Hellblazer: Hogwarts, part XIIa.
Jun. 6th, 2004 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camwynThis is 2/3 of the chapter. I've got to write the final third still, but it's been so long that you're entitled to what I've got now.
John Constantine sat in a back room somewhere- he didn't know where, he hadn't paid attention- and stared unseeing at the floor. He could still hear the noise. The horribly familiar booming sound kept playing and replaying itself in his head. There was Ginger's voice, describing the silly thing he needed identified- he kept hearing that, too. It kept rising up in his head and twining with the smell, kicking loose memories he'd spent long years burying. Ritchie Simpson, mostly, his mind hooked into his computer and flying on wings of quantum magic while his body scorched into charcoal-
A dull, heavy clunk ripped his attention back to the here-and-now; he lifted his head. The door opened, admitting a figure that would've held John's attention far better under other circumstances. As it was, the man rated only a glance: a tall, heavily scarred man with iron-grey hair and a broken nose. John murmured a greeting and dropped his head again.
"Wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you," growled the man's voice. "I'm here from the Ministry."
"Wonderful," John muttered.
"Name's Moody." There was another clunk, and a dragging noise; the man was pulling up a chair.
Reluctantly, John raised his head once more. The overall impression of height and scarring remained, but- well- how he'd missed that eye, John would never know. One of the man's eyes was as bog-standard as they came, but the other was a brilliant blue that just didn't occur in nature. Its unnaturalness was only confirmed as it suddenly rotated away from John, darting glances to one side, then the other, even as Moody's normal eye remained fixed on him. The man's nose wasn't broken, either, so much as it was bitten. What he'd taken for mere crookedness, at this distance, turned out to be an entirely absent chunk. The scars John had only half-noticed before were legion, spilling all over the man's face and neck, visible on his hands and knuckles; how Moody still had all ten fingers, John didn't know.
The blue eye abruptly swung back into line with the brown one. His patchy eyebrows rose expectantly.
"John Constantine."
Moody nodded. "Talked to Maggie Mumby before I got here," he said. "She tells me you seemed to know what was going on. Right down to that second explosion."
"Second- they set off another-" John couldn't speak for a moment. "Was anyone hurt?"
"Hurt? You mean other than the ones the first bang left in little black heaps on the floor?" Moody smiled, an incredibly unpleasant expression given his lopsided, scarred features. "You seem to know a bit much about these things, Constantine."
John passed a hand over his face, restraining the urge to snarl at the man. "Look," he said, feeling if anything even more drained than before, "if you're thinking it was me-"
"Oo, he's a smart one, isn't he? As a matter of fact, that's almost exactly what I'm thinking."
John shook his head, slumping in his chair. "I don't believe this. All I said was not to go near because there might've been another charge set."
"Went running up yourself, though, according to Mumby. Sounds like something a man who knows how much time he's got before the next explosion would do, if you ask me."
"I was looking for someone," John said weakly. "I knew he'd gone in. . ."
"Yeah?" Moody leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Who was it?"
"I don't know his name."
Moody might've quirked an eyebrow, but it was hard to tell on a face like that.
John swallowed, forcing himself to speak evenly. "Red hair. Old robes. Didn't come from around here. I ran into him before I got to Gladrags this morning, and he said he'd meet me at the Head."
"Mmm." Moody rose from his chair. "I know about him, all right. Been meeting with you for a few weeks now, hasn't he?"
John nodded, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. There were a few lingering traces of burning smell still in the air, even here.
Moody's eyes- both of them- narrowed. "And you have no idea who he was?"
"I told you. I didn't get his name." The scarred man was starting to rub John up the wrong way.
"A man turns up to see you every other night for the better part of a month and you expect me to believe you don't know who he is?" That weird blue eye stared at him even as Moody rolled the other one.
"Wasn't my business," John retorted. "People come in, they ask their questions, they give me their money, I answer their questions, they leave."
"So you just happened to be answering questions regularly for that particular man, is that it?"
