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"Please Ignore This Notice"
A philosophical exercise, sort of. With Fleur/Umbridge, the roaring (wizarding) 20's, paradoxes, and extensive apologies to Evelyn Waugh. A pastiche of a pastiche of a...
"It all started," the woman begins - appropriate, but apropos of not much at all, in Fleur's opinion. She hadn't come here to talk. But she smiles a small smile and half-turns to the woman, who looks very nearly familiar, and takes a sip of her gin before making a vaguely questioning 'hmm?'.
"It all started at the races, two months ago. I met the most beautiful boy - "
Fleur stops listening, of course. Her head is positively breaking - last night, she barely remembers any of it at all. A drink here, another drink there. Another drink this morning. They'd been Nicholas of Cusa's infinite circle, she and Adam, for another of Ashley's paradox parties. She doesn't remember coming back to her hotel room, but she must've at some point, because she'd woken up there. The woman was still talking. A girl, really, like her, but someone so banal couldn't help but be old.
Fleur nods, and smiles, because there's a pause and one is supposed to at least pretend one is listening at these intervals.
The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a battered, folded handkerchief, and unwraps it to reveal a single gleaming sickle. "He left me dozens of these, dearie. All very old, all very valuable - people collect these sorts of things, you know. Pay lots of money for them. Myself, I couldn't bear to sell them. It'd be like selling a little piece of old John himself, I should think."
"I suppose," Fleur says after swallowing the dregs of her drink.
The woman gives her a look, and that at least is interesting: it's a careless lustful thing, raw and hot. Not surprising, really. Fleur is, of course, beautiful. Inherently irresistible. Ordinary people are usually too busy being resentful to really want her, though. And such an ordinary, ordinary person this woman is.
"What's your name?" Fleur asks, and leans in closer to the ordinary woman.
"Jane," says Jane. A not-too-carefully applied glamour crackles over her face. Maybe she's even ugly underneath that, Fleur thinks. Such a shame, really, to be ugly. Or to be plain, when the best your inept magic and limited financial means will get you is the most average, lumpy sort of excuse for a face.
"That's not much of a name," Fleur sniffs, but still comes closer. She's had beautiful people, of course; she's never had, to her knowledge, someone so spectacularly unappealing. Something new, she thinks. A story to be found. So amusing, really, and she spreads her hands flat on her thighs, lowers her eyelashes.
Jane smiles predatorily.
"Mmm," Fleur hums casually. "Do you really think you're fooling anyone with a middle name and this clumsy thing?" She reaches out and almost touches her face, hovering just above skin. "You're breaking quite a few rules, Dolores. Not that there's really anyone left to hand you in to, though, hmm? Dolores, Dolores, Dolores. Such a sad little old thing. This is no place for you."
"Nor for you, my dear," Dolores simpers, but she's already begun to retreat, lips pursing and wrinkling.
She draws a straight black line down the front of a white dress, Adam paints a circle on a black tuxedo, and they start tangling around each other before the cab ride is even over. A paradox: the curve of a circle's circumference decreases as the circle's size increases, and the limit of decrease is a straight line. A circle is a line, and he presses her into the seat's upholstery, presses into her, his gin breath mixing with hers.
PLEASE IGNORE THIS NOTICE, says the sign on the door. They walk unsteadily into the party, presenting themselves and their wit, smiling against the too-bright lights that are everywhere, everywhere. Ashley never did understand how to decorate. She keeps her eyes closed, holding onto Adam's arm, and she feels them weaving through clusters of people, imagines what they must look like. They all always look the same, anyway.
They sit, eventually, watching the lights and boys and girls and shimmering red wine, the flicker of lamps against the polished floor, and Adam whispers into her ear: "You know, Liebniz thought everything could be made out of being and nothing, ones and zeros. Like us, darling."
"Don't be a bore," she hisses, eyes closed again, and slides his braces down.
One plus naught equals one, one plus naught equals one plus naught; when they've finished (sticky and flushed and unsatisfied, and no-one's bothered to notice them lying there tied together), she pulls away from him and makes a motion to her face. Makeup, her hands say. Fix my makeup and perhaps a bit of something more interesting.
In front of a gleaming silver mirror, she inspects her eyes and her lips and her cheeks and nudges each glamour back into place. Not that she needs them, precisely, but it's so much more entertaining to look like someone else. She cuts a thin line of cocaine with an even thinner knife, and keeps one hand on the cold marble sink-top as she inhales.
When she comes out, delicately wiping her nose with a single pale finger, Adam is talking to an Achilles with blonde hair and very little clothing, a sick-looking leashed turtle on the floor beside them. She rubs a thumb over the Timeturner in her purse as they lean in close, and closer.
"Do you ever get the feeling that you've done all this before?" a girl sprawled out on a nearby couch says to her lover; Fleur smiles faintly.
"There's just so many parties," the girl's lover says.
Fleur knows what will happen tomorrow, because she's already been there, or maybe she hasn't at all: she's done these days a thousand times, a thousand different ways. There's always the present, of course, or would that be the future? There's always the future.
Adam and Achilles retreat to another room, arms wrapped around waists. Fleur smiles again, and slides down behind a potted plant as she twists time just so, and it's as if she'd never been there at all.
