Dahlia's Journal

Subject:	I found them, and was amused.
Time:	2:09 am.
Mood:	lost.
Music:	David Gray - Long Distance Call.

Your soul is bound to the Burning Rose: The
Rapture.

"I go where my heart beckons me, and I go
with my head high. But sometimes, I get a need
until I bleed so my heart swims above my
head."

The Burning Rose is associated with passion,
intensity, and desire. It is governed by the
god Eros and its sign is The Flame, or Physical
Love.

As a Burning Rose, you can get lost in the moment
if you let yourself. You are a very physical
person, be it in relationships, work, or play.
You may be driven by your hormones sometimes,
but you know it's because you have to follow
your instinct.

What Rose Is Your Soul Bound To?
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My inner child is ten years old!

The adult world is pretty irrelevant to me. Whether
I'm off on my bicycle (or pony) exploring, lost
in a good book, or giggling with my best
friend, I live in a world apart, one full of
adventure and wonder and other stuff adults
don't understand.

How Old is Your Inner Child?
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Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	...it all tastes like burnt.
Time:	10:20 am.
Mood:	stressed.
Music:	Sting - Fields of Gold.

From The Fire and the Rose II:

By the time she had decided this, Snape had returned and was settling himself down opposite her. He shrugged his jacket off over the back of the chair, and stared at his coffee with familiar distaste.

"There appears to be nothing for sale here that has a passing acquaintance with a nutrient. I even harbour some reservations about the water."

Despite the comment, Hermione noticed that he had actually bought what looked like a double espresso. He sipped and his scowl deepened.

"Burnt," he said in disgust.

"Yes, well, I didn't say this place was good."

I can't possibly be the only one who automatically assumed H & S are in a Starbucks. And as far as I'm concerned, this is uncontestable proof that their coffee really is burnt. If another writer would have Snape disgusted by it (who, throughout popular fanon, is thought, nay known to have a wonderful sense of taste and smell), then clearly, that shit is nasty.

...stupid Starbucks in the stupid UK with their obscene coffees and overpriced crap...*mutters*

Comments: Read 10 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Section of Ch. 7 of Subsentio
Time:	1:09 am.
Mood:	thoughtful.
Music:	Red House Painters - Have You Forgotten.

It's coming, slowly but surely. This chapter's almost done...now, let's hope my beta still remembers who I am.

The dungeons were cold and full of odd shadows, so Hermione hurried along the corridor, trying to calm her stomach by reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood. She knew Snape's office was beside his classroom, and he was usually in one place or the other most evenings, supervising detentions. As she approached, she saw that the door to the classroom was open, allowing torchlight to spill into the hallway, painting the dark stone floors orange. After taking a moment to thrust her chin forward and her shoulders back, Hermione walked into the room.

Snape was, unsurprisingly, at his desk, alternately marking papers and barking instructions at a 5th year Hufflepuff who was apparently doing a very poor job of scrubbing out dirty cauldrons. Both he and Snape looked up in surprise at Hermione.

"Can I help you, Miss Granger?" Snape said with disdain, clearly expecting some sort of request for extra credit work, or more homework.

"I don't know, sir. I hope so." Hermione said quietly.

Snape narrowed his eyes and watched her carefully for a moment. He nodded, and then glared at the Hufflepuff. "I don't recall telling you to take a break, Summerby. I expect to you to have at least five of those cauldrons spotless by the time I return, or you'll be serving detention with Mr. Filch for the rest of the week."

The boy started scrubbing frantically, and Snape stood up and slid around his desk. He swept through the room and past Hermione out into the corridor. She trotted after him, wringing her hands together nervously.

She followed him into his office, and stood awkwardly by a chair in front of desk as he shut the door. Snape swept past her and settled into his chair. He looked at her for a beat, and sighed.

"Sit down, Miss Granger. That's what the chair is for."

Hermione perched on the seat and stared down at her hands. She could feel Snape's eyes boring into the top of her head.

"As entertaining as this is, I do have work to do, so please get on with it," he finally snapped, startling Hermione into looking up.

"Sir...I...I don't know how to say this."

Snape rolled his eyes and made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.
"I'm sorry," she continued, staring at her lap again, "it's just that this is a...sensitive topic, and I don't want to put anyone in danger."

Snape was silent, and Hermione finally looked up at him. He was watching her, concentration or concern creasing his brow.

"You have my attention, Miss Granger," Snape said quietly. "And I would hope that by this point you would understand that as a professor at Hogwarts who works for Headmaster Dumbledore, you can place a certain degree of trust in me. However, you must also know that I'm not known for my patience, so if you don't mind, spit it out."

