#and Bob the Infernal Weasel

[ehay]

Lessons in the Observatory.

[sailtomarina]

Haircut

“Please don’t laugh.” Draco stood awkwardly in the Floo, poised to flee. His usually impeccable locks grew wildly past his shoulders, thick tresses shining like rivers of white gold. Hermione pressed her lips closed tightly together to prevent her giggle from escaping, simply quirking a brow at him. “Depending on what happened, I’m sure I can fix it.” He heaved a sigh of relief before settling beside her on the couch, shucking her legs over his lap. “I was brewing hair growth pots and was distracted when Blaise came by—” Hermione cut him off when she leaned over and ran her fingers through the strands along the arm closest to her. “Mmm, no wonder Zabini's product sells out so fast. Your hair looks and feels a-maaaazing.” His adam’s apple visibly bobbed as he gulped at her touch. “—and, I, uh, neglected to seal the cover when I left. By the time I came back my lab was filled with fumes and I accidentally breathed in a bit.” Her fingers progressed up to comb through the full length of hair, occasionally pausing to massage circles into his scalp. “…Granger?” “Hmmm?” “Not that I’m complaining, that feels fucking fantastic, but care to help a bloke out?” He leaned into her ministrations with a soft growl in his voice, reminding Hermione of dear, departed Crookshanks. “Are you sure you want to cut it? Seems a shame…you could go Lucius-style and tie it back?” Hermione whined when he tugged his hair out of her grip. He glared back at her, offended at the suggestion while simultaneously lifting his chin in a manner reminiscent of the Malfoy patriarch. He swiftly stood, tugging her along with him down the hallway to the washroom. "If there's one thing I'm thankful for with your time in that infernal tent with Potter and Weasel, it's that they gave you plenty of practice on their haircuts." Hermione's mouth went dry when he tugged off his shirt and displayed his chest in all its glory, lean, muscled, and dusted with light hair at the chest that led to a tantalizing trail straight down his stomach into his waistband. "Snip, snip, Granger. Let's get this over with." "Did you have to remove your shirt? I can't focus with all that," she exclaimed, waving at his form. He waggled his eyebrows as he smiled a salacious grin. "I'd rather not get hair all over my clothes, and I'll just take a shower after to clean up. You're free to join me." "Don't tempt the witch with the scissors." She clicked the shears at him menacingly. "Now let's see here..."

[infolane]

Rust

Look at the water.

It is dark. So very dark.But here, further north than anyone with a shred of common sense would go, that's not all. Ice makes it all glisten in these aurora colors. The sky is littered with stars more real than anywhere else in the Neath. There is cold, cold wind and the snow dances on the sea surface like comets, comets, endless comets ripping the sky.

 This is a poem.

 This is a riddle.

 The first mystery is not with you right now. Rather, she is in her cabin, enjoying some hot cocoa. One of the measly few that agreed to be your crew. An agent of the Masters, from what you gather, with hungry eyes and an infuriating personality. She will oversee your zub as it is driven home. Why she left her unsuspecting position in the Labirynth of Tigers to come with you is unknown, but no punishments await her.

 The second mystery is an urchin hauling coal along clay men. Her stomach rumbles, but she smiles gently. “I want to understand him better”, she said when trying to sign in and gave you her account of a Master she met long ago, in her home island. He did not join for games, but gave her a single flower.

 The third mystery is a difference of measurements between the Neath and the surface. How light here always, always, always travels at the same speed and up above, can be measured differently if you move. How in the entrails of the Iron Republic it is Law that makes the result as the Surface, at random.

 “We are almost there” says a squalid soul, buried in furs.

 You smile.

 Your teeth have become needles. Such beautiful needles.

 The fourth mystery is the suit dear Liliana back at home stole for you from certain infernal parts. It doesn't fit as well as it should and the air inside is a tad too hot, but it will have to do. Once your spikes are buried in the ice and the stone, you mustn't waver.

 What will you say? And to whom?

 Who will you blame at the end of the road?

 With attentive ears and endless lighthouse eyes, the crowd will be drawn around you. And you will inhale. Exhale. Spin the tale. It is no story of betrayal, it is no story of knives or lacre. No story of chains or burials or devouring. No story of being forgotten. No revenge. No.

It's a recounting of a chess match.

The machinations of Gods. The measured mistreatments. Watching them grow uncomfortable at the very thought. Some will mutter about the time- how many years? Huh?- and some will scoff or yell.

The fifth mystery is one your dear wife holds in her tentacles. Her inflamed gurgling and wet, debased english that makes shush-sloshing and thoothreeing from all these words. The strenght and dignity of all she does. The manner in which she gathers people and enchants their souls into aiding her cause. The steely determination of amber eyes, no matter how hard it is. Even if every fluke were to turn on her. Even if her own people were to cast her out. It's the expression she makes, holding onto protest signs, tall and proud through hailing rocks.

May she lend you her strength.

 Wind cuts through your coats with unnatural ease. The air is like a mountain's.

 The water blends into the night sky, as cold and inexorable as everything else in this place. This end-of-the-world. Your ship struggles, but holds. Someone curses. It feels like you are dreaming- like you could turn back, back out the door, and go back home. Lie in your bed, only the knowledge of the knock in tow.

 The sixth mystery is the tale of a creature like a giant weasel with many legs who once stood in a ship, so like and unlike yours. It sought a beginning rather than end and knocked into the opening of a fantastical time. A groomer told you this while caring for your bifurcated owl. A blind groomer dressed in black, bearing scars of countless animals. He whispered, yes, of the ambition that spread into the dark and coalesced into something unlawful and yearning. He said he doesn't know if it will ever be enough. But then- that's the spice of life, isn't it? Roads lit up by dreams as distant as stars...

 The ship has to stop.

 A group of clay-men fight the wind to keep it from getting further into the ice-bank and destroying itself as you don your stuffy outfit. The woman who will take over for you comes out of her room. When you jump out, ice almost gives out under the weight. Someone tosses you rope. Pickaxes. Candles.

 The seventh mystery is the flukes. How they cautiously bob in these waters. Watching you, expectant. Awaiting. As the ship disappears in the cutting winds, you reassure them that soon, soon. Soon you will come to them, eschewing every forbidden end in their favour.

 Millennia from now, the last pieces will fall in place at last and all manner of thing shall be well.