She should've been the circle.
A philosophical exercise, sort of. With Fleur/Umbridge, the roaring (wizarding) 20's, paradoxes, and extensive apologies to Evelyn Waugh. A pastiche of a pastiche of a...
"It all started," the woman begins - appropriate, but apropos of not much at all, in Fleur's opinion. She hadn't come here to talk. But she smiles a small smile and half-turns to the woman, who looks very nearly familiar, and takes a sip of her gin before making a vaguely questioning 'hmm?'.
"It all started at the races, two months ago. I met the most beautiful boy - "
Fleur stops listening, of course. Her head is positively breaking - last night, she barely remembers any of it at all. A drink here, another drink there. Another drink this morning. They'd been Nicholas of Cusa's infinite circle, she and Adam, for another of Ashley's paradox parties. She doesn't remember coming back to her hotel room, but she must've at some point, because she'd woken up there. The woman was still talking. A girl, really, like her, but someone so banal couldn't help but be old.
Fleur nods, and smiles, because there's a pause and one is supposed to at least pretend one is listening at these intervals.
The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a battered, folded handkerchief, and unwraps it to reveal a single gleaming sickle. "He left me dozens of these, dearie. All very old, all very valuable - people collect these sorts of things, you know. Pay lots of money for them. Myself, I couldn't bear to sell them. It'd be like selling a little piece of old John himself, I should think."
"I suppose," Fleur says after swallowing the dregs of her drink.
The woman gives her a look, and that at least is interesting: it's a careless lustful thing, raw and hot. Not surprising, really. Fleur is, of course, beautiful. Inherently irresistible. Ordinary people are usually too busy being resentful to really want her, though. And such an ordinary, ordinary person this woman is.
"What's your name?" Fleur asks, and leans in closer to the ordinary woman.
"Jane," says Jane. A not-too-carefully applied glamour crackles over her face. Maybe she's even ugly underneath that, Fleur thinks. Such a shame, really, to be ugly. Or to be plain, when the best your inept magic and limited financial means will get you is the most average, lumpy sort of excuse for a face.
"That's not much of a name," Fleur sniffs, but still comes closer. She's had beautiful people, of course; she's never had, to her knowledge, someone so spectacularly unappealing. Something new, she thinks. A story to be found. So amusing, really, and she spreads her hands flat on her thighs, lowers her eyelashes.
Jane smiles predatorily.
"Mmm," Fleur hums casually. "Do you really think you're fooling anyone with a middle name and this clumsy thing?" She reaches out and almost touches her face, hovering just above skin. "You're breaking quite a few rules, Dolores. Not that there's really anyone left to hand you in to, though, hmm? Dolores, Dolores, Dolores. Such a sad little old thing. This is no place for you."
"Nor for you, my dear," Dolores simpers, but she's already begun to retreat, lips pursing and wrinkling.
She draws a straight black line down the front of a white dress, Adam paints a circle on a black tuxedo, and they start tangling around each other before the cab ride is even over. A paradox: the curve of a circle's circumference decreases as the circle's size increases, and the limit of decrease is a straight line. A circle is a line, and he presses her into the seat's upholstery, presses into her, his gin breath mixing with hers.
PLEASE IGNORE THIS NOTICE, says the sign on the door. They walk unsteadily into the party, presenting themselves and their wit, smiling against the too-bright lights that are everywhere, everywhere. Ashley never did understand how to decorate. She keeps her eyes closed, holding onto Adam's arm, and she feels them weaving through clusters of people, imagines what they must look like. They all always look the same, anyway.
They sit, eventually, watching the lights and boys and girls and shimmering red wine, the flicker of lamps against the polished floor, and Adam whispers into her ear: "You know, Liebniz thought everything could be made out of being and nothing, ones and zeros. Like us, darling."
"Don't be a bore," she hisses, eyes closed again, and slides his braces down.
One plus naught equals one, one plus naught equals one plus naught; when they've finished (sticky and flushed and unsatisfied, and no-one's bothered to notice them lying there tied together), she pulls away from him and makes a motion to her face. Makeup, her hands say. Fix my makeup and perhaps a bit of something more interesting.
In front of a gleaming silver mirror, she inspects her eyes and her lips and her cheeks and nudges each glamour back into place. Not that she needs them, precisely, but it's so much more entertaining to look like someone else. She cuts a thin line of cocaine with an even thinner knife, and keeps one hand on the cold marble sink-top as she inhales.
When she comes out, delicately wiping her nose with a single pale finger, Adam is talking to an Achilles with blonde hair and very little clothing, a sick-looking leashed turtle on the floor beside them. She rubs a thumb over the Timeturner in her purse as they lean in close, and closer.
"Do you ever get the feeling that you've done all this before?" a girl sprawled out on a nearby couch says to her lover; Fleur smiles faintly.
"There's just so many parties," the girl's lover says.
Fleur knows what will happen tomorrow, because she's already been there, or maybe she hasn't at all: she's done these days a thousand times, a thousand different ways. There's always the present, of course, or would that be the future? There's always the future.
Adam and Achilles retreat to another room, arms wrapped around waists. Fleur smiles again, and slides down behind a potted plant as she twists time just so, and it's as if she'd never been there at all.
She should've been the circle.