"Yes." John sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "As a matter of fact that is it. I couldn't tell you his name, because I don't know it, and I couldn't tell you what he does for a living, because I don't know." He coughed. "Was a bloody good customer, I know that much."
"'Was' is right." Moody stumped over to the door, leaning out of the room briefly to murmur to someone. "That little package of yours-"
"It wasn't mine, dammit!" snapped John. "I had nothing to do with this!"
"-destroyed one of the oldest buildings in Hogsmeade and took out four people," continued Moody, as if John had never spoken. "That's the interesting part. The Head hardly ever has customers much before noon. Apart from your red-headed friend, the only people on the premises were the barman and a couple of witches who'd taken rooms over the bar. Nice timing, eh?"
John suppressed another cough, scowling at Moody, who didn't seem to notice.
"And then there's the little matter of the second explosion. . ." There was a rap at the door. "Don't try anything," Moody warned. "This whole place is under an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. I've got my eye on you, Constantine."
The scarred fellow stepped out with a series of clunks, and the door slammed shut behind him. John slouched again, the hollow feeling in his stomach mingling now with an urge to crack Moody over the head with something heavy. He expected this kind of thing from interrogators back home, but he had a record there. Moody didn't know him from Adam. . . Hell, if Moody knew anything at all about John, he'd know better than to accuse him of this kind of shit.
A random thought crossed his mind: he was nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds. Silently grateful for small favours, he reached into one of his pockets- damn. No fags. It'd been too long since he conjured them up. A few moments' more searching revealed that his wand was nowhere to be found, either. Someone must've taken it from him on the way here- yeah, he remembered being asked to leave it up front until the questioning was done. He probably should've been angry about that, but he didn't feel up to the task of yet another emotion. Frankly, it was easier to get mad about the smokes right now. He'd worry about the wand later.
God, he could still smell the burning. Even taste it, across the back of his tongue. . .
The door swung open again. It was Moody, but this time the scarred man bore a roll of parchment and a long red quill. "Procedure," he growled, sounding disgusted. "Since I'm not officially on the lists at the moment, they want me recording everything I ask you, along with everything you say." He set the implements aside and conjured up a small writing-desk. Shaking his head, he added, "If you've got to nip out to the khazi, now's the time."
John shook his head. "No- but who d'you have to blow to get a drink around here?"
Moody stared at him for a moment, then let out a sound that might've been a laugh, or might've been a bark of disapproval. "Not going to answer that," he said, "but here." From under his robes he produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top, took a long pull from it, and wiped its mouth on his sleeve before handing it over.
John sniffed the contents before eyeing Moody dubiously. "This is fruit juice."
"Pumpkin, yeah."
"You carry pumpkin juice in a flask?"
"It's not noon yet."
"Why did you bother?"
"I don't trust anyone to handle my drink except me. Ever. Did you want that or not?"
Feeling distinctly cheated, but wanting to get the vile, ashy taste out of his mouth, John nodded and drank. It helped- a little. "Still weird, if you ask me," he muttered as he handed it back.
"Get your own, then." Moody laid out the parchment on the desk, and the quill leaped into position at the top of the page. A number of small, heavy objects were produced from Moody's pockets to weight down the ends of the curling parchment; the blue eye never once drifted from its watch on John. "That's as good as it'll get around here. . . ready to talk?"
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
Moody shook his head. "No," he replied, "you don't. Now, to start at the beginning. . . name?"
With a sigh, John answered. "John Constantine." The quill started scritching away of its own accord.
"Date of birth?"
What d'you want to know that for? John wondered- but what came out was, "Fifth of October, nineteen-fifty-three."
Moody grunted. "Occupation?"
"Right now? Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."
The quill paused for a second; Moody looked up. "You're joking," he said gruffly. "You?"
"I owe Dumbledore," John said, slouching further in his seat.
For a moment Moody looked as if he wanted to ask more, but he shook his head and looked over at the parchment. "Not important right now-"
"Good."
Moody ignored that. "Tell me what you were doing in Hogsmeade today," he said. "To start with."
