
A man will rise, a man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from the wall
…it’s no secret at all

It’s no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
The universe exploded as one man’s lie
Look, I’ve got to go, yes, I’m running out of change
There’s a lot of things if I could I’d rearrange.

Work Blogginess

Fri, 01 Feb 2008 20:07:31 GMT

Sometimes I'm just on a roll, though I'm not sure it usually happens on my work blog. Nevertheless, I'm proud of the latest entry, and I humbly direct you to it.

Sarey's musings on Lent.

FIC: Spinner's End: A Suzerain Arrangement

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 23:55:36 GMT

Title: A Suzerain Arrangement
Author: Sare Liz, sare-liz.livejournal.com
Series: Spinner’s End (Third Part)
Ship: SS/HG
Rating: PG13
Warning: Resolved Angst, Adult Issues, one use of the ever lovely F word.
Disclaimer: The obvious characters do not belong to me, they belong to JKR. The name of the Thaumarasga Draught is mine, though the essence of it is, I am sure, not original. The Suzerain Arrangement… Well, it came up in OT class, back when I was in school, though not quite like this. The Suzerain Treaty is a type of agreement that is roughly 4000 years old. This use of it, however, is brand spanking new. I’m sure that the Dr. Fentress-Williams would be at least slightly amused at my utter perversion of academic knowledge in this instance…

*

She watched as he marveled at the viciousness of his queen knocking the head off of her bishop. She sighed and smiled up at him from across the table.

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this game. I have a friend who is, and he tromps me every time – so much so that I rather avoid it when he is around. And it looks like your chess set won’t allow me to play with them again, anyway.” She gestured to the mutinous looking white king.

He’d been looking at her, ever since the black queen settled down, and just now he’d given her a bemused look. “They can do that? Refuse to play?”

“Well, their memory isn’t that long – only about a month, I think. But if they remember you and dislike your previous losses, they can walk right off the chessboard. I’ve seen wizards berate them into playing, but that just doesn’t seem right to me, especially when I know I probably won’t lead them to any sort of victory.”

He smiled and shook his head.

Hermione was just contemplating her next possible move, noting that one of his knights was poised in a most awkward way for her – he certainly hadn’t lost his analytic edge when it came to chess – when she heard a knock on the door. She looked up to him as he sat in the comfortable chair across the table from her, all tucked in as he had in the hospital, but this time in a dark blue plaid blanket rather than a white one, and took in his expression. He clearly didn’t know who it might have been anymore than she did.

She rose silently from their chess game and went to the door, pulling it open.

“Kingsley!” she cried happily, and hugged the tall black man as he stood just beyond the doorway.

“I wondered if you might be here, Hermione,” he said, and there was nothing at all in his tone that belied his knowledge of her long-held secret, even though it would probably be a secret for not much longer. Once it became common knowledge that Severus was alive, and the story got out about his return to the Wizarding World, people would start to ask difficult questions. They would start making timelines. They might start making accusations. Though, that wasn’t something Kingsley ever did. Or perhaps, she thought, it was just because it didn’t matter to him. Kingsley had always been such a calming influence, partly because of his complete lack of drama about anything, including this.

Stepping back, she said, “You’re here to see Severus, I suppose?”

“Indeed. Is he available to receive visitors?”

“I am,” said a quiet voice from across the room, and Hermione wondered at the slightly cool tone, so different from how he’d been for the last hour, and really, just moments before.

“Severus!” he happily called out, as he strode across the room and offered his hand. “Kingsley Shacklebolt. We fought together in the war. I’m pleased to see that you made it out alive, after all.”

Hermione watched as he shook the other man’s hand and offered him a seat, the one she had previously been occupying. Well, she thought, he’s clearly got his knickers in a twist over something and now he’s given away my chair. I suppose that’s my cue to leave.

“I should probably go,” she said gently, catching his eye as his gaze softened.

“Stay?” It was just the one word, but it tugged at her heart, even as his open gaze seemed to hold her in its mesmerizing grasp. She nodded, wondering at his sudden shift in mood.

As she approached the only other chair, located at the other end of the table near Kingsley, she’d only noticed that Severus had pulled out his wand when he started to gesture with it, conjuring up a bright yellow and rather comfortable looking chair right next to his own.

When she looked up at him he had on a rather odd mask of innocence and she wondered what it covered.

“You remember the oddest things,” she said, wondering what other charms he might remember.

He just smiled slightly, and when she’d made herself comfortable she was pleasantly surprised to find his open palm waiting on the end of her armrest. It was obvious that he meant to hold her hand, a prospect which she found rather exciting and also a tiny bit alarming. Severus had been shy of physical contact since he came back from the London Clinic a few days ago. Stranger still that he should chose to engage in such a display in front of someone else. Unless of course… unless he wanted very specifically to make such a display?

Still, Hermione slipped her fingers across the softness of his hand until her palm rested against his. She swallowed as his thumb gently and slowly stroked her own, even as Kingsley began to speak, explaining the purpose of his visit –partly social, but partly on business as well.

There were so many little details to attend to, Hermione realized, with Severus no longer considered dead. Hermione hadn’t thought about all of these details, but apparently Minerva had begun to, and in the past three days since they’d found him she had been doing her own work behind the scenes with the Ministry. For the last year plus, Hermione had been consumed with trying to find Severus, and baring that, with wondering what on earth she was supposed to be doing with her life. Once she’d found him, alive and relatively well, she’d thought that would be the end of it. She’d thought her work – and really, all the work – would be done.

There was much more to it, Hermione was finding out. It was silly of her to think that coming back from the dead would be simple. In addition to the inherent difficulties of resurrection, the red tape might be enough to make you think twice.

He hadn’t had a will, or any next of kin. His property, save what was at Hogwarts, had been taken – seized – by the Ministry. His belongings were still in storage, somewhere, which was a minor blessing. The sizable stipend he would have been given along with his Order of Merlin, First Class, which Hermione knew first hand to be 13,152 galleons, had been given to charity in his name. And his house, Spinner’s End, had been sold.

Kingsley had come to report this. Thankfully, Hermione thought as her hand momentarily tightened around Severus’, he looked like he had good news as well.

Kingsley reported that another stipend plus interest had already been deposited in a Gringotts vault with is name on it, as he pushed over a shiny, brass skeleton key with a little paper tag dangling off of it bearing a short series of numbers. They’d also owled Harry Potter, who had accepted his Order of Merlin on his behalf – at this Hermione swallowed and glanced over to the mantle, where it already stood in a lovely display box – and the Ministry was in the process of retrieving all of his goods, which would be delivered as soon as they were located. And about his house, Kingsley explained, they’d owled the new owners and explained the situation to them.