Hermione sat up a little straighter, partially with indignation at his innuendo that she still bore childish grudges, despite Snape's work for the Order. Reminding herself that Gryffindors were known for their bravery, she spoke: "There's someone I'm worried about."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you're referring to Potter, I'm absolutely certain Professor McGonagall would be a better counsellor than I. So if you don't mind -"

"It's not about Harry. It's...someone else. Someone in Slytherin."

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	...ow.
Time:	10:05 pm.
Mood:	sick.
Music:	Texas - In Demand.

Well, I have tonsillitis. It hurts more than I'd ever imagined.

Set in Sunday, was very uncomfortable by Monday, and on Tuesday morning I woke up in utter fucking agony. I dragged my sorry carcass to the campus clinic, thinking I had an ear infection or something, but no. Tonsillitis. Mother-fucking-ow.

The only way I can keep the pain to a minimum is if I take a very strong painkiller every hour. And the best part is, when I sleep, I wake up every three hours, because I'm in enough pain that my body drags me out of REM sleep.

I'm lucky I have someone to take care of me (sweet boy that he is), because otherwise I'd have simply choked down a whole bottle of extra strength tylenol and chased it with a big bottle of whiskey. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. I am full of self-pity and pouting.

I really, really REALLY want to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie.

Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	I hate insomnia.
Time:	11:20 am.
Mood:	exhausted.
Music:	Dido - No Angel.

I'm getting back into my old, nocturnal habits. The only difference is that now I make myself get up (relatively) early - never later than 11am. So what this means, kiddies, is that I am simply becoming more and more sleep deprived.

And when I finally do sleep, I dream unhappy dreams. For example, last night I was wandering around the British Museum with my ex, and he was being weird and mean, and I kept worrying about hurting my current boyfriend.

The only upside to this is that if I simply stop sleeping, I'll have much more time to write. Which I haven't been doing lately, because of the midterm-and-assigment-laden-weeks-from-hell. I will start again soon, but right now I'm just still too stressed out and anxious.

I want to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie...

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	It's been a very nostalgic week...
Time:	12:53 pm.
Mood:	nostalgic.
Music:	Ani DiFranco - Letting the Telephone Ring.

I just recieved a letter from myself. Well, my 16 year old self. Confusing? Yes, sort of.

When I was in Gr. 11, it seems, my English teacher had all his students write themselves a letter. He took them, with the intention to mail them all out, 5 years later.

Reading this thing almost made me cry. Five years really is a long time. I was a pretty insightful kid at 16, and was actually precocious enough to tell myself to get into better shape. The more things change, the more they stay the same, I suppose.

And, while reading the letter is wonderful, I feel this sadness at thinking of all the things I've done (and for the most part screwed up) since I wrote it...it's amazing all the things that happened to me, and changed me, but what's more amazing is how I'm still so similar in many ways. I wrote this before I ever had a boyfriend, or was ever in love, or ever got hurt, before I had any clue about what I wanted to do with my life. Before I ever met some of the closest friends I have now.

In any event, I shall stop rambling and go and do something productive, like studying.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Wow
Time:	11:56 pm.
Mood:	happy.
Music:	Dido - White Flag.

It has come to my attention that Synchestra Duende, a well-known critic and reviwer has done a write-up on both A Thousand Miles and Subsentio, on her site Dark Potions.

...I'm amazed, stunned and really, really flattered. It was actually because I recieved a lovely review from an author whom I know of through reputation alone, and she was kind enough to mention that Synchestra had recc'ed ATM. Otherwise I would have been, as usual, utterly clueless.

So, basically, all I really wanted to say, to both those who've recc'ed ATM, those who've reviewed it, and even just those who've read (and hopefully enjoyed) ATM, and any other stories I've thrown out there...thanks. Thank you so much for reading and by doing so, encouraging me. I'm just happy that my odd little fantasies have been enjoyed.

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Subject:	I'm not dead. Really.
Time:	7:38 pm.
Mood:	sick.
Music:	the dryer eat my socks.

But I almost wish I was. Summer colds are the worst.

In regards fic....Eeee. There actually is another chapter of Subsentio sitting upstairs, on my computer (which isn't hooked up to the net), waiting to be beta'd. I'm just too apathetic and lazy to work on it, or work on updating the damned story. It's a pain in the ass to ferry files upstairs and down on floppy disks. I will start posting again when I get back to school and settled. Really.

On an entirely un-related note, I go back to Ottawa next weekend. New apartment, new year, somewhat new me. Thank Jeebus.

Also, for probably the fourth or fifth time, someone has told me I have a bit of an accent. I'm Canadian. All my grandparents are, or were, Canadian. I'm so cake it hurts. And yet, every so often, someone tells me that I don't have a normal Canadian accent. I've been told I sound slightly British, slightly Scottish, and just plain weird. I really don't understand it either.

I blame people with accents with whom I've spoken to almost constantly for over four years. Bastards.

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