"To start with," John said sourly, "I wanted to get my robes from Gladrags Wizardwear. And then I wanted to tear down all the notices I'd put up about being a Muggle expert. That was it."
Both Moody's eyes rolled at that. "Right. And I suppose I'm to believe your meeting with Arthur Weasley was a coincidence?"
John raised an eyebrow. He'd be damned if he let a question as idiotic as 'who?' pass his lips.
"Answer the question, Constantine."
Reluctantly, John nodded. "He found me as I was taking down a notice, and said he'd meet me in the Hog's Head when I was done with Maggie. I bloody well didn't have an appointment with him."
"Mmmm. Bit of a thin excuse if you ask me. . . " Moody leaned over to look at the parchment again. "How long had you been meeting with him before this?"
"Couple of weeks. He had a lot of questions, and his money was as good as anyone else's." A thought occurred to John; before he could stop himself, it tumbled out. "Here, he's not a suspect, is he?"
Both Moody's eyes went wide at that. "Weasley? Working for You-Know-Who? Don't make me laugh." The scarred face suddenly twisted with some odd expression, and he leaned forward. "Or are you trying to throw suspicion off yourself, I wonder?"
"A little," John admitted, "but only because you haven't said anything about him, and you've asked a hell of a lot of questions. The way I see it, if he were an innocent, you'd be using every trick in the book to get me feeling guilty so I'd talk."
"I'd have to think you could feel guilty first."
"Oh, I can," John said quietly. "More than you could ever imagine."
Moody was silent for quite a while after that. At last, he said, "No. Weasley's no suspect. Far as we can tell, he was the target."
"I'm. . . sorry to hear that."
The other man nodded. "Know anything about him?"
"Only that he had a bloody huge supply of Muggle devices he wanted explained. What happened to him?"
"He'll live," Moody said gruffly, and a wave of relief washed over John. "Barely. Thought he was as dead as the rest when we found him- looked like something you'd fish out of a November bonfire- but they got him to St. Mungo's in time. He's in a burn tank. Hasn't got enough skin left to touch anything but liquids."
Ritchie Simpson, indeed. John closed his eyes, forcing the memory down with all his might.
"Far as we can tell, the explosive package arrived by owl-"
"Feathers," murmured John.
"What?"
"There were feathers in the smoke this morning. I thought it was pigeons, but-"
Moody shook his head. "Post Owl," he said. "Weasley seems to've received the package, then thrown it across the room- found him under a table in the back, but the worst of the damage was up by the bar proper. Why he didn't just Vanish it I don't know." He cocked an eye at John. "You?"
John shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "He never did anything much in the way of magic while I was meeting with him."
"About that." Moody leaned forward, leaving the quill to its own devices. "Did you ever see him, or have any contact with him, outside of the explanation business?"
"No. Never," John said. "Except for today, I'd never so much as seen him outside the Hog's Head."
"Who sent the explosive package to the Hog's Head, Constantine?" Moody asked without so much as a change of expression.
"Don't know," John answered promptly. "Wasn't me."
"Who gave the order to have it sent, then? Whose idea was it?"
"Again," John said, "I don't know. But it wasn't me."
"How'd you know about the second explosion?"
"I didn't. It's a common terrorist tactic, back home."
"Ah? Where's home, then?"
"London," John said. "Different London from yours, though. Mine's two or three worlds away. Maybe more."
Moody stared at him.
"D'you want the address?" John continued recklessly. "Only it doesn't exist here. I already checked."
"'Two or three worlds away'?" echoed Moody. "Are you mad, Constantine?"
"Not at the moment."
Moody pinched the bridge of his ill-used nose with two fingers, and sighed.
"Talk to Dumbledore if you want," John suggested. "He's been in my head- he believes me."
"He what? " Moody dropped his hand.
"Oh, yes." John grinned. "Wave the wand and smile and say 'legilimens' and go rooting through the stranger's head to corroborate his story- he did the whole thing, right before he offered to hire me-"
"Well, that's a first," Moody muttered. "Been telling him he needs to be more careful with his hires. . . I'll be talking to him about that, don't think I won't."