For the first time in the conversation, Severus halted the caress of her thumb. It made her look over to him. She noticed that he looked a bit paler than before and wondered if today hadn’t been a bit much, perhaps. She’d got him back in once piece, but not exactly in excellent condition. She reached over with her other hand and took his completely in hers, which caught his attention. Hermione tried to ask without words if he was alright, but she wasn’t sure how successful she was being.

“I won’t keep you much longer, Severus. Merlin knows you need rest after what you’ve been through. But know that the couple who currently reside at Spinner’s End will have gone by the end of the month, and the deed will be yours again. They say they’ve spruced it up a bit – they hope you’ll like it.”

“As I can’t recall what it was like before, I’m sure I shall.” His voice was absolutely flat.

Kingsley smiled and rose, announcing that he could show himself out, but that he was glad to be able to clap eyes on his old friend. He nodded to Hermione as he left.

Once the door closed, she turned to him.

“Are you alright, Severus?”

“I have a house.” He was looking straight ahead, showing no emotion at all – something uncommon since his return from the hospital.

“Apparently,” she said, not knowing what to say.

He turned to her finally, his hand in both of hers tightening momentarily. “You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. It dawned on her that there were a great many things about him that she didn’t know.

“I wonder what it’s like,” he mused softly.

Hermione wondered the same thing.

***

“I remembered I’m an Occlumens!”

She hadn’t even gotten her outer robe off when he’d made his pronouncement, hot on he heels of her entrance to his small suite of rooms. He was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, but he was all dressed up as if he’d just been out, or was planning to go shortly.

“That’s wonderful,” she said sincerely before inquiring about his state of dress.

“I thought we might go for a stroll around the lake.”

“All the way around the lake? Aren’t you being a bit hopeful?” It was, after all, only day number thirteen from being out of the hospital.

“Mme Pomfrey said I was clear for anything slower than a stalk.”

“Well, we can rest frequently, I suppose. And walk slowly.”

“Indeed. Shall we go? I can describe to you the joys of Occlumency on the way there. You aren’t an Occlumens, are you?” There was something puppy-like about his enthusiasm that was so unfamililar, and yet in the moment so natural as well.

“No, Severus, I am not an Occlumens. But I do know that you are quite a good one. A good Ligilimens, as well.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said as he walked toward her and reached for her discarded robes to hold up for her to slip back into. She wondered at his actions as the heavy weight of his hands stroked down the front of her shoulders, straightening and smoothing. Did he remember that he used to do something just like that for her after a particularly long conversation in his study back before the war was over? Did he remember that sometimes he would press a chaste kiss on her forehead before checking to see if the dungeon corridor was clear and sending her on her way back to the tower? Maybe he didn’t remember. Maybe it was just the sort of thing he did, she thought, then discarded the notion, not being able to imagine him doing it at all, much less enacting such an intimate gesture for anyone else.

Her thoughts snapped back to the present moment when he held out his arm to her. Hermione gave him an arch look as she slipped her arm next to his. “You do realize that I may be supporting you on the way back?”

“Well, yes, but until then you will allow me to escort you?” He smiled. It was charming.

She smiled up at him. “Yes. I will.”

“Excellent.”

“So what parts of those Occlumens memories do you wish to share?”

“Well,” he said as they struck out down the hall and turned down the stairway. It instantly redirected itself as they were halfway down, but in the particular instance, it made the route to the main door that much shorter in doing so. “I don’t recall anything negatively associated with Occlumency yet.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. As she understood the story, bad memories and other various negative associations were the entire reason the man practiced Occlumency to begin with. The various and nefarious negative associations, as she saw it, were going to be the next ugly shoe to drop. Still, she said nothing.

“No,” he continued on, “I just remember the peace and tranquility of the meditation that is involved in the training and maintenance of Occlumency. The intense, yet gentle focus on just one thing, and allowing everything else to just float away. I tried it this afternoon before you arrived. It’s just blissful, it really is.”

“Really?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “That’s not at all how they’re teaching us in Auror training. We’re supposed to be developing this mental armor, but so far that’s proven pretty difficult for all of us.”

“Mental armor,” he mused, saying the phrase again, rolling it over on his tongue. “No, no I have no recollection of mental armor in reference to Occlumency, but then we both know my recollection is Swiss cheesed at best.”

“So then, what’s it like to practice Occlumency from this tranquil state?”

They passed through the front doors, having encountered no one but Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris, the rest of the castle being at dinner in the Great Hall.

“It’s like the Black Lake on a tremendously calm day,” he said, gesturing off in the direction where the lake lay, off to the left of the slightly curved path they were taking to get there. “You know there are things underneath there – a giant squid and an entire village of merpeople, for instance – but you can’t see any of that, you can’t gain access to any of it. And yet, it’s entirely natural for the lake to be in such a state on a tremendously calm day – so still and quiet you’d swear the surface was glass to glide over. And if someone tries to trouble the water, they can’t any more than a ghost could. The surface is always like cool, clear, opaque glass.”

She looked over at him, marveling. Even though she’d known he wasn’t nearly as shallow and two-dimensional as Harry and Ron had always accused him of being, occasionally his depth took her breath away.

“That’s brilliant. Did you come up with that?”

He shrugged, but then got a far away look in his eye. “I think Albus might have taught me.”

***

The past several times she’d been to see him, he’d been rather down in the doldrums – understandable really, when you considered that the life he was remembering was his own. He spoke less and less about what he remembered, and was more and more vague when she politely and gently inquired. “I’m remembering my childhood,” he would say, or, “I’m remembering old acquaintances.” Gone was the enthusiasm of recalling skills and happy moments.

Hermione idly wondered if he had simply run out of happy moments to remember.

So when she knocked and entered, as was his standing invitation for her to do so, she was not entirely surprised when as he sat reading in his chair, he did not look up to greet her. ‘He’s returning to the Severus I know,’ she thought, and further wondered if the man she’d been spending time with for the past three weeks wasn’t perhaps always accessible, if not buried very deeply beneath this more melancholy, morose, and severe man.

With a fleeting inner smile, she recalled that she now had the time to find out if that was the case.

“What are you reading so intently?”

“A book of poetry,” he responded, his gaze still on the pages before him.

