Happy New Year

[kangeiko]

Yes, belated Happy New Year to everyone. Hogmanay was so fantastic, I stayed an extra day in Edinburgh, drinking and eating and hugging my friends. Because these are the things one does. I have many, many thoughts now. Most of them have fallen out of my head.

Returning to Edinburgh on New Year's Eve was quite probably one of the most poignant moments of my life. It is lucky that I had an hour's walk to my lodgings, because I had a good sniffle along the way. Edinburgh was absolutely incandescent with lights, candles and ice. The entirety of Princes Street had been pedestrianised in preparation for the upcoming street party; people were valiantly trying to grit the walkways down Princes Gardens despite the delighted children sqealing and sliding about; the Winter Market was still going strong with lebkuchen and mulled wine and sausage-y type German things on sale. Mmmmmmmmmm, mulled wine.

I managed to resist the lure of the street vendors until I was half-way up Lothian Road and came across the French Connection van that used to sell me crepes and coffee over those wonderful theatre-filled summers. *sobs* I treated myself to a chocolate and banana-filled freshly-made crepe in remembrance.

Everyone had this silly grin on their faces. I was oddly reminded of an old fic of mine where I sent Giles to Edinburgh post-Beltane, and he's astonished to find everyone in such a good mood, despite hangovers etc. I'd exaggerated, but only very very slightly, because everyone was in a good mood, and ever so polite - even the people you'd normally peg for yobs. They helped me navigate around frozen streets. It was so lovely, I almost cried.

By the time I got to Katie's, I had pulled myself together somewhat. Well, enough to realise that this was no longer athena25's flat, but Katie and Bruce and the blond's. Or - no. That it had never been anyone's flat but Bedlam's, and it would pass along several Bedlam generations, like cheese. Or a really good leatherman.

It was very weird, to say the least. I'd only just realised that if and when I do eventually settle down to raise sproglets (or write my book), I'm going to do it in Edinburgh. Don't get me wrong. London is great.

But.

London is big.

Too big, really, to manage comfortably. You can't go out t a trendy club on the spur of the moment; you can't pop down to an art gallery after work. The distances make it unfeasible, unless you are super-rich and live in zone 1. Which is never going to happen. So, Edinburgh it is, then.

And it was really comforting, in a way, to find that the city had actually carried on and changed but was still very much recognisable. I don't know. I can't explain it.

New Year's was so much fun, up to and including drinking champagne on the Bruntsfield Links, watching the fireworks above the castle and singing Auld Lang Syne whilst attempting what can only be described as a slightly deranged ceidleh (athena25 will tell you it was a circle dance. She will be lying.). I don't know how, but somehow, every year, there's enough of us there to get all the works, and make sure that everyone toddles back to the flat party afterwards.

Oh, and I had a nap. Which means I'm officially old (or spent the day travelling - meh), but what the hell. I wore pretty things (yet strangely non-revealing, which made my new-found modest side incredibly happy), had lots of fun, caught up with lots of friends... and had such a good time I completely (and very intentionally) missed my train on 1 Jan and came back today instead. Because when you can upgrade to first class and get free tea and biscuits all journey long whilst everyone in standard accommodation is standing room only, why bother?

Also, yesterday we saw 'National Treasure'. It may be hangover talking, but it was, without qustion, the worst movie ever made. It even beats Blade Trinity. I cannot adequately describe how terribly, frighteningly, BAD it was. Go ask athena25.

Anyway. On the train journey back I read all the articles in the world on rape-prevention. I now have a semi-coherent theory of the appeal of non-con slash fics. I shall relate said theory if I rememeber it after my essays are done.

In the meantime, I found this little whatsit. There was a time when I felt the need to channel Severus Snape quite viciously.

Also, tomorrow I shall have cake and cocktails. It shall be good.




Sirs,

It has come to my attention that several readers of this inane journal are labouring under the misapprehension that Harry Potter killed the Dark Lord. Or is that still He Who Must Not Be Named? I cannot be bothered to keep track of how your idiotic readership chooses to refer to the poor unfortunate that was Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am equally indifferent to the prospect of keeping abreast of Potter's ever-changing monickers, if that is any consolation.