"Go ahead," said John. "It's not like I can stop you."
"That's true," Moody mused. "Which reminds me, actually. There's someone else who wants to speak to you about what happened today." He glanced over to the door. "Come on in, Snape."
John Constantine sat in a back room somewhere- he didn't know where, he hadn't paid attention- and stared unseeing at the floor. He could still hear the noise. The horribly familiar booming sound kept playing and replaying itself in his head. There was Ginger's voice, describing the silly thing he needed identified- he kept hearing that, too. It kept rising up in his head and twining with the smell, kicking loose memories he'd spent long years burying. Ritchie Simpson, mostly, his mind hooked into his computer and flying on wings of quantum magic while his body scorched into charcoal-
A dull, heavy clunk ripped his attention back to the here-and-now; he lifted his head. The door opened, admitting a figure that would've held John's attention far better under other circumstances. As it was, the man rated only a glance: a tall, heavily scarred man with iron-grey hair and a broken nose. John murmured a greeting and dropped his head again.
"Wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you," growled the man's voice. "I'm here from the Ministry."
"Wonderful," John muttered.
"Name's Moody." There was another clunk, and a dragging noise; the man was pulling up a chair.
Reluctantly, John raised his head once more. The overall impression of height and scarring remained, but- well- how he'd missed that eye, John would never know. One of the man's eyes was as bog-standard as they came, but the other was a brilliant blue that just didn't occur in nature. Its unnaturalness was only confirmed as it suddenly rotated away from John, darting glances to one side, then the other, even as Moody's normal eye remained fixed on him. The man's nose wasn't broken, either, so much as it was bitten. What he'd taken for mere crookedness, at this distance, turned out to be an entirely absent chunk. The scars John had only half-noticed before were legion, spilling all over the man's face and neck, visible on his hands and knuckles; how Moody still had all ten fingers, John didn't know.
The blue eye abruptly swung back into line with the brown one. His patchy eyebrows rose expectantly.
"John Constantine."
Moody nodded. "Talked to Maggie Mumby before I got here," he said. "She tells me you seemed to know what was going on. Right down to that second explosion."
"Second- they set off another-" John couldn't speak for a moment. "Was anyone hurt?"
"Hurt? You mean other than the ones the first bang left in little black heaps on the floor?" Moody smiled, an incredibly unpleasant expression given his lopsided, scarred features. "You seem to know a bit much about these things, Constantine."
John passed a hand over his face, restraining the urge to snarl at the man. "Look," he said, feeling if anything even more drained than before, "if you're thinking it was me-"
"Oo, he's a smart one, isn't he? As a matter of fact, that's almost exactly what I'm thinking."
John shook his head, slumping in his chair. "I don't believe this. All I said was not to go near because there might've been another charge set."
"Went running up yourself, though, according to Mumby. Sounds like something a man who knows how much time he's got before the next explosion would do, if you ask me."
"I was looking for someone," John said weakly. "I knew he'd gone in. . ."
"Yeah?" Moody leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Who was it?"
"I don't know his name."
Moody might've quirked an eyebrow, but it was hard to tell on a face like that.
John swallowed, forcing himself to speak evenly. "Red hair. Old robes. Didn't come from around here. I ran into him before I got to Gladrags this morning, and he said he'd meet me at the Head."
"Mmm." Moody rose from his chair. "I know about him, all right. Been meeting with you for a few weeks now, hasn't he?"
John nodded, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. There were a few lingering traces of burning smell still in the air, even here.
Moody's eyes- both of them- narrowed. "And you have no idea who he was?"
"I told you. I didn't get his name." The scarred man was starting to rub John up the wrong way.
"A man turns up to see you every other night for the better part of a month and you expect me to believe you don't know who he is?" That weird blue eye stared at him even as Moody rolled the other one.
"Wasn't my business," John retorted. "People come in, they ask their questions, they give me their money, I answer their questions, they leave."
"So you just happened to be answering questions regularly for that particular man, is that it?"