She walked over to the other chair near the fire and draped her cloak over the back. “Shall I call for tea, then?” It had been their habit, after all, to take quite a substantial tea when she came to visit on the weekdays at this hour.

He only murmured a response that she assumed to be in the affirmative.

“Will you read aloud the poem you’re looking at?” she asked after a moment of silence.

Without preamble, he began. “I must go walk the woods so wild, and wander here and there in dread and deadly fear; For where I trusted I am beguiled, and all for one. Thus am I banished from my bliss, by craft and false pretense, faultless without offense; As of return no certain is, and all for fear of one. My bed shall be under the greenwood tree, a tuft of brakes under my head, as one from joy were fled; Thus from my life day by day I flee, and all for one. The running streams shall be my drink, acorns shall be my food; Nothing may do me good but when of thy beauty I do think – and all for love of one.”

Hermione sighed, feeling instinctively that however Severus may have identified with what he was reading, it wasn’t because of any love she’d felt for him, or visa versa. ‘Well,’ she thought bracingly, ‘I may not have had all the details of the Tragic Life of Severus Snape, but I certainly knew it existed. And now we’ve got to deal with it before we can continue on.’

It was a bracing thought, and made her feel somewhat better about the silent situation she now found herself in. Unfortunately for Hermione, she really had no idea what actions on her part might be helpful, and which might not be.

All through the eating of the lovely stew and fresh baked bread that the elves had provided, she maintained her silence. It was easier to do than in years previous – she no longer saw silence as the enemy of knowledge, but rather she considered silence more like patience, which she had been told was the harbinger of wisdom.

And so she was silent, and patient.

In due course, once he’d pushed back his empty bowl and sat back clutching his tea cup with both hands, he spoke.

“I saw my house today.”

Hermione blinked.

“They painted it lavender. I distinctly remembering it being a sort of dull, flaking grey. But they added a greenhouse, and remodeled the kitchen, among other things. You would like it, I am sure.” There was a space of silence as he paused and Hermione still sat gobsmacked. For some reason, she imagined that they would have made that first foray together.

Now that she thought of it there was really no reason for her to have assumed that, but she had, nevertheless. And for reasons she wasn’t fully keyed into, that he went without her hurt, somewhat.

“You wouldn’t have liked it, before,” he added, after the significant pause. He met her eyes and smirked in a way that seemed to express incredible pain. “It used to be that the fashion of the house mirrored the ugly memories it contained, but no longer. It is now the paragon of the neighborhood.” He looked away.

Choosing her words carefully, Hermione spoke. “I would have gone with you. I wouldn’t have cared if it was a hovel or a manor.”

He just silently shook his head.

“Regardless, in five days it shall once more be my residence. I suppose you would like the direction?”

“Yes. Even more, Severus, I would like to visit it with you.”

“Saturday morning, then,” he said, and she knew he referred to the day Mme Pomfrey had said he would be free to go.

For some reason, Hermione wasn’t looking forward to it.

***

She hadn’t known what to do, so she talked to Ron. In their years at Hogwarts her dear friend hadn’t been known for his ability to handle himself with grace in relationships, but somewhere between their sixth and seventh years (such as that seventh year was) one or more of his brothers had ‘taken him aside.’ It was the only explanation she’d been given, but she saw the results for herself.

Ron, it seemed, had started looking at and listening to people – and not just girls he was interested in, but really the entire world outside of himself, and he started analyzing those things he perceived with the same focus he could give to a game of chess. In the past two and a half years, he’d shown a shocking amount of insight for one so previously dim when it came to human behavior.

Insightful or not, she couldn’t go to Harry – Ron was her only choice. Harry might have gone postal at the incidental news. Of course, to get the advice she needed, Hermione would have to actually admit that she and Severus were in something like a pre-relationship, and had actually been friends for some time. Harry didn’t need to know that just yet. Ron had just paled, swallowed harshly, taken a few deep breaths and gotten a faraway look to his eyes. A few moments of silence later, he said quite simply, “Yea, I guess I can see that.”

Hermione almost leaned across the sofa and hugged him right there. She refrained long enough to explain her predicament: Severus wasn’t himself.

Or better, Severus was all too much like himself, so much so that Hermione feared for his safety.

It had taken her ten days after his memories came fully back to himself to realize it wasn’t her imagination, but when he claimed that he could care less if he lived in a violently lavender colored house with a happy white picket fence, Hermione knew that in fact, her intuition had been right for some time.

She gave Ron all the details she could think of, while protecting the man’s privacy as well as she could. If it was a matter of keeping him away from the act of self-harm she so feared, the man could berate her later for her best friend having given her advice on the subject of keeping Severus from killing himself.

“You know,” Ron said, “Mum’s got a lot of sayings. ‘Keep the gnomes out of the garden,’ ‘never trust something that you can’t see where it stores its brain,’ ‘saving asparagus, vegetables are good for you.’” He paused. “I always wondered what we were supposed to be saving asparagus from, but seeing as it never found its way to our plate, it turns out that that will be one of life’s greatest unsolved mysteries.”

Hermione laughed at him, but waited for him to get the point.

“But she also always told us in one way or another that we needed to find something to love, something to believe in. She was always telling us in little ways that we’ve got to believe in something, or life isn’t worth living. I always thought she was talking about what job to take – like Dad, or Bill, or Charlie, or really, Fred, too. Not so sure about Percy. You’ve got to love what you do – you’ve got to believe in it too, in a way, or you’ll go nuts. I’m beginning to wonder if she was talking about more than just our occupations.”

From the mouth of babes, Hermione thought.

Ron continued on, musing out loud. “Git though he was, I reckon Snape lived most of his life, probably all of his adult life trying to fight or escape this war – both endeavors any idiot could believe in. Not that I’m saying he’s an idiot, of course. But now it’s over. His mentor is gone. His tormentor is gone. He’s not a spy anymore, which is great in a practical sense, but it did while away the dull hours, you know? From what you say, his job is up in the air. I mean, he’s got his health, his home, and a bit in the bank. And maybe a girlfriend – but not quite.”

“And quite a few job offers,” added Hermione, eager to point that out as well.

“Yes, job offers he hasn’t moved on, nor is he like to from the way you put it.”

“True,” she conceded.

“I guess my point is, what is there left for him to believe in?”

“Lots,” Hermione pointed out sadly, surprising herself with her tone.

“Exactly. I know that and you know that, but I’m going to take a wild stab and say Severus Snape doesn’t know that.