I have judged it my duty to impart to your instititution, and to those miscreants you call your readership, information regarding the real nature of the events you write so casually about. I am willing to formally debate - and, if need be, duel - anyone foolish enough to disagree with my assessment unless they can provide explicit proof that they have intimate knowledge of the workings of the minds of Tom Riddle, Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. Furthermore, I will not hesitate to eviscerate anyone with the temerity to judge that with which they themselves have had no experience.

I knew Harry Potter, as a boy and as a youth. I have the misfortune of knowing him as a man. He is no scarlet-clad hero. I also knew, in my time, a charismatic, forceful man called Tom Riddle; though I did not know him by that name, of course. I knew him, and so I use it now. I do not advise others to attempt it.

I shall not waste this missive in a useless attempt to show the world what a spoilt, whiny little brat Potter grew up to become. Neither shall I excuse nor condone Riddle's behaviour, nor my initial decision to join him, many years ago. Astonishing as it may seem to many of your moronic readers, neither of these rather self-important individuals is the focus of this epistle. Yes, on occasion, sane people do think upon subjects other than Saint Potter. I realise that this may be an unbearable concept, but I hope that at some of you are capable of overcoming your mental deficiencies for long enough to realise that Albus Dumbledore was most certainly neither wallpaper nor a brightly-coloured deus ex machina. In all of the public's sycophantic fawning over the Boy That Wouldn't Die, Dumbledore's role has been largely overlooked. He is often described (at best) as a benevolent benefactor, sagely dispensing advice and sweets to our innocent young hero whilst abstaining from any actual combat. This perception of Professor Dumbledore and the work of the Order does us all a grave disservice. I admit to being less than fond of some of my former colleagues, but it is intolerable to hear the names of those long dead so slandered. Alastor Moody, for all that he was morally and personally a repugnant individual, was nonetheless an exceptional Auror. I cannot, not even in my least charitable moments, picture him panting helplessly after the glory of Saint Potter. I ask that those readers capable of overcoming their natural aversion to reason and logic contemplate the following: was Mad-Eye Moody the sort of man to place his hopes on a fifteen-year-old wizard of dubious mental health? Is this behaviour consistent with Moody's famous admonishment of Constant Vigilence?

The idiots among you are probably wondering 'what really happened'. Those few slightly less moronic individuals may have well realised that the correct question is, 'Who caused it to happen, and why?' The myth of The Boy That Lived was developed, in part, to protect a mewling child barely out of its bassinet. It was not believed by those actually within the Order (nor anyone unfortunate enough to have been forced into contact with Potter, I would wager).

An illustration of this point may be required for that large portion of your readership that has the average mental capacity of a first-year Potions student. For those still requiring monosyllabic explanations and visual aids, pray consider the following hypothetical event: a cauldron explodes. Was the cause of this event the potion? Did the potion want to explode? Or did the Potions Master make a mistake? Perhaps the cauldron was defective, or one of the ingredients was harvested incorrectly. Perhaps the fault lies with the cauldron-maker, or the apothecary. Perhaps the idiot interrupting vital work by making too much noise in the adjacent rooms is to blame. Any one of these explanations may be true, bar the first.

A child of fifteen is not an individual. If he were another species, he could very well still be larvae. He is shaped by those around him, by his hormones and by his mistakes. The rumours circulating about my sexual proclivities have always amused me: in much the same way a mature frog has no interest in tadpoles, I had no interest whatsoever in the mass of walking hormones that was dear, sainted, Harry Potter.

Give me a boy until he is seven years of age and he will be mine always: it is well to keep this concept in mind. Myself, the Order, the Muggle Durseleys, Riddle and, above all, Headmaster Dumbledore, crafted a fairy tale for Potter to embody. The role had already been written for him; he merely had to grow into the part. It took him a surprisingly short amount of time. I had not realised that the role of tortured, modest boy-saviour was so alluring.

Things did not always go according to plan, of course. Diggory was not supposed to be lost, nor even Black, although I cannot say that I regretted his death. He was more useful as a martyr for the Order than as a guardian for Potter and I have no doubt that someone shall come up with the bright idea of an Order of Merlin for him for all the mutt endured. Ha. His role was to guide Potter, and he failed even in that. It was fortuitous that his death resulted in such an improvement in the Potter boy.

To be continued. Probably.