"Yes." John sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "As a matter of fact that is it. I couldn't tell you his name, because I don't know it, and I couldn't tell you what he does for a living, because I don't know." He coughed. "Was a bloody good customer, I know that much."
"'Was' is right." Moody stumped over to the door, leaning out of the room briefly to murmur to someone. "That little package of yours-"
"It wasn't mine, dammit!" snapped John. "I had nothing to do with this!"
"-destroyed one of the oldest buildings in Hogsmeade and took out four people," continued Moody, as if John had never spoken. "That's the interesting part. The Head hardly ever has customers much before noon. Apart from your red-headed friend, the only people on the premises were the barman and a couple of witches who'd taken rooms over the bar. Nice timing, eh?"
John suppressed another cough, scowling at Moody, who didn't seem to notice.
"And then there's the little matter of the second explosion. . ." There was a rap at the door. "Don't try anything," Moody warned. "This whole place is under an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. I've got my eye on you, Constantine."
The scarred fellow stepped out with a series of clunks, and the door slammed shut behind him. John slouched again, the hollow feeling in his stomach mingling now with an urge to crack Moody over the head with something heavy. He expected this kind of thing from interrogators back home, but he had a record there. Moody didn't know him from Adam. . . Hell, if Moody knew anything at all about John, he'd know better than to accuse him of this kind of shit.
A random thought crossed his mind: he was nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds. Silently grateful for small favours, he reached into one of his pockets- damn. No fags. It'd been too long since he conjured them up. A few moments' more searching revealed that his wand was nowhere to be found, either. Someone must've taken it from him on the way here- yeah, he remembered being asked to leave it up front until the questioning was done. He probably should've been angry about that, but he didn't feel up to the task of yet another emotion. Frankly, it was easier to get mad about the smokes right now. He'd worry about the wand later.
God, he could still smell the burning. Even taste it, across the back of his tongue. . .
The door swung open again. It was Moody, but this time the scarred man bore a roll of parchment and a long red quill. "Procedure," he growled, sounding disgusted. "Since I'm not officially on the lists at the moment, they want me recording everything I ask you, along with everything you say." He set the implements aside and conjured up a small writing-desk. Shaking his head, he added, "If you've got to nip out to the khazi, now's the time."
John shook his head. "No- but who d'you have to blow to get a drink around here?"
Moody stared at him for a moment, then let out a sound that might've been a laugh, or might've been a bark of disapproval. "Not going to answer that," he said, "but here." From under his robes he produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top, took a long pull from it, and wiped its mouth on his sleeve before handing it over.
John sniffed the contents before eyeing Moody dubiously. "This is fruit juice."
"Pumpkin, yeah."
"You carry pumpkin juice in a flask?"
"It's not noon yet."
"Why did you bother?"
"I don't trust anyone to handle my drink except me. Ever. Did you want that or not?"
Feeling distinctly cheated, but wanting to get the vile, ashy taste out of his mouth, John nodded and drank. It helped- a little. "Still weird, if you ask me," he muttered as he handed it back.
"Get your own, then." Moody laid out the parchment on the desk, and the quill leaped into position at the top of the page. A number of small, heavy objects were produced from Moody's pockets to weight down the ends of the curling parchment; the blue eye never once drifted from its watch on John. "That's as good as it'll get around here. . . ready to talk?"
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
Moody shook his head. "No," he replied, "you don't. Now, to start at the beginning. . . name?"
With a sigh, John answered. "John Constantine." The quill started scritching away of its own accord.
"Date of birth?"
What d'you want to know that for? John wondered- but what came out was, "Fifth of October, nineteen-fifty-three."
Moody grunted. "Occupation?"
"Right now? Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."
The quill paused for a second; Moody looked up. "You're joking," he said gruffly. "You?"
"I owe Dumbledore," John said, slouching further in his seat.
For a moment Moody looked as if he wanted to ask more, but he shook his head and looked over at the parchment. "Not important right now-"
"Good."
Moody ignored that. "Tell me what you were doing in Hogsmeade today," he said. "To start with."