Hermione nodded. Belief was such a personal thing, such an intimate thing. Why, a person might spend years piggybacking on whatever hopes and dreams their parents had before deciding for themselves what worked and what didn’t. Figuring out what fit, and what needed to be rethought.

Ron interrupted her thoughts, though. “So, you’ve got two choices. You can help him make his will, or you can help him find something to believe in.”

Hermione paled. He was right, of course. She put her head in her hands and just let the tears leak out. “Any thoughts on how to do the latter? I’m fresh out of ideas, myself.”

There was silence for a few moments before Ron spoke again.

“Everybody loves something, right? Even right gits like Himself. Maybe that’s a place to start—“

This time she didn’t hold back. Hermione leaned right over and gave Ron a giant, noisy kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a genius!” she cried happily, sniffing away tears as she tore off the sofa and into the bathroom.

“I know, I know. It’s all part of the Weasley charm, really.”

Hermione, of course, was not paying attention to him just at that moment. She was splashing cold water onto her face and grimacing before reapplying a bit of eyeliner and some lip gloss. She fairly ran out of the bathroom after that, snagging her coat and calling over her shoulder, “Don’t wait up!”

“Whatever, you love bird.”

***

She found him in the greenhouse. He was sitting on the small bench in the far corner, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday.

“Whotcha,” she said softly in greeting.

He smiled slightly and briefly and continued contemplating the orchids.

“Have you brewed anything since you got your laboratory back, Severus?” Hermione inquired with as much innocence and passing interest as she could.

He shook his head in response, crossing his arms over his chest, continuing his inspection of the flower.

“I haven’t asked much of you Severus – I mean, outside of the classroom, I haven’t asked much of you at all in the entire length of our friendship. But I’m going to ask now, so I’d like you to consider well answering in the affirmative before you respond.” She had his attention now. There was an eyebrow elegantly arched in her direction, but she stood firm. “I’d like you to brew me something. I don’t have a preference for what; it could be hangover remedy for all I care. But you are a Potions Master, one of the few in the world, and I am your friend. And I would like you to brew something especially for me.”

“And when would you like this special brew?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she responded with carefully placed sarcasm. “Shall I wait as you consult your diary? Does Tuesday next work well for your entirely tied up schedule?”

He snorted and quirked the corner of his mouth the slightest bit, which was her hope.

“If you’re not too busy, we could go shopping for ingredients right now. I can’t imagine that half of your old ones have much potency left. Besides, when was the last time you stepped foot in an Apothecary? Or a bookshop, for that matter? Oh, you poor man. Let’s go and remedy these ills immediately.”

He got up and sauntered toward her.

“I see what you are trying to do,” he said softly, looming over her, no more than a few inches away.

Hermione looked him dead in the eye, sighed, and lied. “Ah, my evil plan: take you shopping. I know I’m transparent, but come on – humor me.”

He passed her and went out of the greenhouse and began walking across the garden toward the house.

“Shall we check your stores before we go?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

Of course. He probably remembers what’s in them, down to the last dram, she thought.

***

As magic went, it was definitely classified as Dark, but it was, in his estimation, a brilliant move. He never would have thought of it had she not insisted he make her a potion in her admirable but ill-fated attempt at dragging him from the doldrums.

If only his state of mind could be so lightly classified.

This time, of course, he was doing it properly. He’d made a will. He’d figured out how to get around the rather strong promise he’d made Albus all those years ago not to do himself in. Poison was the logical choice, and the cleanest method for her to find and dispose of afterwards – it was the least he could do after all she’d done for him. It was the least he could do, but he’d be doing a great deal more.

It was hard to come by a quick acting poison that he hadn’t built up at least a partial immunity to, but that was all subject to his magical ability. If he were to, say, lose that ability… in that case he would be as unprotected as a muggle ingesting such a draught. He would be killed instantly, no muss, no fuss.

The lack of mess was the least Severus could do, knowing just how physically messy death can be. Slightly higher up on the scale of what lay in his power was leaving his worldly possessions to her in his will. Highest on the scale of what he was able and prepared to do was giving her his magic. And that was where the Dark Arts came in so handy.

He mused, as he slit his wrist and let four drops of blood plunk into the small silver cauldron, what effect a willing donation of the blood of the victim without any mind altering spells would have on the end result of the potion, not to mention the fact that the victim was the potionmaker. He doubted it would have any effect at all – it seemed the sort of brew that might only get nastier in such a case, and he’d never read of any precedent in such a case. Perhaps Hermione would see fit to eventually write up the incident and submit it to Ars Alchemia, he thought in wry amusement. Too bad the experiment is so costly to repeat, to mention nothing of legality.

Letting it simmer for ten minutes, he tended to the brass cauldron. The poisonous liquid in this one was simple and elegant. Ironically the main ingredient was Nagini’s venom – he thought it a poetic bookend, really. The entire time between the last instance he’d had the venom coursing through his veins and this next one he was looking forward to seemed like an odd and unreal time out of time. It was as if he were a ghost, a wraith returned with just enough power to set his affairs in order, just enough energy and verve to right a few choice and very small wrongs, and now that he’d done that there was almost not enough energy to do what must be done to end it.

But Nagini’s venom was the stroke of genius. It may be that they wouldn’t even be able to differentiate it from what was already left in his system, for even now there was some, a tiny trace amount. He paused in his musings for a moment, wondering if that lingering amount might be enough to kill him the moment his power was transferred to Hermione. That was rather a lovely thought. But either way, as the wizard he was currently, the poison in the brass cauldron wouldn’t be enough to kill him– ill for weeks, yes, death, no. But as a muggle? It should do the trick neatly.

And then, blessed peace.

Tom Riddle had always wanted to live forever, but for the life of him, Severus Snape never could understand why.

***

“What is it?” she said, smiling shyly up at him. It warmed his heart to see her like this, but he just didn’t have it in him to smile back as he so frequently had in the last month or so.

“A gift. I put everything I had into that potion.” He caught and chastised himself for the small blunder. He shouldn’t say things like that. She might catch on.

“Will it taste nice?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Can I drink it now?”

“I can’t imagine a better time.”

He watched as she upended the phial as it was pressed against her lips. No sooner than she had drunk it down did she pull a face. It didn’t surprise him that his magic would taste awful. Still, it would be useful for her. More useful than it would be to him in about an hour. And Merlin knows he’d made it enough times for the Dark Lord to have memorized the recipe. It was really quite lovely to make it as a gift for someone so wonderful who wasn’t expecting it, rather than a power-hungry megalomaniac who did expect it, or else.

“So what is it supposed to do?”

“Touch me, and you’ll see.”

She gave him a little look. He hadn’t let her see the ingredients, or come down and keep him company as he brewed. He’d never consulted a single book. Severus knew perfectly well it was eating her up, the not knowing, but that would end soon. He held out a hand to her, and felt her warm fingers slip into his palm. He felt a tingling, and a wrenching. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then her scream. He’d seen this transfer happen at least a dozen times, but it was always quiet, sharp and completely anti-climatic. It was not like this.

His last thought before he lost consciousness and joined Hermione on the kitchen floor was, ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’

***

He woke with a groan, his eyes peeling open with pain. As he shifted slightly, he realized that every cell in every muscle hurt just slightly. Combined into one ache it was quite powerful. It would have been lovely if he’d had a split second of confusion as well, just a single solitary moment of not remembering what he had done, but there was no such reprieve.

Severus crawled over to her, sprawled on the tile, and reached a hand over to her neck to feel for a pulse, sighing deeply when he felt a strong steady thumping beneath his fingertips.

“Hermione,” he called, and called again. There was no response, however.

He lay back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling and took the opportunity to take a deep breath and wonder what on earth he’d done. He went over each step in his head, the ingredients, the timing, the blood – and then of course, he knew. In his depressed state he’d glossed over the fact that while the method of gathering blood doesn’t matter for many dark uses, it did matter for some, and of course it would matter for this one. He’d rationalized it away at the time. But it really was the only part of the brewing that was changed. It was the only thing that could have gone wrong.

But he knew so much about the Thaumarasga, and he’d never heard anything about the method of collection being a factor. Then again, who would volunteer to have their magic stripped away? Who, that is, other than himself? It was true that he’d never come across a reference to the method of collection mattering in this particular potion, but he knew full well that that sort of information wasn’t always readily available.

He closed his eyes and swore softly. What had he done? Oh, God, what had he done?

After one last melancholy thought of how he’d assumed his life could get no worse, Severus dragged himself upright and stretched, eyeing the prone form of the one person who seemed to give a damn in his world. Without another thought he stooped and picked her up. It wasn’t a graceful thing, the fireman’s carry, but she was unconscious and on the hard tile of the kitchen floor when she could be on a soft mattress where it would be easier to tend to her. Once situated over one of his shoulders, it was only the narrow flight of steps up to the first floor that proved difficult, but he navigated them without incident. Laying her down and arranging her for comfort on one side of his bed he sat next to her and checked her pulse again. Still steady and strong, he left her for a moment to go back down stairs.

Once in the kitchen he put the pot on to boil and set out some tea things to take back upstairs. Her wand lay half under the cooker, having come loose from wherever she normally secured it, up her left sleeve, he remembered, and so he picked it up, meaning to put it on the tray to go upstairs. She would undoubtedly need it, and it was best not to be too far from your wand, he thought, even as he remembered where he had intentionally left his own, next to the cauldron full of poison in the basement laboratory.

But even as he picked up the wand he felt a tingling that unnerved him. It was the same sort of tingling he’d felt the first time his mother had brought him to Olivander’s to be fitted for a wand.

Oh damn.

Holding onto the light colored wood with the winding vine carved in relief around the grip, he cast a simple lumos aloud, half afraid that nothing would happen, half afraid that something would.

What happened shocked him.

Severus was used to his own magic. He was used to the feeling, like one might be used to the feeling of wearing a favorite shirt, or comfortable boots. He knew what it felt like to be depleted, and had rather expected to be feeling that on a grand scale just about now. What he felt was different. It wasn’t the old comfortable boots of his own magic, nor was it the naked feeling of none at all. But it was magic, and it was strong. His simple lumos had come out something like a lumos maxima, or even a lumos solem.

Though it was an understatement to say that he didn’t know exactly what was going on, it was very clear to Severus that he was now wielding someone else’s magic with someone else’s wand, and if the sinking feeling in his gut was to be trusted, he’d somehow massively fucked the situation up. He probably wouldn’t be certain until later, but the only answer he saw was Hermione. He had somehow stolen Hermione’s magic. Had the potion’s effects been utterly reversed, or was there more?

Still stunned by the gravity of his own actions, he recognized the sound of the water boiling and mechanically made tea. As it steeped in the pot, he realized that he’d stowed Hermione’s wand up his own left sleeve, as was his wont. Except of course, it wasn’t his wand. Somewhat repulsed by his own actions, and snapping out of his momentary daze, he quickly removed her wand from his sleeve, but held onto it. Swiftly he descended the stairs to his laboratory and picked up his own wand, though not with his dominant hand. That was the hand that still held Hermione’s wand, with which he Vanished and cleaned the cauldron full of poison. The toxic brew was useless to him now, as he still obviously had some magical power, though exactly whose was yet to be determined. And besides, he had a number of things to do and understand before he was ready for any type of decisive action of that sort.

He paused for a moment and sighed, realizing that he might not get to do away with himself using his preferred method. Still, you couldn’t go wrong with a knife to the vitals. He would need to brainstorm different possibilities until he came up with the one he liked most, but he would have plenty of time to do that later, after he’d assured himself that Hermione was quite alright.

As Severus climbed the stairs back to the kitchen he had a momentary pull of instinct and switched the wands in his hands. He tried to cast a lumos with his wand, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. His life, he decided in that moment, was perverse.

Coming back to the kitchen, he put both wands on the tray and for a moment was struck by how they looked, lying there together. It wasn’t every day that you saw multiple wands that had seen any use at all, just lying together. It was quite remarkable, to see the both of them, and how they contrasted each other. His a dark wood, hers a light one, his so structured with clean solid lines, her so whimsical and natural, but then, both wands had cast unforgivables, both wands had killed people, his many more so than hers, but still.

Still thinking about the juxtaposition of their wands, he brought the tray upstairs, relieved beyond words to find her sitting up on his bed.

“Severus, what on earth was that?”

He set the tray down next to her on the bed. “I’ll tell you in just a moment. First I want to make sure you’re alright. Please take your wand and cast a spell.”

She looked at him, a question in her eyes, but did as he bade. “Wingardium Leviosa,” she said, levitating a miniature of his mother off his dresser before she flawlessly put it back down again. She raised her eyebrows as she stowed her wand in her sleeve.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, handing her his own wand. He watched her mouth drop open.

“Severus, what do you mean by this?”