"To start with," John said sourly, "I wanted to get my robes from Gladrags Wizardwear. And then I wanted to tear down all the notices I'd put up about being a Muggle expert. That was it."
Both Moody's eyes rolled at that. "Right. And I suppose I'm to believe your meeting with Arthur Weasley was a coincidence?"
John raised an eyebrow. He'd be damned if he let a question as idiotic as 'who?' pass his lips.
"Answer the question, Constantine."
Reluctantly, John nodded. "He found me as I was taking down a notice, and said he'd meet me in the Hog's Head when I was done with Maggie. I bloody well didn't have an appointment with him."
"Mmmm. Bit of a thin excuse if you ask me. . . " Moody leaned over to look at the parchment again. "How long had you been meeting with him before this?"
"Couple of weeks. He had a lot of questions, and his money was as good as anyone else's." A thought occurred to John; before he could stop himself, it tumbled out. "Here, he's not a suspect, is he?"
Both Moody's eyes went wide at that. "Weasley? Working for You-Know-Who? Don't make me laugh." The scarred face suddenly twisted with some odd expression, and he leaned forward. "Or are you trying to throw suspicion off yourself, I wonder?"
"A little," John admitted, "but only because you haven't said anything about him, and you've asked a hell of a lot of questions. The way I see it, if he were an innocent, you'd be using every trick in the book to get me feeling guilty so I'd talk."
"I'd have to think you could feel guilty first."
"Oh, I can," John said quietly. "More than you could ever imagine."
Moody was silent for quite a while after that. At last, he said, "No. Weasley's no suspect. Far as we can tell, he was the target."
"I'm. . . sorry to hear that."
The other man nodded. "Know anything about him?"
"Only that he had a bloody huge supply of Muggle devices he wanted explained. What happened to him?"
"He'll live," Moody said gruffly, and a wave of relief washed over John. "Barely. Thought he was as dead as the rest when we found him- looked like something you'd fish out of a November bonfire- but they got him to St. Mungo's in time. He's in a burn tank. Hasn't got enough skin left to touch anything but liquids."
Ritchie Simpson, indeed. John closed his eyes, forcing the memory down with all his might.
"Far as we can tell, the explosive package arrived by owl-"
"Feathers," murmured John.
"What?"
"There were feathers in the smoke this morning. I thought it was pigeons, but-"
Moody shook his head. "Post Owl," he said. "Weasley seems to've received the package, then thrown it across the room- found him under a table in the back, but the worst of the damage was up by the bar proper. Why he didn't just Vanish it I don't know." He cocked an eye at John. "You?"
John shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "He never did anything much in the way of magic while I was meeting with him."
"About that." Moody leaned forward, leaving the quill to its own devices. "Did you ever see him, or have any contact with him, outside of the explanation business?"
"No. Never," John said. "Except for today, I'd never so much as seen him outside the Hog's Head."
"Who sent the explosive package to the Hog's Head, Constantine?" Moody asked without so much as a change of expression.
"Don't know," John answered promptly. "Wasn't me."
"Who gave the order to have it sent, then? Whose idea was it?"
"Again," John said, "I don't know. But it wasn't me."
"How'd you know about the second explosion?"
"I didn't. It's a common terrorist tactic, back home."
"Ah? Where's home, then?"
"London," John said. "Different London from yours, though. Mine's two or three worlds away. Maybe more."
Moody stared at him.
"D'you want the address?" John continued recklessly. "Only it doesn't exist here. I already checked."
"'Two or three worlds away'?" echoed Moody. "Are you mad, Constantine?"
"Not at the moment."
Moody pinched the bridge of his ill-used nose with two fingers, and sighed.
"Talk to Dumbledore if you want," John suggested. "He's been in my head- he believes me."
"He what? " Moody dropped his hand.
"Oh, yes." John grinned. "Wave the wand and smile and say 'legilimens' and go rooting through the stranger's head to corroborate his story- he did the whole thing, right before he offered to hire me-"
"Well, that's a first," Moody muttered. "Been telling him he needs to be more careful with his hires. . . I'll be talking to him about that, don't think I won't."