“Please, Hermione.”

She gave him a decidedly nervous glance before casting the same charm on a set of robes that were draped over a chair. The robes went flying toward the ceiling and Hermione gasped audibly. She dropped his wand as if it scalded her.

“Is that what it is always like for you to do magic?”

Severus took another deep breath. “No, I daresay. But it seems similar to the effect I had with your wand, when I attempted a simple spell in the kitchen.” He paused, and continued on, though quietly. “But unlike you, I had absolutely no effect with my own wand.”

“We… I… You…” She stopped and looked away before taking her wand out and putting it between them, next to the place where his dark one landed. Looking back again, she started fresh. “So the potion somehow altered both of our magic abilities such that they are now stronger, and require us to use the other’s wand?”

“Apparently, though I somehow doubt that will be the end of the effects,” he said, just waiting for the other magical shoe to drop. It was a dark potion, after all, and it seemed already that Hermione had the upper hand in the situation. It was she who could do magic with both wands, though admittedly she could channel a stronger magic with his than with her own.

“What do you mean, ‘Apparently’?” she asked, her voice a crescendo of unrest.

“These are not the intended effects of the potion I meant to create, though I think I may know where I went wrong,” he said, not intending to go any further in explanation, not even under threat of torture. There were some things she didn’t need to know about until after the fact, and his botched attempt at suicide was one of them.

He watched as her eyes narrowed. She shifted on the bed so she could fully face him. “Severus Snape,” she began, her voice barely a whisper, “I want you to tell me exactly what you meant to brew and how exactly you think it went wrong, and I want absolutely no prevaricating!”

There was a twinge inside of him, like a switch being flipped, a switch he hadn’t known was there, and he found himself very suddenly willing to tell her precisely what had happened. He remembered his vow of only a moment before not to do the same, and he remembered how adamant he’d been, but clearly she needed to know. He understood that now. If she needed to know, who was he to keep it from her?

“It is a draught known as Thaumarasga. I’ve brewed it seventeen times previously for the Dark Lord. It is an ancient potion used by the Assyrians as punishment for treachery among wizards. It strips a wizard or witch of their magical power and gives it to the wizard who consumes the potion. It cannot be used to give magical powers to a muggle. Though the ingredients are nearly all readily available and the brewing time is short, it is a draught that requires great skill and intent on the side of the brewer. It is a class A restricted substance, and illegal in 49 countries, including the United Kingdom.

“I knew something was wrong when we both had such a strong and painful reaction – I’ve seen the potion administered many times and pain is, ironically, never an element.

“I believe, though I have never seen it documented, that my willingness in providing my blood for the potion, and possibly the fact that I brewed the potion myself, was instrumental in changing the essence of the Thaumarasga. I do not recognize what potion it may have turned into.”

Severus felt strangely better for having told her, even as he watched the emotions flit across her features.

She shifted so she was now sitting on her knees on his bed. She looked livid.

“Do you mean to tell me,” she began to ask slowly and quietly, her eyes on fire. “Do you mean to say that when I asked you to brew me a potion, you brewed me the Thaumarasga, with the intent that you should be stripped of your magical abilities and that they be given to me?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me why you decided to do this,” she asked, enunciating each word very carefully. If there was a state of anger beyond livid, that was where she was.

“I wished to give you everything I had before committing suicide,” he said, and was so wrapped up in the conversation and her emotion that he didn’t bother to think of the veritaserum-like quality to the moment, though he would later.

“WHAT?”

“You are the sole benefactor of my estate, but I wished to give you my magic as well before I died.”

Her eyes could not get rounder.

“And just how did you plan to kill yourself?”

“I had a poison prepared that once stripped of my magical ablity, would be a powerful agent to act upon me. I’ve since gotten rid of it.”

“And why have you done that? Have you decided not to kill yourself after all?”

“No, but now is no longer a convenient time, and the poison would not have the desired results, as I still have the use of magic.”

“Not a convenient time? Oh dear. How tiresome for you.”

Her sarcasm was not lost on him. If the situation had been otherwise, he might have been able to appreciate it more. The situation being what it was, however, he was more concerned with the anger coming off her in waves.

“Severus Snape, you listen, and you listen good. I think it’s absolutely horrible of you to give into whatever difficult feelings you’re dealing with and try to do away with yourself. I realize that it is your life and I don’t get a say, but for what it’s worth I absolutely forbid you from killing yourself. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he said, and suddenly, gently, his despair was not so deep as to merit self-destruction. It was plenty deep and rather dark, but not as much as it had been. He didn’t bother to wonder about the sudden change however – who could question something that felt so normal, so natural?

***

She felt all of her emotion drain out of her – that wasn’t normal. Usually when she got worked up she stayed agitated for hours if not days, but as fast as her outrage and fury had built, it ebbed. She sat back on her heels and hung her head down, noticing for the first time the tray of tea things that she’d been practically hanging over, in her rage. She handed Severus her wand without looking at him.

“I think you’d better take this, at least for the time being.”

She didn’t see, but he took it without comment. She picked up his wand, turning it about in her hands. “I’ll keep this for a while, if you don’t mind.” She gently stowed it in her sleeve, noticing the difference in how it sat, even while it felt comfortable there. She took a good look at the tea tray before picking it up off the bed and putting it on the side table opposite to where he was. She walked on her knees across the mattress until she was at the very edge where he still stood, had been standing all this time. Hermione rested her head against his chest and put her arms around his waist, holding him loosely.

“Severus,” she sighed sadly.

She felt his arms go around her shoulders and she took a deep breath, holding it until her lungs burned before letting it go again. She stayed there for a long while, kneeling on the edge of the bed, holding and being held, feeling nothing at all, until unbidden, the tears began to prick in her eyes. She didn’t care – she wasn’t ashamed. The man she adored had tried to kill himself. If this wasn’t a crying moment, then there weren’t any at all left in this post-Voldemort world. She took one more jagged breath before starting to weep silently, still and unmoving, except for the tears leaking out of her eyes, faster and faster.

She looked up when he removed his arms from around her shoulders. She watched as he shrugged out of the black set of robes, as he took of his confining suit jacket, and toed out of his black dragon leather boots. She shifted over as he sat on his bed, his back braced against the headboard and when he opened his arms to her, she came to him silently, curling up next to him, sniffling.

He handed her a hankerchief, which she gratefully used before leaning up against his shoulder. They were quiet for a very long time.

***

“Severus, I think it may be true that you have no idea how much I love you.”