"Go ahead," said John. "It's not like I can stop you."
"That's true," Moody mused. "Which reminds me, actually. There's someone else who wants to speak to you about what happened today." He glanced over to the door. "Come on in, Snape."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-06-06 06:44 pm (UTC)Glad Arthur's okay, though.
And I'm looking forward to what Snape has to say, I'll tell you that much. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-06-06 06:57 pm (UTC)You cannot stop there! Please tell me you'll have the next bit up in two days tops!
no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 05:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-06 07:46 pm (UTC)And ouch, poor John.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 08:53 am (UTC)Oh, yes. Hurry. Want more. Glad Arthur's not dead.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 12:47 pm (UTC)*checks pants*
*looks in drawer containing measly five TPB's of Hellblazer and two loose issues I bought some time ago, thus constituting the entirety of my actual Hellblazer reading*
Dude, I'm not even Brian Azzarello. But thank you for the kind compliment!
no subject
Date: 2004-06-08 09:14 am (UTC)- CD
YAY
Date: 2004-06-07 08:57 am (UTC)Re: YAY
Date: 2004-06-07 12:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 09:31 am (UTC)SNAPE!
no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 12:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-07 12:55 pm (UTC)And, yeah, I'm a little surprised Dumbledore hasn't had some suggestions made about being more careful who he hires by now. Unless, of course, that was what prompted the Ministry to shove Umbridge at him.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-10 08:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-10 09:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-10 09:15 am (UTC)It's all very disconcerting stuff.
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Date: 2004-06-10 09:29 am (UTC)If you're referring to 'Who sent the explosive package', that was actually a bit of influence from Terry Pratchett's The Fifth Elephant. The as-yet-uncrowned Low King of the dwarves is interrogating someone who was suspected of murder and worse, and in the middle of very pleasant, somewhat open-ended questions, blandly switches to, "Who gave the order to have (so-and-so) killed?" The same question is repeated two or three times, until the questioned individual starts screaming (or close to it). It seemed like a technique that'd work well in the hands of someone as paranoid and battle-worn as Moody.
And yeah, it's hellaciously disconcerting. Real-world or fictional.
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Date: 2004-06-07 03:45 pm (UTC)*Screams* NO! *Then* But Arthur's still alive. Thank you. Dang it, Camwyn, your making me want to get my book(That I'm attempting to write) done faster so you can cross it over with something.
From: ClassicDrogn
Date: 2004-06-08 09:23 am (UTC)- CD
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Date: 2004-06-09 09:21 pm (UTC)Lovely Moody.
Isn't the spell 'legilimas'?
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Date: 2004-06-09 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-09 10:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-09 10:29 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing. I've only known Constantine as a general personality, but your fic has influenced me to get started reading the back issues.
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Date: 2004-06-10 06:30 am (UTC)Er. Out of curiosity how did you find me?
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Date: 2004-06-10 07:50 pm (UTC)I'm vastly impressed by how well-balanced and well-researched these stories are; I appreciate the fact the story comes first, not "omg LOOK a X-OVER."
I also realized, after my initial reply here, I've seen you post at , a group my friend
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Date: 2004-06-10 08:04 pm (UTC)As for avoiding the 'OMG XOVER' syndrome... well, one too many really crappy issues of Marvel comic books and you lose all your tolerance for that kind of thing.
I'm guessing the blank space before your comma is supposed to be the Bad RPers Suck community?
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Date: 2004-06-10 08:41 pm (UTC)You're welcome. And I can relate to your Marvel comment. Remembering how they ran story arcs through different books alone (Age of Apocalypse, for example) bugged me to the point of dropping the books entirely for that reason, in part.
Thank you, by the way, for sharing your work-in-progress here. Waiting on the finished product is well worth it.
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Date: 2004-06-10 09:11 pm (UTC)You're welcome. Oh, and if you're at all fond of Tolkien, and in an odd mood, I have another crossover up at fanfiction.net that might go down well... http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1849765
Okay. I'll, er, quit being pimpy now.