It was the first thing that broke the silence of what must have been at least three quarters of an hour, sitting on the bed holding each other.

“You may be right.”

She looked up at him, seeing the tracks of his own dried tears down his face.

“Severus, I love you. I should like to spend the rest of my life giving you example after example of just how much I love you, but that seems to me to be a pointless endeavor if you can’t appreciate the bare fact of it in the present moment.”

She watched as he closed his eyes tightly for a moment before opening them again and meeting her gaze.

“I…” he began, before trailing off. “It is not easy, Hermione, to have lived the bliss of a man with no past, and then to be confronted with the particular past I have created for myself. You know well enough what a bastard I can be without provocation. I think it may be true that you have no idea what a bastard I can be, with provocation.”

“Perhaps that is true, Severus, but it comes as no great shock to me, either way. And that man you were with no past? That man is still inside you. You are capable of all that, and more, should you decide to explore it.”

“I want to believe you, Hermione,” he whispered. “I really do.” He left unspoken the fact that he didn’t believe her, despite his own desire.

“Give it time, Severus. Give yourself time. Don’t write yourself off now, just because it’s hard. It won’t always be this hard, not if you don’t want it to be.”

“I don’t want it to be,” he replied in that same whisper. She watched him, and it seemed he had more to say, so she waited. After some moments, he continued on. “Will you stay with me tonight?” He rushed to add, “I don’t mean… I mean, I intend nothing untoward, I just… will you?” he asked, his last words barely audible.

Hermione felt the urge to smile for the first time in the past hour. “No matter what your intentions, I will happily stay with you tonight, Severus.”

It took a moment for him to process that, she could see it on his face. She wondered if it would go by entirely unnoticed.

“You… don’t mean-“

“Don’t I?” she asked, looking up at him from her vantage point at the middle of his chest. She was suddenly quite aware of her left hand on his chest, and her right lying casually on his upper thigh. She hadn’t really noticed them there before, when she was crying, when they were both crying.

“I would never wish to take advantage of you like that.”

“I’d hardly call it taking advantage, Severus. I’m pretty certain how I feel about you. I’m also pretty certain that somewhere inside you feel something similar. If it weren’t for the war, I daresay we’d have been far more intimate than we are now, and much sooner. As it is, I think we’re going along at just the right pace.”

She watched as he leaned down and her heart seemed to stop as he brushed his lips over hers ever so briefly before pulling back up again and resting his head against the bed frame.

“Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he whispered up into the air.

She smirked. “Well, there was that time when you stepped between me and Professor Lupin when he was having a bad night.”

He snorted.

“Seriously, Severus. I really don’t think it’s a matter of deserving or undeserving. It just is. We’ve all got our chances at love.”

He looked back at her and she saw something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in several weeks. “Then this is one chance I shall not throw away.”

She grinned back. “That’s the spirit,” she said just before he bent down again, this time for a longer, deeper kiss.

***

They were in the midst of a rather compromising position when the first owl came and dropped a letter onto Severus’ naked back before wheeling away again with nary a hoot. It slid off and was soon forgotten.

Hermione and Severus were in the midst of a completely different, and yet no less compromising position some time later when the second owl arrived, winging in through the open bedroom window to deposit a similar letter onto Hermione’s calf, a corner of the missive hitting the straining muscle and making her look sharply around and exclaim loudly in surprise before her attention was inextricably drawn back to the matter at hand.

The third and final letter came even later when all common sense would have dictated that compromising positions would have ceased, and yet they had not. It was nearly an hour after the last letter had been delivered that Hermione rolled over onto it, recalling to mind the oddity of mail being delivered at such a time of day. She turned the letter over to reveal the singular insignia of the Ministry of Magic.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she groaned. “What on earth can they want?”

“Who?” rumbled her beloved.

Hermione grabbed for Severus’ wand as it lay on the bedside. “Accio recent Ministry letters.” The other two flew into her hands.

Severus groaned. “I’m sure I don’t want to know what they say.”

“Which do you suppose was sent first?” she asked him, gazing at the identical letters.

Severus reached for Hermione’s wand, which he’d stowed underneath his pillow. He cast a silent spell and then pointed out the order in which they’d come.

Wands stowed, he watched as she opened the letter, and she could feel him reading it over her shoulder, even as she examined the letter herself.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Snape,

Congratulations on your recent marriage.

I regret to inform you that the Suzerain Agreement that took place at 5:43 P.M. GMT which was consummated and summarily altered to become a Suzerain Arrangement at 7:23 P.M. GMT that has taken place on this date at Spinner’s End, Slough, without prior licensure from either the Ministry of Magic Department of Records, nor the muggle counterpart is in direct violation of the applicable sections of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom which outlaws secret marriages and unequal bonds of power (see sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243). In addition, use, if not manufacture of the Suzerain Draught, a class A restricted substance, is in direct violation of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Use of Dark Arts.

Please stand by as Aurors have been dispatched to seize your wands and remand you into custody, where your marriage will be immediately witnessed and documented, your wands will be broken, your powers bound, and where you will await trial.

Thank you and have a pleasant evening,

Mathilda Bagshot
Misuse of Magic Office

Hermione looked at Severus, dumbfounded. He quickly opened the second letter and held it out for both of them.

Dear Mrs. Hermione Snape,

It is with great pleasure I report to you that the Aurors have been recalled from seizing your wand and remanding you into custody. Due to the mitigating circumstances of your recent wartime heroism your breach of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Dark Arts as well as your violation of sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243 of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom have been summarily dismissed. No punitive action will be taken against you.

Please report to the Head Mugwump of the Wizengamot at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning to have the manipulative aspects of your Suzerain Arrangement bound.

Please report to the Records Office at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning with Mr. Severus Snape to have your marriage witnessed and duly noted.

Thank you, and have a pleasant evening,

Mathilda Bagshot
Misuse of Magic Office

Hermione looked over at Severus. “Bloody hell,” she breathed out, taking up the third letter and tearing it open.

Dear Mr. Severus Snape,

It is with great pleasure I report to you that the Aurors have been recalled from seizing your wand and remanding you into custody. Due to the mitigating circumstances of your recent wartime heroism your breach of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Dark Arts as well as your violation of sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243 of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom have been summarily dismissed. No punitive action will be taken against you.

Please report to the Records Office at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning with Mrs. Hermione Snape to have your marriage witnessed and duly noted.

Thank you, and have a pleasant evening,

Mathilda Bagshot
Misuse of Magic Office

Hermione looked up at Severus. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”

“No,” he said. As she took in his bewildered and astounded face, she believed him utterly.

* End. *

Author’s End Note:
I made up the Thaumarasga and you can tell, because I mixed my languages. I’m sure properly in canon that would never be done. Thauma is from the Greek for magic. Rasgar is a verb in Spanish for tearing or rending.

A smidgen about a Suzerain Treaty (which I did not make up). Feel free to check it out on Miriam-Webster or wikipedia, which will give you the gist and the history from about the 17th century, though Suzerain Treaties occurred much farther back in history. It’s based in the ancient Hittite Suzeraine-Vassal treaties. Simplified, in a Suzerain Treaty, the more powerful sovereign ruler enters into an agreement to protect the interests of a less powerful sovereign ruler and may make certain other promises. The less powerful sovereign ruler agrees to do some action or pay some tribute to the more powerful sovereign ruler. Both remain sovereign over their own interests, and the ruler with less power can dissolve the treaty at any time. (In theory, the one with more power promises to do good things first, and the one with less power responds with gratitude. It’s kind of the opposite of extortion.)

My magical version works in a slightly different manner, in that it incorporates the very potential for abuse of power that the non-magic treaty seeks to avoid, by giving the accepting party more power over the giving party, thus creating a suzerain-vassal imbalance. The non-magic version starts with a disparity of power and journeys toward a more equal power balance. The magical version starts with a more equal power balance and travels toward greater disparity.

Yes, there will be a Spinner’s End part 4.

Thoughts? Complaints? Gifts of Chocolate? Do share...

The Quantum Particle Prologue to John

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 20:55:31 GMT

So. I was trying to consider my sermon for next Sunday, and I had the following written conversation with God. ...And while I think perhaps I've never shared these sorts of conversations, believe you me, they're more or less every day occurences for me.

In considering John 1:1-18, and drawing an odd line and arrow diagram that looks likes a Worshac inkblot, Sare wrote:

What is John trying to explain?

The mystery of God

He's failing spectacularly.

You try, then.

After thinking about the prospect of explaining the ineffible niftyness of God, possibly to a bunch of people that don't care one way or the other, plus taking a moment to consider the ins and outs of the Greek philosopical mindset that has largely shaped the West and how the niftiness of God according to, say, the current Dalai Lama, or Deepak Chopra sounds so different (and yet isn't) from say, Plato's understanding of the world, to say nothing of Augustine's, Sarey writes this:

::sigh:: It's all about your audience, right?

Something like that.

And then Sarey starts drawing waves and particles, because you can't see God, but to know God through seeing the Son, or so says the Gospel of John. It's like that with quantum bits: we know the waves exist, but as soon as we try to see the waves, particles appear that weren't there before. You can't actually see the wave, even though you know it exists - we see evidence of its existence, but we can't see it. We can only see the particles. So the waves are a mystery, but the particles are manifest - but only when you look at them, like the tree in the forest and that cat in a box - Shrodinger might have missed his cat, but let me tell you, mine still exist and will be pissed if you enclose them in a box. Anyway. God is a mystery, but here we have a lovely manifest version: the J-man. (And arguably, every other atom that has ever been manifest, including you, me, the computer screen and the tree outside with which you are currently not communing.) And so Sarey writes:

...It always comes back to quantum mechanics, doesn't it?

You have Legos. I have quantum particles.

And then Sarey has a warm fuzzy feeling, because really, it's nice to know you share interests witih your God, like... making stuff. I like to make stuff. God likes to make stuff. We have that in common.

However, I'm not sure I can write a sermon about Quantum particles that will make sense. After all, I am a liturgical groupie and fan of physics, but when the chips are down, I'm more mystical than mathematical. (But just barely.)

Hm. Worthy of more thought. Like, tomorrow.

Rant at God

Fri, 07 Dec 2007 20:38:06 GMT

The following was inspired by the state of our world, and an email that my father, of all people, forwarded to me that was incredibly disrespectful.

Advent 1, Year A
December 7, 2007

Dear God,

I would like to resepctfully submit that humanity is going down the toilet and I really think it is all your fault. Or, at least mostly your fault. We can't even treat people that oppose us politically with the basic respect due to every human being. Come to think of it, it is not only politicos to whom we deny such dignity, but they are the place I'm starting today.

I feel I've been pretty understanding up until now, if a little in the dark for a huge chunk of my 29 1/2 years. Still, the buck stops with you.

Send a prophet, or two, will you? Or one hundred.

Send a few dozen Messiahs.

Send a corps of reformers.

Send a league of protestants, defenestrators, and old-time Judges, like Deborah.

Break out the Sons of God and send them all.

While you're at it, send the Daughters, too.

I have heard it said that Humanity is the Crown of Creation, but if that's what you say, than I say you're a Damn Liar.

Stop lying.

Stop lying to us, and please, God, help us to stop lying to ourselves. And please, while you're at it, please, please, please, please help us live into this beautiful dream you have of us, where we can respect each and every human being's basic dignity, if not in their own right, then at least, as a start, out of respect for you.

Your very frustrated, yet loving daughter,

Sare

Why I Love My Church

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 16:22:59 GMT

::grins::

Trinity & the Goo Goo Dolls are both winning an award from Compass House at the end of the week. Compass House is the emergency shelter and resource center for run away teens - the only one of it's kind in Buffalo, and Trinity started it in the 70's. Naturally, i'm going to the reception dinner.

::grins::

Maybe I'll get to meet Johnny Resnik. ::swoons::

Heh.

(Of course, I'll be all-dressed-up, which means I'll be looking like a priest. This is the sort of thing that is killing my dating life. Besides, Johnny has a girlfriend. Tho, the Goos are returning to Buffalo to set up shop here... Maybe he has a cute, creative, single friend who'd like to date a cute, savvy, creative and spiritually well-adjusted person such as myself?)

Podcastygoodness.

Thu, 01 Nov 2007 20:50:20 GMT

My boss was interviewed by a local news agency and the podcast is online! Yay. I knew about this earlier, but the I just looked at the webstats and saw how many referrals there were from www.buffalorising.com and got very excited. Went to check it out myself.

It's pretty damn nifty, if I do say so my self. Also, my boss rocks, but if you read this regularly, you probably already know I think that way.

Anyway, if you're at all interested, I highly recommend listening to the podcast: www.buffalorising.com/story/trinity

Lemme know what you think, if you do.